Chapter 9
Cold Light of Day
August 2, 2004
The sirens were awfully close. Clint looked at his rear view mirror and saw a green car pull up behind him with the word "POLIZEI" painted across its hood. It was the Bundesgrenzschutz, or BGS, Germany's federal police force. Agent Hill had pulled some strings earlier to keep those guys waiting on standby during the raid. She must have changed her mind and sicced them on him just now.
His car rocked as the BGS vehicle rammed him from behind. Something pressed against his right arm. Clint looked over and saw Natasha drooping over onto him. Looking forward again, he swerved to avoid the car in front of them. Natasha's limp body swung back the other way and slammed against the door. She was bleeding all over the place.
The rear window shattered as Clint heard multiple gunshots. The police were trying to kill him. Treating me like a terrorist! he thought. He gripped his steering wheel harder as he narrowed his eyes. Wonder who gave them the idea.
Clint stepped on the gas. City streets were not designed for fast driving, but he saw no other choice. His car accelerated and gained just several yards on his pursuer, who wasn't shy about speeding up to match him.
More bullets ripped into the side of his car. Things were getting worse, Clint realized, as he saw a second police car turn onto the street behind him.
He weaved through the traffic, until he found himself boxed into his lane. Closely packed civilian cars filled the street to his right, going out as far as he could see. A long tram formed a moving wall on his left.
Staying in his lane on this side of the road wasn't an option. Clint floored his gas pedal. There wasn't much space between the head of the tram, and the next car in front of him. However, that was all he had going for him.
Clint zoomed just past the tram before stomping on his brake and turning hard across its tracks. His car went into a skid. He turned his head to stare at the front of the tram, which came within several feet of plowing into him. Clint gasped as his car made it across, stopping with its front pointed in the opposite direction from the one he had been driving in. Not dead yet, he thought, before stepping on the gas again.
The BGS drivers hadn't been so reckless. Instead, they had slowed down and waited for the tram to pass before turning across the tracks to continue their pursuit. Good thing they're not so crazy, Clint thought as he made a sharp right turn. Someone might get hurt.
He tried to maintain his speed on the crowded street, pounding on his horn to clear out the pedestrians in front of him. The traffic light at the nearest intersection turned yellow. Clint didn't slow down one bit. He looked up as he blew through the intersection, seeing the light turn red. One of the police vehicles made it through with him. The other was taken out as another car struck it in the side.
With the cops gaining on him again, Clint turned onto another street. Have to give it to these guys, Clint thought. They don't quit. Another green BGS vehicle appeared down the street, positioned to cut him off from the front. It didn't just approach him; it turned into his lane with the clear intention of stopping him with a head-on collision.
Clint fixed his eyes forward as he kept going, counting down the seconds until they would make impact. With just a moment left, he swerved away. The thundering sound of metal smashing against metal filled his ears. Behind him, the two cop cars had taken each other out.
"Wooh!" Clint yelled in relief. He wasn't prone to loud outbursts of emotion, but there was a time for everything. He started to gasp, as he realized that he had been holding his breath. Clint tried to calm himself down while he turned onto another street. He had lost three police cars, but many more were sure to join the hunt. Not to mention all the SHIELD teams that Hill would mobilize against him.
A change in strategy was needed. He may have been good at running, but even the best couldn't run forever. Clint looked around the street for a place to hide. His eyes suddenly stopped on the underground car park down the road. He turned into its ramp, descending into safety as he heard more sirens approach.
Nearby, a young German man got out from his red car. Clint stopped behind him and got out as well. "Bundesgrenzschutz!" Clint yelled. He briefly flashed his SHIELD ID card in the hopes of passing it off as a badge.
"She's hurt!" Clint said in German, relying on his scant knowledge of the language. He hurried over to remove Natasha from his car. Clint knew his vocabulary was limited, and that his accent was even worse. To pass this off, he'd need to speak quickly and decisively in order to leave the boy no time to think.
It was working so far. The young man opened his mouth and uttered a confused, inarticulate sound.
"She's dying!" Clint yelled before he could say one word in response. "Your car! Now!" He reached out and snatched the boy's keys without giving him as much as one look in the eye.
