AN: Thank you to everybody who has read and reviewed so far. I'm putting an extra warning here for this chapter because I have escalated the violence factor. If anybody things that I should increase the rating then please do let me know. Enjoy.

.

-A-

.

Clint didn't know how long he stood on the sidewalk after Coulson had driven off. Staring after him. He'd been ditched. Yup, that was what he was calling it. He'd been ditched. But why did he care? He now had exactly what he wanted. He was free of Moretti - thanks to Coulson. He was now even free of Coulson and his incessant prodding about being a better man and serving a purpose. Unless that was just a rouse? Clint looked down at the jacket Coulson had handed him. Had he bugged it? Maybe put a tracking device inside? If even half the stories he'd heard about SHIELD were true then they wouldn't just let him go. Would they? Now he was just confused.

Clint turned around and started walking in the opposite direction that Coulson had drove off in. Not taking any chances, he gave the jacket to the first homeless guy he saw. Let SHIELD follow that guy around for a while. Looking down at himself he realised he had to get rid of his jeans and t-shirt too. For starters they were still covered in his own blood, which might go unnoticed in a place like New York but more importantly he'd been unconscious for far to long in the company of the unknown. They could have stuck a tracker on either one of them. Groaning Clint realised he'd have to get rid of his boots as well. He'd had these boots for years, he'd worn them in just right. Actually now that he really thought about it he'd have to somehow scan his whole body. He wouldn't put it past a super secret black ops organisation to have his actual body low jacked.

.

Getting lost in the crowds of New York City was easy. Everybody here was wrapped up in their own little world, concerned with only their own problems. It made going unnoticed so much easier. There were people everywhere, which meant lifting wallets was a piece of cake. Just taking the cash he ditched the cards and wallets before entering the first department store he saw. Clint didn't care much for what clothes he wore, providing they were practical and they let him blend in. He picked up a pair of black cargo pants and a grey long sleeve t-shirt, coupled with a black hooded jacket. He also bought a pair of black running shoes, he didn't have time to locate a decent pair of light weight boots with the correct grip. Then just because he was being extra paranoid he bought new underwear and socks. He'd have to check his lock picks over very carefully later for bugs. He wouldn't part with those unless he absolutely had to. They weren't just your ordinary lock picks, he had some very specific tools in his case. Not to mention that he'd had to barter with one very dangerous woman to get them.

Once he'd paid for the items, (because shoplifting this many items in New York was just way too much hassle and he was on a tight schedule) he used a public bathroom to get changed. There he took the time to go through the pockets and feel along the seams of his old items to try and find the bug. Nothing. Not a single stitch out of place, well except for the ones that he pulled himself to hold wires and other useful odds and ends at times. Deciding that he still couldn't be too careful he would give each item of clothing to a different homeless person. They were a dime a dozen in New York, so if he had missed the bug then SHIELD could now be following anyone of eight people. Potentially.

Before he left, Clint pulled off the bandage that somebody at SHIELD had stuck to his head. Looking in the mirror Clint could see there was a small gash running from his hairline down. The bruising around the cut was going a nice shade of purple and was tender to touch. Flattening down the front of his hair, Clint tried to hide the wound as best he could.

.

Not taking any chances though he was still going to find a medical clinic, the smaller the better. There was plenty within the city to choose from, but he needed the right clinic. One with the right amount of integrity that would help him out without trying to screw him over but also with enough greed to do what he wanted without them asking to many questions. The best way to find what he wanted, and quickly was an internet search. Clint would be the first to admit that he didn't have a lot of experience with computers, there wasn't a great need for them when you had spent most of your life living in a tent. But he could pull off a basic internet search. Finding an internet cafe he settled into the most secluded corner he could find, with his back to the wall he could see the door and all the patrons including the one and only member of staff. Less than an hour later he had all the information he needed plus a bit extra and he was on his way.

