A/N: And I'm back! Do you ever have those days where you're just like 'I'm going to write a dozen chapters' and then you get to your computer and you can't write a single word? Yeah, I've been having far too many of those days for my liking so thank you all for sticking with me and, more importantly, for sticking with my story. Y'all are fantastic:) I hope this chapter is worth the wait-it's a touch longer than usual:) Feedback is always appreciated, but just know that you have my sincere thanks simply for reading.
Enjoy!
Chapter 20: 'Cause When It's All Said And Done
Natalia was sick of Italy. Of course, you'd never know it by the way she bit into another calzone, all smiles under her floppy sun hat and black sunglasses. She was wearing a sundress that was the color everyone thought the ocean was, even though the ocean was nowhere near that particular shade of blue. The plaza that she was sitting in was the same one that she had been coming to every day since she had arrived. It had been, despite all of Coulson's reassurances that it would be a quick in and out, almost a week.
At least I speak rudimentary Italian, thought Talia glumly. She couldn't imagine being in a place where she didn't know the language, much less running a mission in one. Making a mental note to ask Tasha how that worked when she got back, Natalia went back to scanning the square.
Her mission was simple surveillance and retrieval. It was better than she had initially expected after all the simulations they had run involving firefights and explosions. This was easy, mused Natalia, and startlingly so, compared to the stunts Barton and Romanoff had drilled them in. Of course, that was Barton and Romanoff and if there was one thing that Natalia had learned from her time at S.H.I.E.L.D. it was that nothing the two top spies did could be counted as normal. Then again, maybe that was the point. After all, if the practice was harder than the actual test, then the test would be a breeze.
It certainly has been so far. Natalia let out the barest of sighs, resisting the urge to "talk" to Stasia. They had agreed that they should at least try to go along with S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol for these solo missions, and that meant complete radio silence, even on the mental front. Then again, they were both trained by Barton and Romanoff, which meant that neither twin was above bending the protocol at specified times, just to make sure that the other was okay. Unfortunately for Natalia, the next check-in wasn't for several hours. Forcing herself not to sigh so that she wouldn't attract any more attention (her amazingly pale skin took care of that in a country where everyone was somehow tan), Talia swirled her iced coffee and sipped the half-empty drink.
"Agent Silivanov, you got eyes on anything?" Coulson's familiar voice crackled over her comms and Natalia permitted herself another small smile-and an eye roll.
"Don't you think that would have warranted me reporting in, Coulson?" Not for the first time, Natalia silently thanked Natasha for teaching her how to talk on comms without advertising the fact that you were wired, despite Natalia's objections that she didn't really need to know that. Unsurprisingly, Natasha had both ignored Natalia and been right.
"Seems like Natasha passed on a little more than just her knowledge of being an agent," muttered Coulson and Natalia could practically see the scowl on his face. "I was just checking in."
"I know," muttered Natalia. "The target is not on the premises as of yet, just like every other day this week."
"Just keep waiting-our informant is positive that he'll be there and I have good reason to trust her information."
Natalia didn't bother responding to that. She had been waiting at this same café every day, watching for her target, Masaccio Acerbi. At their best guess, he was an Italian arms dealer; however, they conveniently had no concrete evidence against him. The one piece of concrete evidence that they did have was a tip off from one of Coulson's many sources that Acerbi was in possession of a box that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been keeping tabs on. The snag on the whole thing was that S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't have Acerbi's address and the Italian government wasn't exactly being cooperative. The S.H.I.E.L.D. tech department had hackers working on the problem, but with the incredibly high level of security that had to be broken down, there was no way to tell how long that would take.
So there Natalia was; a ready-made solution. A different informant had commented to Coulson that Acerbi particularly liked the Paninis at this café and that led to the brilliant idea that had resulted in Natalia's mission. All she had to do was wait until Acerbi showed up, then follow him home and record his address so that a team would be able to get in and retrieve the box for S.H.I.E.L.D.
