Apologies for the missed update, folks! I had some catching up to do with some things in my life this last week or so, and now that everything's all sorted, it's back to our usual programming.

Not many chapters left here. We're getting close to the end!

There was something tickling his nose.

That never boded well for any parties involved, really.

Clint came to with a fuzzy start at the odd feeling of some uncomfortable material scratching the tip of his nose. It took too many moments to blink his way back past the wall of black that had slammed over him at some point to reality, and even then, the darkness before his eyes refused to yield as he dimly noted the scratching feeling against the back of his neck as well. Several more long moments passed before something in his brain re-fired, piecing together the uncomfortable sensations and grudgingly recognizing the not-as-foreign-as-he'd-have-liked feeling of a sack over his head.

He'd certainly woken up in worse.

Despite the distinct lack of… well, anything, his sight swum nauseatingly as a pulsing ache rammed its way through the front of his skull. Clint sucked in a slightly surprised breath as the feeling exploded across his forehead, and he grit his teeth as he rode out the sudden flare of pain. When it finally subsided into more of a sharp, prickling sort of sensation, he unhinged his jaw to release the tension that had clamped his mouth shut, his mind working furiously through its haze to piece together just what exactly had happened to cause what felt like the hangover from hell's seventh circle. He shut his eyes (futile as they were open, anyways) against the darkness of the sack and focused on pulling himself out of his fuzzy, practically comatose state.

He figured the focus would bring clarity.

Damn, he was wrong.

A burst of searing, sharp lava exploded inside of his chest, and he let out an involuntary groan as the fire spread in waves not unlike his head just had. He hissed in a harsh breath in a futile attempt of diminishing the ache, and the fire burst again from the left of his ribcage. Something in the back of his mind dimly diagnosed himself as the torment continued.

Those cracked ribs had finally given in and snapped, it seemed.

Probably from the steering wheel.

The steering wheel!

Clint resolutely shoved as much of the agony aside as he could as he blinked away the involuntary tears the onslaught of tingling abuse had brought to his eyes. A van. They'd been rammed by a van. Clint breathed past the lingering prickles of pain as questions raced through his adrenaline fueled mind. Where was the doctor? Where were they? He froze then, his spine going rigid.

Where was the virus?

"Barton?"

Clint jerked slightly, another short grunt escaping him as the movement grated on his ribs. "Doc?"

He swiveled his head in the direction the hushed call of his name had come from, and he was annoyed to find the bag plastered to what must have been blood on his forehead. The pull of it stung, but he resolutely ignored the feeling as he strained his ears for Holden's voice again. It was only then that he realized just how strange the world sounded around him. When Holden spoke again with an oddly relieved sigh, he realized why.

His left hearing aid was missing.

The week just couldn't get any better.

"Alive, that's good, that's good," Holden was muttering quietly from somewhere on his right, and Clint zeroed in on the voice as best he could. He shifted slightly and was dully surprised at the rough scrape of what felt like a combination of a bungee cord and a seatbelt wrapped around his wrists.

Seriously? The seat belts?

If the hunch Clint had slowly begun to get was true, then he knew for a fact the men who had sacked them had a handy dandy new pair of tire chains they could have used. He zeroed back in on Holden's voice as it took on a tone of hushed urgency.

"I'm assuming you can hear me, so listen. There isn't much time. There was an accident, do you remember?"

Clint mentally rolled his eyes, but the more logical side of his snark won out as he realized he would most likely have asked the same question had their roles been reversed. "Got it. Van. No time?" Another thought struck him then, and he lowered his voice as well, the choppy grunts not quite forming sentences as of yet. "Y' in one piece?"

A rustling sound preceded the doctor's words, and Clint narrowed his eyes against the darkness at the tinge of nervous anticipation in Holden's voice. "Honestly, I should be asking you; you took the biggest hit. But just… listen to me, alright? The sample is here, but it's clamped to the door on the other side of the van." Before Clint could question him, he continued. "And no, I can't reach it. They've got my hands chained to the damn seat. Only reason I don't have such fashionable headwear as yours, I believe." He paused before correcting himself. "Hope. I've managed to-" There was a short grunt and a clank that interrupted his words then. "- loosen them slightly, but they don't want to budge much. I think I can get them off. I just need more time…"

Well, that certainly answered that question.

Clint growled in a mixture of pain and frustration as he shifted, loosening the bind around his wrists slightly. A distant thought flitted into his slowly sharpening focus, and he straightened slightly as he curled his leg closer within what should have been arm's reach. "Think I still have… have th' knife…"

"The what?"