Clint laid Natasha into the red car, before going back to his own vehicle to grab his gear and supplies. Sergeyev's briefcase too, he thought as he found it in his trunk. Wouldn't want to forget that. After dumping everything into the trunk of the red car, he opened the side door and jumped straight into the driver's seat.
"Was zur Hölle!" the boy finally yelled as Clint drove away with his vehicle.
Clint didn't know what the poor guy had even said. He wasn't sure if he even knew how to say "Thanks." It was best for him not to even try. He simply drove out of the parking garage without another word.
With his new car, Clint drove slower and more carefully. He would have to avoid the cops, but nobody would notice him if he didn't do anything to stand out. There was no need to rush out of the city now. He could drive as fast as he wanted to, once he reached the autobahn.
August 3, 2004
Clint looked around as he drove through empty rural roads. It was 12:14 AM, and there weren't many lights in this part of the countryside near the Czech border. He didn't mind the darkness, since lights existed in proportion to the number of people around.
All he needed now was a place where he could lay Natasha down and properly tend to her wounds. Since their escape from Dresden, he had briefly left the wheel only once. All he had done with that time was restrain Natasha's hands and feet, before wrapping her wounds in bandages and applying pressure to stop her bleeding.
He was glad that she hadn't woken up and attacked him in the car. But after so many hours, her stillness had begun to worry him. Natasha had lied there the entire time, only occasionally muttering something with her eyes closed.
The gunshot wound in her left shoulder wasn't actually that bad; the bullet had cleanly passed through her upper arm without fragmenting or tearing through any bones or major organs. More concerning to him was her head injury, as well as all the blood that she had lost while he had raced through the city like a maniac. She was due for some better care than what he had given her so far.
A large home appeared, standing near the gently rolling slopes by the road. It was the only man-made structure in sight, surrounded by fields and a few patches of trees. All of the lights were off, and there weren't any cars in the circular driveway. This far from any city, it wasn't likely that any occupants would just leave for a night out at town. Whoever lived there had probably taken off for a while.
It's as good a place as any, Clint thought as he went into the driveway and brought the car to a stop. He didn't have any plan to deal with the owners if they actually showed up. All he could do was hope that they wouldn't.
Clint crouched down to inspect the lock. Nothing I can't pick. With a sigh, he began to do his thing. Lock picking was a skill that he had learned during his time as an outlaw. He had thought that he had left that life behind forever. Instead, he now found himself coming full circle. How long he would have to live in such a way, or in any way at all, was anyone's guess.
The lock popped open. Clint stepped inside and saw no electronic keypad. No alarm, he thought. Good.
He went back to get Natasha, as well as the SHIELD medical kit that he had thrown into the trunk of the car. She moaned as he picked her up and brought her into the house. After taking her upstairs, he carried her into the nearest bedroom. Clint gently laid her onto the bed, before cuffing her arms and legs to the bedposts. Then he went to work.
The first thing that took from his bag was the intravenous drip set. It consisted of several bags of saline solution, a small metal stand from which to hang them on, as well as plastic tubes and needles to carry their fluid into a patient's veins. Clint set everything up on the nightstand beside Natasha's bed, before inserting the needle into her hand and taping it in place.
Ideally, she would have gotten a blood transfusion. However, it was most important simply to replace the volume of fluids that her body had lost. Someone with a half-empty circulatory system was at risk of going into shock, if not dying.
Salt water wasn't a complete substitution for blood, because it couldn't carry oxygen the way that blood could. However, the human body was resilient and adaptable. Natasha's heart would simply work harder for the time being, pumping more blood with each beat to compensate. Rest would also aid in her recovery process. Her oxygen needs wouldn't be that much at all if she simply stayed still on her bed.
With her most pressing needs taken care of, Clint proceeded to check her head injury. There was a nasty gash on her forehead, but thankfully, he didn't find any signs of skull fractures. That still didn't mean that she hadn't suffered a concussion; Clint was leaning toward the possibility that she had. He had neither the equipment nor the expertise to confirm that with a brain scan though.
After all, he wasn't a doctor. He wasn't even a qualified combat medic. All he knew were a few basics that he had picked up while working in the field with other SHIELD agents. Clint was glad to be healing, rather than killing someone for once. But this was the first time that he had ever been left alone to treat a casualty. The situation made him very uneasy.