Of course, thought Natalia, that only works if Acerbi actually makes an appearance at some point.
She ran her tongue over her teeth and tried to avoid too much direct sunlight; training would be hell with a sunburn and there was no way Romanoff would let her off because of it.
Then again, depending on how long I'm gone, Tasha might wreck enough havoc to land herself paperwork duty.
Natalia smirked; her SO had been put on paperwork more times than she could count. Of course, the number of times she had actually done the paperwork could be counted on one hand.
Wonder what she and Barton are up to right about now...
"Are you sure this old piece of junk can make it to the cabin?" Natasha pretended to eye Clint's truck doubtfully, earning her a glare from her partner.
"I thought we agreed that you would bash my truck after that trip to Maine," grumbled Clint. He tossed his bow case and their black duffels into the bed of the faded red pickup.
"Yeah, we did-" Natasha cut off when her phone rang, echoing out the words to He Didn't Have To Be by Brad Paisley. Both agents frowned in the direction of her pocket.
"Isn't that Coulson's ringtone?" asked Clint as the redhead pulled out the S.H.I.E.L.D. issued-device. Natasha pursed her lips and nodded.
"I thought that he was supposed to be pretending we don't exist." Natasha nodded again. Neither one of them voiced what they were both thinking: the only reason he would call them now was if something was wrong. Natasha flipped open the phone.
"Romanoff."
"I need you to come in Natasha." Coulson's voice was so stressed and tense that Natasha couldn't bring herself to answer in a snarky tone.
"What happened to mandatory leave?"
"Extenuating circumstances. Fury wants you on this mission."
Natasha's eyebrows rose. It wasn't totally unusual for Fury to call them in personally, but normally they got some heads up if he was thinking about putting them on something special. She glanced at Clint who was watching, waiting for he to finish and fill him in.
"We'll be there in twenty," she told Coulson.
"Not Barton. Fury only wants you on this one."
Natasha frowned. "I don't know if that's a good idea Coulson, given the current circumstances..." Coulson should understand that she didn't want to leave Barton alone whole the twins were gone; God only knows how he would drive himself insane.
"Bring him to HQ. I'll have to keep an eye on him until you get back. We need you on this one."
Natasha didn't like it, but it looked like she didn't have much of a choice. "Fine. We're on our way." She snapped the phone shut without waiting for Coulson's reply.
"Mission?" asked Clint, an amused glint in his eye. "Knew they wouldn't be able to follow through with keeping us on the bench." His face fell when Natasha hesitated. "It's a mission for you, isn't it?" he said with a sigh.
"Yeah," said Natasha. "But Coulson says you're allowed back on base since I'm leaving."
"When are you two going to learn that I can take care of myself?" muttered Clint, rolling his eyes.
"When you prove it to us," retorted Natasha. She eyed the bags in the back of the truck a little wistfully. "So much for a couple days at the cabin."
"Yeah." A sudden grin covered Clint's face. "What do you think the girls would if they knew where we were planning to go?"
"Probably blow it out of proportion." Natasha sighed and opened up the passenger side door. "That's what they seem to do with everything else we do."
Clint eyed her closely and paused for just half a second too long before eliciting his usual laugh. "Yeah probably." He slid into the driver's seat and the engine roared to life. "Guess we better head on back."
"I guess." Natasha cast a glance toward the road that would've taken them to their cabin.
Whatever Coulson and Fury have for me better be a matter of national security, or Coulson's going to have a 1962 Chevy Corvette with four flat tires.