Clint grunted as he struggled to bend his leg in such a way as to reach his shoe. "Knife. From the station."

He was almost entirely certain he had slipped the little rusted blade inside his newly acquired boot before ditching his tattered clothing that morning at the thrift store. As he struggled for a grip on the offending object, he spoke again, grounding himself slightly to clear the sudden wave of nausea that overtook him.

"How'd they find us? Did Lucas make a call?"

Holden's tone was bitter when he spoke. "A tracker. She had a bloody GPS on her. Probably should have frisked them before tossing them in that deathtrap of a car…"

Instinct took over as Clint strained further for his shoe and furrowed his brow in concentration, the tackiness of the blood on his forehead all too noticeable to him. "Any idea where we are?"

Surprisingly, Holden had an answer for him. "We passed back into the states through customs quite a while ago. The bastards just waved us right through, no inspection of any kind. We're… well, roughly halfway through New York, I believe at this point. I'm not sure how long I was out for before they started mentioned something about getting to Deleware…"

New York.

The dust that remained of Clint's lucky stars was sprinkling on him just enough to tilt the odds.

He hoped.

"Barton… there's something else, they were speaking-"

Clint huffed in a breath and clenched his eyes shut as another wave of pain rolled through him just then, the sound of the doctor's voice warping and fading in and out of his focus. He couldn't quite keep back the low grunt of a groan this time, and Holden's sharp tone drifted through his ear hazily.

"Barton? Barton, what is it?"

Clint couldn't help it.

He laughed.

It wasn't a solid laugh, but a laugh it was all the same. He lifted his head slightly as he choked on the movement, and before the doctor could so much as ask again he was responding breathily.

"Y'know, for supposedly bein' such a smart guy, you really miss when it comes to the obvious, don'tcha?"

Woah.

Were his words really that slurred?

Holden's voice rose again, and if Clint didn't know any better, he would have thought there was some minuscule twinge of anxious concern under the doctor's urgent tones. And wasn't that a weird thought.

"Would you just— just, listen. I don't know what it is they're planning on doing, but I do know it doesn't involve you. They were talking up front just a few minutes ago. They've been discussing, and I won't lie. It doesn't sound like they'll be wanting you around for much longer."

Clint rolled his neck as he focused his attention back on the binds around his wrists, giving up on reaching for the knife entirely as the edges of the material dug into his skin. "Huh. 's a new concept to me."

When the doctor spoke again, his tone was harsher than before, the grating difference finally breaking through Clint's haze as he realized with a sudden snap just how uncharacteristically human the doctor had sounded before then. "This isn't a joke, Clint! Insufferable as you may be, you… managed to prove yourself quite adept back on that road, really, and I would quite frankly rather not have my one comrade just…just-just eradicated right when I'm beginning to tolerate him! Get it together, man, or you might not-"

Before Clint could so much as recognize that Holden had used his first name for the first time since they'd been thrown together, there was an abrupt pause in the doctor's admonishing as an odd, scraping noise sounded from somewhere to Clint's left. The noise was muffled and disorienting as he swiveled his head to compensate for the lack of hearing, but Holden more than informed him of what had happened.

"Wh— Barton, the sample! It's not clamped!" He heard a distinct rattle and a frustrated growl as Holden struggled further against the chains. Clint shuffled dutifully out of his position and groped around the emptiness with his foot as he listened for the sound of the briefcase. Holden snapped another sentence then that had him refocus as he paused in his ministrations.

"Nevermind it, dammit! Try to get those restraints off!"

Clint sucked in an aggravated breath before speaking between gritted teeth, the darkness of the hood starting to annoy him with a vigor. "What do you think I've been doing, huh?"

The sudden rattle of a door overtook the cabin, and it wasn't Holden who answered him drily.

"While I'm fairly certain that wasn't directed at me, I'm sure you'll be incredibly happy to know that you've been a rife pain in the ass."

Clint froze at the voice, his brain snapping into full focus as he narrowed his eyes. Lucas' gravely tones were incredibly difficult to mistake. At Clint's prolonged silence, the doctor spoke up, his tone grating in unreined fury. "I could say the same for you! The amount of strain—"

"You know something? I really don't give a damn, doctor," the man interrupted brusquely, his tone remaining just as light and unnervingly threatening as it had been before. Clint swiveled his head again to follow the voice, a fierce spark of annoyance running through him as his aid-less ear rang dully. He didn't need to try too hard in the end, as a large hand suddenly clapped down on his shoulder, causing him to wince at the fierce spasm it sent through his chest. He refused to let out a sound, however, and he sat resolutely still as the man's voice sounded much closer this time.