Clint had only ever been to New York on two occasions before this. Both times had been while he was working for Moretti. The first time he'd accompanied Moretti himself for a job that required a close contact kill when Moretti had met with another business man who was also of questionable legality. That job had gone off without a hitch, cementing Moretti's opinion of Clint for the better. The second time he'd been sent up here with the brothers Luca and Marco. That was when he truly understood how twisted the two men were.

The three of them had been sent to take out a rival family. Though the term 'take out' didn't fit the situation. A better word would be execution. Twenty-three people in total. He'd gone in and done his job without thought until he was staring down at the big blue eyes of little Sofia D'Angelo. Gun in hand and he couldn't pull the trigger. He didn't have many rules anymore, in fact he thought he might only have one left. He wouldn't kill a kid. Especially not a four year old girl who didn't chose the family she was born into. But before Clint could decide what to do with her a gunshot sounded and he was suddenly covered in blood. Luca had shot her in the head. He was in a state of shock and for that reason alone he didn't see the fist that impacted with his head. Luca beat him black and blue right there and then. Then he ordered Clint to get up and walk back to the car. The job was finished. The three of them had slaughtered an entire family just because Moretti had decided he no longer liked the father.

The only thing in common that the two jobs had was that on both occasions he'd attended a backstreet poker game. Not that he was the one playing back then, nor was he intending to play now. He was going to pay the game a visit though, he needed money and lots of it if he was going to provide an apt bribe for the clinic he had chosen. After all being just one man he could hardly hold the place hostage.

There was always a lot of cash lying around at the game and never more than a dozen men in there, though all of them would more than likely be armed. Currently, Clint didn't have a weapon on him but he knew there would only be one man posted outside the door that led to the game. That way suspicion wouldn't arise from him appearing to loiter in the alleyway. He was the man who controlled access to the game. You had to have the right pass codes or you were more likely to get a bullet to the head. But it did mean that getting the gun he definitely would be carrying would be easier than if he had friends with him. Of course it would still be risky, and the possibility of him getting shot in return once he entered the room was still higher than he would have liked.

.

Clint sat on a rooftop four blocks over from where the game was being held. Pulling out his lock picks he started going over each and every one of them very carefully. They were all in the right order, all facing the right way, exactly how he had left them. There were no extra gizmos attached to the picks themselves or the case they were contained in. Maybe it was microscopic? He wouldn't put it past SHIELD having that kind of technology. He knew for a fact that Stark Industries had developed some kind of micro technology because he'd stolen the research for some nut job named Hammer several years ago. But from what he remembered from the papers he had sneaked a look at it would have left some kind of residue on the picks. These were clean, not perfectly clean like they had been wiped down, but on close examination he could only see his own fingerprints on the metal. Though he had to admit that blowing his breath on the metal and counting the whirls present was not an acurate way to detect fingerprints but it was the best he had. Conclusion, nobody had messed with his picks. Good, he was going to need them.

Deciding to travel by rooftop to where the game was being held, just because he could. Jumping from building to building knowing that he was the only one up here, it was exhilarating. This was what freedom was. Maybe it didn't matter who owned him, because he knew that no matter where he was in the world, he'd always have this feeling and nobody could take that away from him. Rolling his eyes at his own sappyness Clint pushed himself harder and jumped higher as he tried to top the adrenaline high he currently had.

Landing on the last rooftop, Clint peered over the edge of the building to look down. Just like he had predicted there was only one guy standing next to the door that led to the game. Even better was that the guy appeared bored. He was leaning against the brick wall of the building with a cigarette in one hand while his other hand was behind his back, trapped between his body and the wall. Now it could be that the guy was just playing bored and his hand was actually gripped around the handle of his gun which he stored at the back of his waistband. But Clint didn't think that was true.