Stasia had reached the point where she would kill for a pair of sneakers. Heck, she would even go for a pair of flats. Anything other than the high heel contraptions she was holding. She heaved a sigh and began the laborious process of lacing up the ridiculous footwear that S.H.I.E.L.D. had provided for her. She had already forced herself into the dress although, despite her aversion to dresses as a whole, Stasia had to admit she was coming around to liking the garment. The deep purple fabric hugged her chest and hips before falling lightly around her legs. Silently, Stasia thanked whoever it was in S.H.E.L.D. that kept SO's from watching training test missions-there was no way Barton would be okay with this dress. Of course, Barton really wasn't okay with any dress, but that was beside the point. With a final tug the lace straps were cinched tight enough to hold the heels on and Stasia carefully looped the excess around her calves the way that Natasha had taught her to. The glowing red numbers on the bedside clock told her that she had about an hour until her "date" would be here to pick her up. A different face flashed briefly in her mind; one that would hopefully be taking her on a real date when she returned.
Focus, Stasia
She shot a distasteful glare at the black case that was sitting on the counter of the bathroom. She hadn't actually packed it, but she had a sneaking suspicion that Natasha had (against S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol, of course) looked at the mission folder and decided that Stasia's stash of makeup just wouldn't cut it.
Given that Stasia didn't actually have a makeup stash, Natasha was right (to the surprise of no one).
A reluctant groan slipped through Stasia's lips as she heaved herself up of the floor.
This is really more Natalia's specialty.
Anastasia missed her sister like hell but she wasn't worried. At least, not much. She couldn't help the involuntary worry that came from being separated from her sister, but she was sure that the last thing Barton and Romanoff would do is let something near fatal happen to Talia, rules be damned. Besides, Natalia could take care of herself. Heck, she could take care of herself, and Anastasia, and several small children, like Rania and Jeralyn.
Oh.
Guilt flashed through Stasia at the name of the little girl that she had rescued. She had been so wrapped up in preparing for her mission that she had completely forgotten to look in on Jeralyn.
I'll have to check in on her and talk to Coulson when I get back.
Stasia tried not to wince as she gently applied foundation to her skin. She had never liked makeup, but she could still hear Natasha's laugh and accompanying words (probably the same ones that she had told Talia at one point) from when she had voiced her dislike.
"Better get used to it. We don't get to do much that we actually like here."
A pang spiked through Stasia's heart at the thought of life back at S.H.I.E.L.D. Even with knowing all along that missions were the end goal, being away from people she had been with 24/7 for the past couple months was a struggle for her. Through her whole life, she had never been alone and that was something that she treasured. A wave of melancholy washed over, but as she reached back into the case she caught a whiff of Natasha's perfume and felt her throat burn.
I guess I'm never really alone.
"This better be really important Coul-" Natasha stopped short when she walked into her handler's office and saw the circles under his eyes and the slightly wrinkled state of his normally crisp suit.
Oh, and the imposing presence of the trench coat and eye patch in the corner of the room.
"Agent Romanoff, have a seat."
"I think I'll stand, Director." Natasha eyed her two superiors warily.
Fury nodded and went straight to business, as usual. "You're going to New York."
Natasha didn't visibly react, but her eyes flicked over Coulson's disheveled state and she internally groaned.
"Please tell me you're not sending me to Stark."
Coulson grimaced sympathetically and nodded. "There's been a development...and he doesn't want to talk to me.
"Well maybe if you'd threaten to taze him less," muttered Natasha, earning her a glare. Fury cleared his throat and Coulson picked a folder up off his desk and held it out to Natasha.
"Here's your cover. Try to keep him alive."
She nodded. "When do I leave?"
"Wheels up in 30." Fury fixed his eye on Natasha. "This is an indefinite assignment, Romanoff."
Natasha froze for a moment. That meant that she might not be here when the girls-Natalia, specifically-got back.
But this was her job. This was what she did. So she nodded at her boss. "Understood, sir."
"Good. Coulson will be around if you need him. Now, why are you still here?"
"I'm not, sir." Natasha spun on her heel and walked out. "Keep Barton alive while I'm gone, Coulson."
She was gone without another word.
"Why me?" muttered Coulson, shaking his head at the retreating redhead. "Why them?"