"Y'see, you could have set us off schedule quite a bit with that little stunt of yours back there. As it is, you set us back a great deal by taking out our demo man. Had to split our team in two for a bit there to compensate. Shame, really, but we managed. We got you two in the end, anyways, so in reality, I guess I should be thanking you."

Clint listened with half an ear (quite literally), his attention focused on the sound of more footsteps entering the cabin. The rustling and clumping mangled together into one big mess of a cacophony, and his effort to differentiate just how many men there now were was in vain. Lucas was speaking again, and he forced himself to focus as his brain attempted to zone back out into the haze of pain.

"I'm not sure how you found us again. Hell, I'm not sure I care." There was a short sniff before he continued. "Won't matter soon, anyways. Your stop is coming up any second now."

Clint froze. His stop? They were letting him go?

Clarity rushed over him with a chill then as the doctor seemingly came to the same realization that was suddenly crossing his own mind.

"You're throwing him out?"

There was a short, humorless laugh. "Ah, was it really that obvious? I thought I was being subtle!"

"What for? That's the most senseless-"

"Senseless, doctor? For the record, neither of you should be alive right now, if we'd had our way the first time around. You're lucky the higher ups decided to make the best of a second chance and keep your miserable hide around. He's extra baggage."

Clint bristled at the statement, but just as he opened his mouth to respond hotly, the words died on his tongue.

And not because he didn't have plenty to say.

But because the doctor was already speaking for him.

"Extra baggage? Do you know what this man can do? God's sake, you've seen it with your own eyes these last few days, haven't you? Or are you simply blind? This man is… is a survivor. And- and- and a strategist, yes, I'm telling you now, he's a damn good one, I'm sure that counts for-"

"Yes, doctor. Which is precisely why he's taking the leap. I don't need survivors."

Clint blinked furiously, his mind trying to process what he had heard.

Had the doctor just tried to vouch for him?

Futile as the tactic had been, the effort sat awkwardly on Clint's conscious as he shifted under the sudden weight of the silence. There was a soft voice that broke the hush not seconds later, the words garbled and throaty.

Was that even English?

The voices barely registered for Clint as he rapidly shoved as much of his will to the forefront of his mind as he could. He shut his eyes against the darkness of the sack again, feeling for the movement of the vehicle beneath him as he counted slowly. What he discovered didn't bode well for him.

There was no way he was getting away unscathed from what they had planned.

Whoever they were.

The thought sparked an unexpected surge of anger in him, and he rolled his head back languidly to address Lucas. "Bit unprofessional to condemn a man without giving him th' joy of knowing his enemy, in'it?"

The words were out before he could dig deep and find the tact Natasha had relentlessly attempted to pound into him in their earliest mission days.

Apparently it was buried a little too well.

Lucas was silent for a moment. The moment stretched on, and just as Clint was convinced he wouldn't answer, the gritty voice was just beside his ear. He grimaced as the man spoke, his voice chillingly quiet.

"Your enemy? Harsh, considering you've been employed by us for your entire miserable career, Barton." Before Clint could so much as start, Lucas cut back in. "It took a moment to get the name, not going to lie. Didn't recognize your ugly mug under all…" He paused then, a faint swish of material suggesting that he was gesturing to his own face. "…Well, that. Honestly, that was the only thing that kept us from just... disposing of you when my 'pals' here rammed you back there. Had to be sure before just killing you off, right? So yes, we know who you are. And no, we really don't care."

Rude.

Arguably infamous Clint Barton could feel his own brow puckering with an aching crinkle as confusion battled for dominance over his furiously spinning mind. "M'sorry, but last I checked… SHIELD wasn't exactly made up of… eh, homicidal maniacs with a flair f'r pyrotechnics and thievery." He paused, something in his mind desperately attempting to un-slur his words as best he could. As it was, he wasn't entirely certain the sentence had actually come out as he had formed it in his mind. What had sounded intelligently snarky to him may have just come out in an incoherent jumble and he'd have a hard time knowing for certain. He lifted an eyebrow as best he could, hoping the gesture was at least sensed through the bag. "Except for that one guy in tech, he was pretty unstable-"

The hand was suddenly on his shoulder again, and he couldn't keep back the hiss of pain when Lucas' thumb dug into his collarbone. "Don't get smart, kid. I'm trying to grant you your dying wish here, the least you could do is be considerate."

There was a pause as the sound of more footsteps registered dimly on Clint's mind. There was a harsh, grating order, and the tone spoke more than the foreign words ever could. The footsteps were all around him suddenly, and the distinct feeling of being surrounded sat disturbingly in his gut as he shifted nervously and Lucas continued speaking, his voice lax.