Smirking to himself he walked towards the nearest fire escape. Quickly and quietly he moved down to the landing of the first floor. The doorman was still smoking his cigarette and looking towards the other end of the alleyway where the street was. Climbing silently onto the railing he jumped down to the ground, rolling with the impact Clint came up two foot in front of the startled doorman. Striking out with his left fist he connected with the guys neck. The man dropped his cigarette and to Clint's surprise the gun he had a hold of, guess he really was playing at being bored. Not that it helped him much. The guy was dead before he hit the ground. His windpipe was crushed, possibly even a fractured neck. Clint didn't care, he'd done what he had intended to.

Picking up the discarded gun, Clint checked the mag and the slide action, it was loaded and appeared in working order. Not that he expected anything less but he'd be a fool if he didn't check. Holding the gun in his left hand he listened carefully to the door, but he couldn't hear anything. Nor did he expect to, the game room was about five meters down the hall with another door that would most likely be closed.

Turning the door handle he held the gun out in front of him as he opened the door and stepped inside. The hallway was clear and lit by a single bulb that cast very little light, dragging the dead body of the doorman inside he closed the door before starting to walk towards the closed door that was at the end of the hall. This close to the inside door he could now hear people talking and moving around inside, but he didn't know how many would be sat down and playing the game or how many bodyguards were in the room or where they would be positioned. It was a logistical nightmare even if he did know the basic layout of the room. Six feet inside the door would be the back of the first player. The large round table could seat up to six men. There was a well stocked drinks bar to the left of the room with another access door that led out into the main club. This time of day the club wouldn't be open and even if it were the game room was soundproofed. Nobody would come running to see what all the fuss was about.

Taking in a deep breath Clint let it out slowly before kicking the door open with as much force as he could manage, he had fired two shots before the door even hit the wall. One bullet hit the closest player in the back of the head, the second bullet hit the furthest guard that was facing the door. Diving behind the body of the dead player that was slumped in the chair, Clint had already sighted his next targets. Two guards on the right side of the room, both went down with shots to the chest. The player to his right also went down with a shot first to the leg which dropped him to the floor then another to the head. Gripping the edge of the table Clint flipped it so it created a shield, simultaneously shooting the player that was facing the door before crouching down. The two guards on the left side of the room now had their guns out and were firing back at Clint. Bullets went through the wooden table, showering Clint in splinters. Staying exactly where he was he waited until he heard the familiar click of mags being released, only then did he stand up and shoot the two guards in the head who were in the middle of reloading.

The room was now silent as blood soaked bills drifted slowly to the ground. Clint scanned the room, eight bodies. Five guards and three players. He was sure when he had kicked the door in there had been four players. He was missing the player that sat on the left side of the table. The only place to hide in this room was behind the bar. Aiming the gun at the top shelf of liqueur he shot what he recognised as a very pricey bottle of bourbon. The glass shattered on impact, shards falling to the ground. A yell of surprise sounded before the missing player stood up and pulled the trigger of an automatic weapon. Clint dived to the floor as the guy sprayed the room with bullets. Four seconds later and the guy was out of ammunition. Rolling his eyes at the ineptitude of this guy Clint jumped to his feet and fired a single shot into the guys chest. The player dropped the weapon in surprise as he fingered the growing stain of blood on the front of his shirt, he looked up in shock at Clint before he collapsed face first onto the bar.

Keeping a hold of his gun Clint moved towards the bar, pulling the dead man off the top he winced as pain shot though his left arm. The top of his shirt and jacket were torn and blood was pooling the area. Damn it, he'd been shot. Gritting his teeth, he prodded the area carefully, determining that the bullet had only skimmed him and that the wound wasn't too deep. Ignoring it for the time being he crouched down and behind the bar and looked at the safe he had come for. There was nothing fancy about this safe, just a plain and simple turn mechanism. All Clint had to do was listen for the clicks. Safe cracking wasn't his best skill but he was proficient enough that it didn't take him long before he had the door open. Grabbing a briefcase one of the players must of brought with them, he emptied the contents before filling it with as much money as it could fit into it. Which considering that they weren't neatly stacked nor any of them new bills it would hardly be the million dollars you see in the movies. But he didn't need a million, he just needed enough that it would be more than one patient would normally pay at a private clinic.