"It has to be because I'm Russian," Natalia muttered to herself. She was going to have to nag Coulson about supplying sunblock or, knowing S.H.I.E.L.D., something a little fancier. Acerbi had finally shown up late the day before and Natalia had tracked him to the building complex that she could now see across the street through her scope. She had been lying on this rooftop since about midnight-it was really starting to get on her nerves. It was sometime mid-morning now and, true to form, the Italian sun was blazing out across the land. Natalia could feel the sunburn that she had feared starting to form on her neck. Although her mission suit was keeping her body cool overall, wicking away sweat and such, it couldn't do anything about the beads of sweat that were collecting along her hairline or the exposed skin on her neck and face. Natalia glanced at her watch, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw that the time was 11:49. Thank God this was Italy and they still believed in midday mass. A movement at the door of the building under surveillance caught her eye and she pressed her face back into the scope. Acerbi stepped outside, followed by a woman who looked like his wife and a large contingency of workers.
Finally.
Natalia followed the party with her scope until they reached the end of the street and turned the corner. Pressing a hand to her ear, she reached down and picked up a small, black device.
"This is Agent Silivanov. The subject has left the premises. Scanning for heat signatures now."
"Copy that, Agent Silivanov." Natalia was disappointed but not altogether surprised when she heard an unfamiliar voice on the other end of her comms. Coulson had warned her that he might have to take off in the middle of her mission. He had assured her that Agent Reynolds was more than capable, but it had been nice having a sure contact that she knew for certain she could trust. Now she was well and truly on her own.
The scanner in her hand beeped, drawing her attention away from her thoughts.
"Building is cold. I'm approaching the premises."
"Affirmative. You are clear to proceed according to your own judgment, Agent Silivanov."
Natalia took a deep breath slid a rod over the cable that already connected the building she was on to Acerbi's. A rush of adrenalin spiked through her and a grin overtook her face as she jumped (literally) headfirst into what Barton and Romanoff had assured her was the best part of any mission:
The action.
"You look quite lovely tonight," said Marcus Sullivan, smiling down at his girlfriend. Annabella Easton gave a modest giggle and batted her eyes at him.
"Why thank you sweetie," she said through lips covered perfectly in just the right shade of red lipstick. "I know how much you love the dress."
Marcus cast his eyes appreciatively over the purple garment she was wearing and brought a hand up to sweep her pale blonde curls over one shoulder before leaning in and whispering, "But not nearly as much as I love the girl who's wearing it."
A shiver snaked down Annabella's back even as she smiled adoringly up at Marcus. She sighed impatiently and craned her neck toward the door. "How much longer do we have to wait?"
"No longer, madam." A man in black slacks and a black shirt walked up to unclip the gate. "You are free to enter. Enjoy the party."
"Thank you," said Marcus, offering his arm to Annabella. "Shall we?"
Annabella eagerly wrapped her arm around his and nodded. "Let's shall."
.
.
The minute that Anastasia was inside the party she was scanning. Every skill that Barton and Romanoff had taught her was working overtime, keeping her cover as Annabella Easton intact while also allowing her to collect as much information as she could. She felt "Marcus"-actually a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent named Charles-squeeze her hand gently.
"Want to try a dance?" he asked, amusement sparking at the barely concealed anxiety she felt at the offer. They had had plenty of time to chat on the drive to the mission location, so the young man who was serving as an accessory for her solo mission knew all about her limited dancing skills. "Don't worry," he whispered in her ear, "it's all in the leading."
Stasia's thoughts immediately flashed to Natasha, who had said practically the same thing. Forcing a smile on her face, Stasia nodded.
"Why else would we be here?" she said, grinning at the inside joke. Charles rolled his eyes and pulled her into his arms, drawing both of them out on the floor.
"How soon do you want to start the action?" murmured Charles. Stasia gently moved her head so that her cheek was resting on his shoulder-conveniently positioning her mouth near his ear.
