Clint's voice crackled in over the radio Natasha stole from one of the downed guards. "Hey baby, how you doing?"
She grabbed the clunky plastic box from her hip. "Less than excellent. I've got a team of six on my tail. I was able to divert them away from you, but I had to backtrack to the second floor in order to do it."
"And now? We're running out of time Tasha."
"And now. . ." she trailed off. The six stalky gruff guards appeared behind her. "Well hello boys. I'd love to stay and chat but I'm already late for a date."
Clint shook his head and smirked. She's even starting to sound like me. Not that he would ever dare to tell her as much. He drew in a deep breath to refocus his mind and began to survey the loading bay once more. The cables and gears continued to rattle inside the shaft as Clint paced in front of the massive elevator doors. His eyes followed each cable, each exposed strand of colored wiring that raced along the ceiling. Light. Light. Light. Door. Alarm. There it is.
Clint locked on to a series of three grimy metal tubes bracketed to the concrete. They ducked out of the wall by the elevator and ran across just below the ceiling and dipped out of sight on the far wall. Gotcha. Clint hurried across the cool floor to the column of pallets stacked haphazardly against the wall. As he ran his hand over the rough pine boards, which wobbled under the pressure. Easy enough. Clint raised his leg to wind up for a kick. A solid side kick would send the pallets crashing over. As his foot was about to strike, Clint jerked it away. Right. No shoes. He rolled his eyes. "Fine," he puffed, and took a few steps backward. Rubbing his hands together, he took off toward the pallets. Clint barreled into the stack shoulder first. The pile tumbled over with a loud clap. Clint wiggled his shoulder to reset the joint, then tuned his attention to the now-clear wall.
The three pipes reappeared where the pallets had been, ending at a dusty metal control box. The already-loose screws twirled free easily beneath his calloused fingers. Flakes of rust fell to the ground as Clint pried away the faceplate, revealing the wires and relays inside.
He scurried over to the closest unconscious guard and dug through his pockets and holsters. "Come on buddy, give me something I can work with." In a nylon pouch clipped to the man's belt, Clint's fingers closed around a cold metal cylinder. "Flashbang. That'll work. Maybe I'll grab another for the road."
He slipped the grenade from the man's belt and turned it over in his hands. It was a stun grenade, designed to emit a blinding flash and a loud noise. Normally they were non-lethal, but luckily a little boom was all he needed. Clint unclipped the man's radio and hustled back to the wall, prying the plastic housing off as he went. Man I hope I remember how to do this. Using his teeth to strip the wires, he carefully wired the radio into the grenade. Sweat beaded on Clint's forehead as he worked as fast as his steady fingers would allow, all the while willing the bomb not to explode in his face. "There we go. No time to test it, but it's going to have to be close enough." Clint twisted the dial that remained on top of the destroyed radio housing. "Let's hope no one's using channel seven."
Clint grabbed his own radio and ran up the staircase.
"Diversion secure" Clint's voice crackled through the radio. "Channel seven."
"Copy that," Natasha replied. She whirled around and struck the last guard in the nose. Blood dripped down his face as he fell to the ground to join his teammates. "All clear here. Heading to the fourth floor."
"Roger that."
Natasha left the guards and sprinted back through the gallery. Her feet took her to the employee staircase that she'd used to often to get to work. Slowing as she neared the door, Natasha crept cautiously into the stairwell then continued her sprint. She braced her arm and hooked it around the end of each railing, using her momentum to swing around the turns as the staircase folded back on itself as it climbed.
She burst out on the fourth floor to find it deserted. Eerily so. The paneled wooden hallways seemed different without the murmur of voices from the offices beyond. The whole floor was silent without the whir of computer fans or the soft tap of fingers on keys.
Natasha hurried down the hall, past István's grand office door, turning her back to the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of the corridor. She caught a glimpse of her own office as she passed. The clear glass panes that formed the front wall were shattered. Shards of glass littered the floor. Her wooden door hung awkwardly, still clinging to its frame on busted hinges. Inside, the whole office had been turned inside out. Papers lay strewn around the room. All the drawers had been ripped from the desk. Even the potted ficus in the corner had been torn from its pot. No wonder István's guards found the note scrawled on the back of the picture. They went through everything. Well, not everything.
Natasha could feel it tugging at her, the pain of watching the last fragments of Charlotte Welch's life torn to shreds. No, Natasha scolded herself. No pity, no pain, no looking back. She huffed a barely audible laugh. It used to be a lot easier to make myself believe that.
Pushing the thoughts of everything but her next objective from her mind, Natasha continued on. She came to the end of the hall and turned down a smaller corridor to the conference room. I've never actually seen the elevator on this floor, but there is no way some of the pieces in István's office came up the stairs.