With the money now secure it was time he disposed of the evidence that he had been here. Normally he wouldn't bother doing anything specific other than burning the place to the ground, but this was New York after all, they had one of the better police forces he'd come across in his travels. Securing his gun at the back of his waistband he first used his sleeve to wipe down anything he touched. He then began to pour the very expensive and much to his delight very flammable alcohol that was stored above the bar and in those stored in the crates at the back of the room over the nine dead bodies, the remaining money that was littered around the room and quite frankly anything else he thought would burn. The dead doorman that he had dragged inside he brought further into the game room before he used one of the players own lighters to start the fire. The interior door was currently hanging off its hinges so he left it where he was before using the sleeve of his jacket to open the exterior door and close it behind him, remembering to wipe the outside handle too. Then using the fire escape he'd jumped from earlier he climbed back up to the roof. He dropped the gun three blocks over in a deralict water tower, that clearly wasn't in use anymore but did contain enough water that the gun was submerged completely. It was also out of reach of any curious kids. Just because he had been a killer before he'd reached double digits didn't mean he was going to encourage anyone to follow in his footsteps.

.

-A-

.

Clint waited outside the clinic he'd chosen until the secretary locked the front door and left. He knew that the good and hopefully bribe-able doctor who owned the private clinic was still inside. Slipping out his picks he made short work of the back door and let himself inside. He found one Doctor Stanley Hargreaves in his office sitting at his desk.

"There's twenty five thousand dollars in there to do with whatever you like," Clint said to the doctor as he marched into the office and dumped the briefcase on the desk. "All I want is a CT scan of my whole body."

The doctor looked up at Clint in shock. It took a moment while the man gasped like a fish before he finally got any words out.

"If...if you'd like to make an appointment with..."

"I don't want an appointment. I'm here now. This is rather important to me, you might even call it life and death," smirked Clint. "All I ask is that you don't discuss my being here with anybody. That includes your secretary and mistress Monica or your wife Juliette. I would certainly advise not saying anything to your former wife Katherine or she'll be after more in alimony."

The doctor huffed in amusement as he ran a hand through his rapidly depleting hair. Clint leaned forward and opened the briefcase and showed the doctor the money. "You can count it if you like."

"All this just for a scan?" asked Hargreaves.

"And your discretion," shrugged Clint. He let the man think the proposal over for a few minutes.

"Anything in particular that you are looking for?" asked Hargreaves as he closed the lid of the briefcase and pulled it towards himself slightly.

"I've absolutely no idea, but I'm sure you'll know it when you see it."

Hargreaves arched an eyebrow in curiosity at the younger man before standing up. "If you'd like to follow me."

The doctor lead the way out of the office and towards the scanner. "Get changed into a pair of scrubs and remove any jewelry," explained the doctor as he pointed to a changing room. "When you're ready come straight in here and I'll have the scanner ready and waiting."

.

-A-

.

"Well, you're in perfect health," shrugged the doctor. "That is if you don't count the numerous old fractures you have throughout your body, some of which look barely healed."

"Nothing else?" asked Clint in confusion as he stared down at the computer monitor that showed the pictures of his scan, not that he knew what he was looking at.

"Perhaps if you told me what you were looking for, I'd know where to look."

"Is there anything electrical or mechanical inside of me?" asked Clint.

"No, it's just you. Though looking at the old fracture of your left radius I'm surprised they didn't pin it," pointed out Hargreaves as he brought up the image of Clint's arm. "How old were you at the time, twelve? Thirteen maybe?"

"Maybe it's nanotechnology?" muttered Clint to himself ignoring the way the doctor was now looking at him. "Do you have an MRI scanner here?"

"Yes, but I don't know what more I can tell you. You're in perfect health," sighed the doctor.

"I don't want another scan. If I do have some kind of nano-tech inside of me the magnetic field of the scanner would disrupt the electrical field of the nano-thingies, right?"