Whatever the case with Natasha's head, he could do nothing more about it but give her time to rest. With that thought in mind, Clint moved on to her shoulder. Using disinfectants, he wiped both the entry and the exit holes in her upper arm.
The burning of the chemicals, as well as the movement of his hands over her torn flesh, must have been very painful for her. Natasha opened her eyes and nervously stared at him as he worked on her. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Where's Heidi?"
"She's fine," Clint said. "Try to relax. It'd be better if you stayed still." He knew that was easier said than done. He saw her grit her teeth and tense up, as he proceeded through the messy business of sewing up her wounds.
I can't even relax, he thought. He half expected that she would freak out and start screaming at him. But that fear proved to be unfounded. Natasha just lied there like a good patient.
He didn't know if she trusted him, or if she had simply made the most rational choice available to her. Probably the latter. She was tied down with no idea of where she was, or how many SHIELD agents he might have had with him. And of course, it was in her best interest to get patched up. An agent couldn't fight if she succumbed to injuries.
With her stitches completed, Clint knew that he had done all that he was capable of for the time being. Natasha had closed her eyes and sunk back into her pillow. She actually looked peaceful in her sleep. Clint gently brushed her cheek with his hand. This woman had a face like an angel. The question was whether she had a soul to match...
It was very late by then, and Clint was on his last ounce of energy. He trudged over to the next bedroom over and locked himself in. Then he collapsed onto the bed inside, without bothering to change out of his clothes.
He needed to sleep, but he also didn't feel completely safe. Not with an enemy agent in the house, and a hundred more people out there looking to kill him. He thought about Natasha escaping from her bonds to slit his throat, again and again even as he lied there staring at the ceiling. His hand slid on top of the pistol holstered at his side. It was the only way he could gain enough comfort to fall asleep.
"Alright," Natasha said as she turned the doorknob inside the bathroom. "I'm coming out."
After she had woken up that afternoon, going to the bathroom had been the first thing that she had asked for. Agent Barton freed her from just one of her four cuffs, before he tossed her the keys to unlock the rest by herself. Even if he wasn't holding her at gunpoint, her body felt sluggish and her head and shoulder were killing her. Under those conditions, she had chosen not to resist.
Thankfully, the bathroom didn't have a window. Otherwise, Barton might have made her walk across the house to use another one. The room was bare, after he had stripped it of razors, towels, toothbrushes, or anything else that she could conceivably use as a tool or weapon. Natasha took it as a point of pride that this agent was being so cautious around her, just minutes after pulling an IV tube from her arm.
"Hands up," Barton said as she walked back into the bedroom. He kept his eyes and his gun aimed at her as he pointed toward her bed.
Natasha climbed onto the mattress again and sat down, with her back resting against the headboard. Hopefully, Barton wouldn't have a problem with that. She had lied down flat for long enough, and she was sick of it.
"Put them back on," he said as he tossed her the keys again. "You can keep your good arm free. I want to show you something. Just...don't try anything."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Natasha said as she locked her cuffs. To her delight, she could see Barton tense up at her comment. If this agent was going to hold her there, she wasn't going to make it easy for him.
"Recognize this briefcase?" he asked.
"That's Dr. Sergeyev's," Natasha replied. She paused for a second as she realized what that meant. "Did you kill him?"
Barton nodded his head before he opened it. "I'm guessing he didn't show you any of this yet. There's some eye-opening stuff in there."
"Like what?" Natasha asked.
"Like your parents," Barton said as he tossed a folder onto her lap. "They were killed for saying something against the government."
How dare he,Natasha thought. Without opening the folder, she tightened her fist and stared back at him. Interrogators were prone to using any number of tricks, but making up stories about her dead parents was just low.
"It's all in those letters," Barton said. "Written by some guy you might know called Ivan Petrovitch."
"Liar!" Natasha screamed. She grabbed the folder and threw it back at him, not caring at all if it would make him angry.
Agent Barton remained calm as he looked down for a moment at the scattered papers on the floor. "Hmm, you get angry a lot? I bet you do. I'd be angry too."
"If you're gonna do something, then just get it over with," Natasha said. "Don't play these sick games with me."