Natasha dodged the long oval table in the center of the room as she made her way to the far wall. Pushing several rolling chairs out of her way, she cleared a path along the wall. Natasha examined the bright cherry paneling the bordered the room. Her knuckled rapped softly on the wood. She moved down a few feet and tried again. Toward the edges of the wall, the resulting sound became denser, fuller. Natasha smirked. She pulled down the conference room blinds then scoured the center panels for a release mechanism. Her fingers brushed over a tiny notch on the bottom of the polished wood. She dug her fingernails in and the panel popped free with a soft click. Natasha dragged the bulky sheet of wood away, leaning it haphazardly against the conference room table. She dragged away the neighboring panel too, revealing the gleaming elevator doors behind them.
Making an educated guess, Natasha flipped aside a framed painting on the adjacent wall to reveal the elevator controls. She pulled the emergency override lever and the doors opened with a pneumatic hiss. Wedging her fingers in the crack, Natasha gritted her teeth as she manually slid the massive steel doors open. Her high heels dug into the carpet as she pulled. With one last grunt of effort the doors swung open. Natasha checked the small clock displayed on the face of the radio. Her pulse quickened as she realized just how much time she'd lost getting up here.
Natasha gazed down the cavernous elevator shaft lit only by tiny emergency lights flickering in the corners. The massive empty column was bordered by steel beams and cast concrete walls. The whole space stank of oil and hot metal. Thick braided cables groaned in the center of the shaft. Just over a story below, the enormous metal box that was the freight elevator rattled upward. "Now comes the fun part."
Natasha ripped the picture frame from the wall and smashed it against the table. She brushed aside the shattered glass and ripped the canvas from within. The thick, paint-soaked cloth rolled up easily between her fingers. Hopefully István didn't waste any of the good ones in the conference room.
Natasha clamped the canvas roll between her teeth. The paint stung bitterly at her tongue and she cringed. Natasha took a deep breath and backed up as far as the oval table would allow. Here goes nothing. Before she could think about it anymore, Natasha took off at a sprint. The sole of her shoe hit the ledge at the edge of the floor and Natasha kicked off, launching herself into the shaft. She reached out for the nearest cable and clamped on. The cable dug into her palms and thighs as she skidded to a stop. One at a time she shook out her stinging palms, watching the edges of the shaft as the cable slowly pulled her up to where she'd started.
Let's hope this works, she thought. Natasha took the canvas from her mouth and wrapped the painted tube around the metal cable. She braced her feet around the cable, crossing the spires of her heels to form a pocket.
Moving both hands onto the canvas tube, Natasha let herself fall. Stale air whooshed around her as she slid along the cable. Burnt plastic mingled in with the other smells as the cable grated on her stilettos. As she sped toward the elevator, Natasha clamped down on the canvas, twisting in at tightly as she could. She squeezed her knees together, closing the gap between her shoes. Natasha could feel the heat on her palms as friction fought to slow her down. Natasha spied the huge metal box racing toward her. It wasn't going to be enough. With only a few feet to spare, she jumped, landing in a tumble to lessen the impact on herself and the elevator. The resulting bang was loud enough as it was.
"Clint," she whispered over the radio, "I'm in position."
"Copy that," he replied. Clint crept up to the third floor landing, pressing his back against the door. He scooted up to the tiny grated window. A bundle of canvases leaned against the door, blocking his view. "I'm in the service stairwell but I don't have a visual."
"Take the door on your right. It will take you through a hallway and around to the other staircase."
Clint hurried out through the door and down the dimly lit hallway, trying to dodge the empty crates and unused frames in his path. When he judged himself to be about halfway through the passage, Natasha crackled in again over the radio.
"The elevator stopped. Time's up."
Clint sprinted faster, hurdling over a fallen frame to reach the other end. He slid into the landing and up to the other door. Red letters that Clint assumed said something like "restricted access" or "employees only" were stenciled on the beige metal. Clint peered through the tiny window. Between the massive sheets of hanging plastic he could barely see the elevator doors split and open.
"I count seven, maybe eight men on my side of the room, including András. Another six are waiting in the elevator."
"István is dealing with the authorities downstairs, I'm sure."
Clint watched as blurry shadows moved behind the plastic drapes. The figures emerged carrying a ribbed case made of yellow plastic. "I have eyes on the target."
"Let's move."
Clint placed his hand on the door, then paused. "Natasha are you sure about this? Even for us this one seems. . . suicide-y."
"Got a better plan?" Radio silence. "Believe me, if either of us saw a different way. . . "
"I know, I know, we're out of time. Ready?"
"Round 'em up Cowboy. And Clint. . . stay safe."