"No, agent Barton, SHIELD hasn't been the same for quite a while, I'd say. Got a little soft in the middle. Got too confident they'd taken us down one too many times with your oh-so-glorified Star Spangled poster boy."

Something pounded furiously on the edge of Clint's consciousness at that, and he found his breath catching slightly in his throat as his spine went rigid. Lucas was continuing easily, his voice considerably more smug at the barely perceptible reaction he was receiving.

"They never really understood, did they? The most basic principle of our organization."

Chains rattled mutely on Clint's right as Holden shifted uneasily, the doctor undoubtedly coming to the same conclusion Clint was disbelievingly coming to now. He could hear the grin in Lucas' voice.

"Cut off one head, and another will always grow back."

And suddenly, Clint was thrown into an adrenaline spiked focus as his thoughts came to a crashing halt.

He'd heard the stories. He'd read the reports. He'd seen the details in Steve's file after the New York debacle. He'd heard it from the man himself.

And it all came together with a gut-wrenching snap.

HYDRA?

No.

Lying.

Lucas had to be lying.

But why would he?

There was no reason to!

Clint's mind was racing, thoughts flashing across his mind, some being dismissed immediately and others built on in a matter of seconds. HYDRA? HYDRA had been incorporated with SHIELD? For how long? Had they always had their hands muddled in with the agency's business? How many orders had he carried out under them when he thought he was doing the right thing? How many wrong targets? False superiors? What about Fury? Natasha? He refused to believe it, and yet, muddled snippets of uncertainty from the agency were suddenly brought into harsh clarity. Neil's hunch had been right. It hadn't been a single rogue group. A million thoughts raced through his brain, all muddling together into a nauseating feeling of betrayal.

He'd been used.

He felt rather than heard the executive decision that rushed through the minds of the men surrounding him then as his own mind whirled in distress, and he forced himself to pull out of his crippling disbelief and focus on the reality that was undoubtedly going to be his very, very painful situation. The car was slowing just barely enough to feel through the shuddering of the seat, and Clint dutifully sucked in a last gulp of air before what he knew was going to be one of the worst moments of his whole idiotic role in this fiasco.

He only hoped it wouldn't actually be his last breath.

"Now, hold on just a moment! Why get rid of him now? Surely he-"

"Holden, you say one more word and you're out with him, higher-ups be damned. You might be a regular… Bessarion, let's say, but I highly doubt you'll be able to pick a side when you're too busy picking pieces of yourself off of the pavement alongside your little lackey here."

A sudden, frantic rustling noise preceded the expected clunk of the door handle, and a gust of frigid air swept into the cabin, chilling Clint to the bone within milliseconds of the door being flung open. Four hands that he could feel gripped his shoulders then, and he grit his teeth as he was manhandled into a position just beside the open door to the van, the seatbelt and bungee cord contraption binding his wrists tearing away with a burning snap.

There was a whirlwind of disorienting noise as he was lifted from his seat, and yet over the maddeningly confusing dissonance, there was one noise that rang clear to him.

The rattle of bullet aluminum casing on metal flooring.

A wild, half witted plan came to him then in a short moment of panic, and suddenly, he had a goal.

He couldn't miss.

He couldn't miss.

A short, strangled noise barely registered in his ear as he felt the hands clench tighter around his aching biceps, and a short moment of clarity ran through him as he recognized the doctor's voice.

"Stop this-!"

Now!

The goons didn't disappoint as they hauled Clint up off of the floor. With one solid swing backwards, they shifted forward as one and clenched their muscles to toss him bodily out of the car. Clint's opening was closing quickly, and just before they swung him forward to finish the job, he lashed out with his left leg and thrust his foot in what he only prayed was the direction of the sample beside the door at this point. His foot miraculously struck metal, and he desperately wedged his toe into the minuscule gap between the casing and the handle as the casing was pressed against the wall beside him. A terrified thrill of grim satisfaction ran through him as he felt it hold fast to his foot, the pressure of the wall against his foot doing the trick as the men followed through their swing.

The hood ripped away from his head with the sudden gust of wind just in time for him to see the dawning looks of stunned panic on the three men's faces and the horrified expression on Doctor Holden's.

And then he was careening out over the open road, deadly toxin in tow and on a crash course with certain death.

Just another average Monday for Clint Barton.

I will say it now, and I'll say it clear: this is not the last cliffhanger you will be seeing here. I know, I know, but the way the chapters ended up splitting just worked so much better with the suspense.

So on this chipper note, until next time!