"I'm not the one doing that," Barton said, before he tossed another folder to her. "You know those 'performance enhancers' they made you take?"
Yeah, I do, Natasha thought. She had hated those drugs long before, all on her own. Knowing that, she found herself opening the folder and looking down. Phrases like "memory modification therapy" and "personality refinement" jumped out at her as she skimmed through the papers inside.
"Turns out they didn't just give you focus," Barton said as she continued to read. "You even remember how long you've been taking them?"
"I, uh..." Natasha said. The answer wouldn't come to her. Don't listen to him, she thought as a sense of panic came to her instead. He's trying to confuse you.
"It's not easy, is it?" Barton asked. "They've got you so messed up you can't even tell."
The papers crinkled as her hands tightened around them. She became aware of her own trembling, as well as how strained her breathing had become. Why can't I remember?
The question was a simple one, and it should have been so easy to answer it. Just one brief little answer like "three years ago" would have made all her doubts disappear. But despite how badly she wanted it, the answer still wouldn't come. He can't really be telling the truth, can he?
"You remember Aliya at least, don't you?" Barton asked. "You know, Drakov's daughter?"
"She betrayed my country," Natasha said. "She deserved to die."
"Sure. If that's what helps you sleep at night."
"I found her in Georgia," Natasha said as she leaned forward and raised her voice. Hardening herself, she glared right into Barton's eyes. "She was doing something there. Why else would she go?"
"Oh, except to take a vacation?" Barton asked. He tossed some more papers to her. "You tapped her friend's phone. You knew why she was going."
Once again, his papers drew her eyes to them. The latest papers comprised a report on Aliya Drakov's travel plans. At the end, Natasha found her own name.
"You also know she was taking a break before medical school?" Barton asked as she looked up at him again. "That she thought her boyfriend was gonna propose? Or how's about the fact that she was killed just to get to her dad?"
Natasha's gasped, leaving her mouth hanging wide open. She raised her hands to cover it, before quickly averting her eyes.
"No, of course you don't," he said. "It's been blocked out. Just like São Paulo."
"I didn't know what would happen," Natasha said. She turned back to him and sneered. If there was one time when she had been left in the dark about the nature of her mission, it was that one...
"You knew just fine," Barton said. "You were just so hopped up on your meds that you didn't give a damn. Not until you sobered up and found out you killed fifteen innocent people."
"I what?" Natasha asked.
"File says you were so traumatized that your 'Uncle Ivan' had to make up some fairy tale about how you didn't know."
"Shut up!" Natasha yelled. She bent over and grabbed her head again as tears streamed from her eyes. "Enough already!"
"I haven't even gotten to Alexei yet."
"Don't you DARE say his name!" Natasha cried. Anything but him, she thought as she waited for the next awful thing to spring from Barton's lips. She didn't know what she would do, if he took Alexei away from her...Stopping that line of thought, she collected her anger and fired back another response. "He was a better man than you'll ever be!"
"He probably is," Barton said. "Only the best were picked for 'Project Guardian.'" Again, he tossed some papers at her.
"Project Guardian?" Natasha asked. Why did I just ask? Her curiosity was at odds with her fear and distrust. She didn't know which way to go.
"Some top secret assignment," Barton said. "Real prestigious. Alexei wanted it enough to fake his own death. I'm guessing he didn't see a need for you to know."
"NO!" Natasha screamed. She reached out in a wild attempt to grab Barton. If she weren't shackled to the bed, she would have throttled his throat. "You're lying! I don't believe a damn thing you say!"
Barton stood there and watched her for several moments, as if to shine a light on the way that she was acting. "I think you do."
Natasha spat in his face. "Go to hell!"
"Sure, I'll go," he said, before he finally yelled back. "Right after you!" He went to the nearby desk where he dumped the briefcase, before he pulled out its entire contents and returned to the bed. There he shouted again, staggering his words as he slammed the folders down several at a time. "The story...of your life...is written...in blood!"
Both of them glanced at the pile that he had dropped on her. Natasha heard him breathing heavily as he tried to calm down.