"Likewise." Clint slipped the second flashbang from his belt. Crouched on the ground, he pushed his back to the door, wedging it open. Clamping down on the handle with his thumb, Clint pulled the pin on the grenade and threw the metal wire to the ground with a soft clink. He took a quick glance through the open door then rolled the metal cylinder across the bare concrete floor. He quickly pulled the door shut behind him and clapped his hands to his ears.
"Mi az. . . ?"
"Gránát!"
Clint smirked. Look at me, I'm even learning Hungarian. A second later the grenade erupted with a horrible bang, like a thunderclap directly overhead. Even with his eyelids squeezed shut Clint could sense the blinding power of the flash that bathed the whole room in white light.
Wisps of smoke floated out beneath the door. That's my cue. Clint burst through the door, gun drawn over the smoke. The nearest men stumbled backward, struggling to regain their vision.
"Go!" András yelled as he leaned on a table for support. "Get the goods onto the elevator!" Even with his eyes shut, András turned his head directly at Clint. "I'll deal with you."
"Sorry Boss," said Clint as he struck András over the head, "I quit." The bulky man's body hit the floor with a dull thud. Among panicked shouts, the six men from the elevator rushed out to form a protective circle around the two carrying the yellow case. As one pod, they shuffled hurriedly back to the elevator. Perfect, Clint though, and turned his attention back to the remaining guards.
As the men's vision began to clear, they raised their firearms and trained them on the intruder. At the first unmistakeable bang of a shot fired, Clint summersaulted behind a crate. Bullets whizzed around him, pinging off of the metal shelving and tearing easily through the the plastic drapes. The clip of footsteps approached, and Clint rolled onto his back. With a heave he kicked the wooden crate forward. The wooden box slammed into the man's legs and he tumbled head-first into the crate. Bracing himself with his hands, Clint sprang up and slammed the hinged lid down on the man's back. Pulling an extra weapon from the downed man's belt, Clint fired two shots and the two approaching guards fell to the floor.
Where'd you go? Clint though as he scanned the are for more enemies. The huge sheets of barely translucent plastic carving an aisle down the center of the room were not making it easy.
Clint heard the plastic behind him crinkle. Before he even had time to cock his head, two powerful arms wrapped themselves around his chest, cocooning him in the thick plastic sheet. "Bad choice, buddy." Clint pulled his arms tight to his chest to give himself space, then spun around, reversing the hold. He stepped to the side, spinning the two of them along and winding the other man up in the plastic sheet until he couldn't move. Four down, one to go.
Clint holstered one of his weapons and sprinted across the little makeshift aisle toward the next hanging sheet. Boosting himself off a table, Clint launched himself up and grabbed on to the sheet. Finally, some decent height. He gripped on with one hand and pulled out the gun with the other. Slowly he scanned the room for his final target. A shadow flickered on the far side of the room. There you are.
Before Clint could fire, another shot rang out across the restoration room. The rope holding up the plastic sheet and its metal support structure frayed and snapped, sending Clint crashing to the ground. He groaned on the concrete as a powerful figure loomed over him. András Szabo kicked Clint's gun away and hoisted him up by the arms. "You're a clever one, aren't you. But do be advised, Mr. Griggs, that no one double crosses me, and I don't intend to break that record now."
The remaining guard scurried out of the corner. "You!" András barked, "Code Burgundy. Go find my brother."
"Yes Sir!" the man replied and hurried away out the door.
"Now what am I to do with you, Mr. Griggs? Apparently István was not harsh enough with you. You will not find the same problem with me." He pulled a firearm from his own holster and pressed it to Clint's temple. "Now where is your girlfriend, I would hate for her to miss this."
Clint looked over to the elevator. The ring of men had situated themselves inside, guarding the nuclear material. One nearest to the control panel reached out to hit the button. No. The doors began to close. He wasn't going to make it to the elevator in time. He couldn't just leave Natasha alone with all of them. "I . . ."
A flat red knife flew through the closing elevator doors and buried itself in András's shoulder. He screamed in pain and released Clint's arms. Clint crouched down and swept András's feet out from under him. "Found her," Clint said as he pulled the knife from the other man's shoulder.
Clint whipped around and threw the knife again. It stuck in the side of the closing door, preventing the two sides from meeting. Clint took off at a sprint. He kicked his feet out in front of him and slid the last few feet along the dusty cement floor. One of the guards reached up to remove the blade, and Clint slid into the elevator just as the elevator doors closed on a few strands of his hair. Home run for the good guys.
The elevator lurched and began its decent. All of the guards stared at the man now laying on the floor between them, taking a few seconds to process what had just happened. When they had, they waisted no time drawing their weapons on Clint.