"Sounds plausible," shrugged the doctor. "You can't take phones, swipe cards or other electrical devices into the room without them being wiped clean. And I doubt there would be enough metal content in the 'nano-thingies' to get pulled out of you body by the elctronic field," Hargreaves explained, though his only thoughts now was that the young man in front of him was certifiably crazy. No normal person thought they had nano-bots inside of them. It was science fiction, stuff of comic books and movies.

"That'll do, where's the MRI scanner?"

"Next door," said the doctor leading the way.

Clint stood in the room of the MRI scanner for about thirty seconds. He had no idea if this would work, of course he also had no idea if he was just being completely paranoid. Maybe that was SHIELD's big plan, make him second guess every decision he made from this point on.

"Would you like me to fix your arm while you're here?" asked the doctor pointing to the bloodstain on the scrub top Clint was wearing when he came out of the room that housed the MRI scanner.

Clint looked down at his arm, he'd forgotten all about that. "Sure."

Sitting on an examination table Clint watched as the doctor cleaned the wound in his arm to reveal a long but fairly shallow gash which the doctor determined did not need stitching. Much to Clint's relief. Applying a few steri-strips to keep the wound closed, gauze was secured with tape over the top before the doctor wrapped his arm in a bandage to keep it all in place. Handing Clint some extra supplies to take with him and instructions on keeping the wound clean to avoid infection Clint got dressed then left the clinic after giving strict instructions to remove all trace that he'd been there coupled with a well placed threat and a look that showed he could be nothing more than a cold blooded killer if he wanted to be.

Standing outside the clinic with just under five thousand dollars stuffed into his pockets and spare medical supplies in his hands he came to the startling conclusion that he was more confused than ever. There was no tracking device. Coulson had actually let him go. Just like he said he had. No men in black had jumped out at any point over the course of the day when he'd got rid of his possessions, and standing here now in the middle of the sidewalk the street was empty of activity and there was no shadows on the roofs. He was completely alone. For the first time in his life he was truly by himself. He didn't know whether he should celebrate his situation or just go and find a very good place to hide.

What he did know was that he couldn't stay here. He had around one hundred and fifty hours until Coulson's deadline was up. Plenty of time to come up with a plan. But in the mean time he needed to go back to Baltimore. Probably not the smartest thing he'd ever thought about doing but when Coulson had kidnapped him, and yes, he was still going to call it that. He'd left behind the one thing Clint cared about. It was time he got it back. Whatever he decided, he knew that the unstrung bow in his apartment was going with him.

.

-A-

.

Coulson slammed the door to the SUV closed before marching towards the desk to sign the vehicle back in. He'd just signed his name when he felt a familiar presence behind him.

"Sir?" asked Coulson as he turned to face Fury.

"What did you do with the kid?"

"I dropped him in New York."

"You did what?" asked Fury in shock. His voice carrying throughout the garage making the few people in the place turn and stare at the director. "Explain."

"Barton wouldn't have joined us just because we showed him some cool toys," sighed Coulson as he started to walk away. He knew he was pushing the Director's patience by turning his back on the older man, but Coulson couldn't quite seem to care. The four hour round trip had tired him out and his mind kept going over the decision and debating whether it was the right one or not.

"So you just let him leave?" called Fury after him, not moving from his spot. "Tell me you put a tracker on him?"

"Yes, I let him leave, and no I didn't put a tracker on him."

"Agent Coulson!" Fury called raising his voice slightly which had all other agents cringing slightly. Coulson however meerly turned around slowly and faced the director.

"Director Fury, I let Barton go because I came to the startling realisation that I'd actually gone about recruiting him all wrong. This was my last ditch effort to make things right. I've given him a week and then I'll go back. If he decided to join us, it will be his decision and his alone."

The two men stared at each other waiting to see who would break first. In the end it was Fury who broke the tension by smiling. "You're playing a risky game, Coulson."

"One I learnt from the best," smiled Coulson wearily.

-A-