"I'm trying to show you something here," he said. His voice had cracked as if he were disappointed, or even sad. "But it's like I can't get through to you..." Barton paused to run his fingers through his hair and sigh. "Whatever," he said as he straightened up and tried to regain his composure. "Guess I can't force you to believe. Just look at those papers, okay? For once in your life, just look things over and decide for yourself." With that, he turned for the door.
"Wait," Natasha said. As angry and confused as he had made her, she suddenly found herself afraid to be alone.
"I'm tired, and I'm hungry, and I am sick of this crazy crap," he said. He shook his head and took a deep breath. "I'm just gonna sit down now and make myself some food. Do whatever you want with your life, all right? Either way, I've already ruined mine to save you." Barton walked out the door, dragging it shut behind him.
Clint held the doorknob behind him as he trembled and heard his own breath. I've ruined my life, he thought. And for what?
His stomach growled. He had not just been dramatic about being hungry. After all, it had been almost a full day since his last meal. He slid his fingers off of the doorknob and made his way down the stairs. It would be simple to take care of his need to eat.
There was nothing in the kitchen except for a can of instant coffee. Technically, there was some food there, but all of it was either expired or something that he didn't like. With a sigh, he walked out of the house and to his car. He had been in such a rush to treat Natasha the night before that he had left most of his gear outside. Clint retrieved his bow and his quiver, along with a backpack full of MRE rations.
Each "Meal, Ready-to-Eat" was a sealed bag stuffed with more than a thousand calories of food. Lots of people joked about the processed nature of their contents, but Clint liked them just fine. They were conveniently light in weight, with a shelf life measured in years. Included inside each was a chemical packet that could heat up and cook an entrée with the simple addition of water.
MREs were usually the only way that troops could enjoy a hot meal in the battlefield. Though Clint was in a different situation, he felt as though he were a soldier trapped behind enemy lines. Agent Hill's threat from the previous night came back to him, as well as the fact that he had no idea when the house's owners would return. He still hadn't thought of a plan to deal with them. And worst of all, he was alone.
Yes, he was alone. Barely hiding in plain sight along an empty country road, with all of SHIELD actively hunting for him. I've got nothing, he thought. No one else...What made me save her?
Clint sat down in the kitchen, where he began to heat his meal. It would take about a minute. He turned and looked out the window at the road, where he saw a black SUV. Clint held his breath and waited, hoping that he wouldn't have to spring into action. The vehicle kept approaching, until it went right past the house and began to shrink away in the distance.
He lowered his head and exhaled. It would only be a matter of time before they found him.
Natasha forced herself to reach for another file. She knew that she wouldn't find anything good inside.
It wasn't the big revelations that shook her anymore. It was all of the details surrounding them. Little facts relating to things that she had pondered while lying in bed or waiting at airports. The details were so clear and specific, and they neatly filled so many of the holes in her past. Just from reading those papers, she had become aware of several holes that she had never even noticed.
These files had finally given her the answers. They just weren't the ones that she had been looking for. She hated the fact that everything was making so much sense.
As she read on, tears came again and flowed freely from her eyes. Natasha was disturbed at how often she had been crying lately, after holding in her tears in for so long. There had to be another explanation. Surely, Uncle Ivan wouldn't do all of this to her...
No matter what happens, no matter what anyone says, always remember that I love you.
Natasha sat up straight as her mouth fell open. That had been Uncle Ivan's voice playing so vividly in her mind. She hadn't seen him in more than a week, and the days before her most recent mission seemed so hazy. However, that one statement of his remained seared in her memory.
Shaking, Natasha reached for the ring on her right hand. Uncle Ivan had given it to her as a gift, telling her that with it, they would never be apart. She had always worn that one piece of jewelry, and it had comforted her in the past. Now it comforted her again, as she sat crying in her bed.
Clint walked up the stairs with a hot tray of meatloaf in his hands. In his self-pity, he had forgotten that Natasha also hadn't eaten in almost a day. He felt bad for her, after hearing her cry on and off again over the last several hours.
Balancing his tray in one hand, he reached and turned the doorknob to her bedroom. He almost dropped everything when he saw the empty bed inside.
Without thinking, he rushed in to have a closer look. A moment later, he realized what a big mistake that had been. He heard Natasha push aside the open door behind him, right before she took his gun.
To be continued in Chapter 10: Alone in the Dark