"After a couple dances-don't want to raise suspicion by doing it too soon. I'll send you for punch in a little while." Charles nodded and suddenly dipped them both down, causing Stasia to leave her stomach in the air above them.
"I don't think much dancing should be in my future after this," she mumbled, eliciting a laugh from her partner. He responded by twirling across the floor, leaving the young blonde breathless. She smiled up at him to conceal her rapidly approaching nausea.
"It's all in the leading," he repeated with a grin. Stasia shook her head.
"Indeed it is," she muttered, forcing her thoughts not to wander to where-or rather, who-they wanted to. "Indeed it is."
"Ugh, I am so bored. How soon do you get back, Tasha?" Clint propped the phone between his head and his shoulder while he drew his bow and shot. He knew perfectly well that it was terrible form, but at the moment he really didn't care.
"I told you Clint, it's an indefinite assignment. Even Fury doesn't know how long I'll have to babysit Stark."
"I know, I know," grumbled the archer. "It's just annoying, being here all alone."
"I haven't even been gone a full twenty-four hours yet Barton. You lived by yourself for years."
"It's not the same." Clint chanced a glance out the window of the range and felt his stomach drop to the ground when he saw the person headed his way. "Look, Nat, I gotta go-Hill's on her way down and she does not look happy."
"Ha! I'll call you later…assuming you survive whatever Maria does to you."
"Thanks for the confidence," muttered Clint, snapping his S.H.I.E.L.D. phone shut and looking up as Maria Hill entered the shooting range.
"You. Upstairs. Now."
Clint stared at her in surprise. He wracked his brain, trying to remember what stupid stunt he had pulled that had landed him in the doghouse this time, but he came up empty.
"Wow it's nice to see you too Maria." Sarcasm dripped off every word. "How've you been since the last time Fury sent you to chew me out?"
"This isn't about you Barton, surprisingly enough." Maria rolled her eyes. "But it is about someone you probably care about."
Clint's sassy remark died in his throat as he processed her words. "They're back?"
"Someone, Barton." Maria was watching him closely. She didn't know Clint's secret about the other girl, but she had been there in the aftermath, had seen him go positively ballistic and was smart enough to figure out, in a very vague capacity, what had caused Barton's temporary insanity. It made her wary whenever she was broaching a similar subject.
"Which one?" Clint was proud of the fact that he kept his voice from shaking and his face composed.
"Natalia." They turned a corner and suddenly Clint understood why Maria was so tense.
"Maria, why the hell are we going to Medical?"
"It's nothing Barton." But when S.H.I.E.L.D.''s second-in-command wouldn't meet his eyes, Clint's mind started to jump to all the worst conclusions.
"Tell me what happened right now, or I swear to God Maria-"
"Calm down Barton it's the routine post-mission check-up!" Hill shot an annoyed glare at him.
"Oh." Clint relaxed. "Why didn't you just say that?"
"Well..." Maria seemed reluctant to explain and Clint grew suspicious.
"What else Maria?" he spoke in a quiet tone that Maria considered much more dangerous than the telling. She hesitated for another second and then,
"She's not saying much," the brunette admitted. "From what I can tell the mission went off without a hitch and she's not seriously injured, but she hasn't said more than ten words to anyone."
Aw crap, thought Clint, of all the times for Tasha to be gone.
"Not all wounds show, Maria. You know that."
"I know," said Hill quietly. "That's why I got you. I figured she'd be more likely to talk to a familiar face."
They paused outside the door to Natalia's room in Medical and Clint shrugged.
"Maybe, maybe not. I guess I can try. But if something happened on the mission, she's not going to need me. She's going to need Natasha."
"That's not an option at the moment," said Maria crisply.
"That was stupid, by the way."
"Bad timing," Hill answered dismissively, "now go talk to her."
"Yes ma'am, Miss Acting Director," muttered Clint, ducking into the room to avoid Hill's parting glare.
"I am never going to be good enough for you!" shrieked Anastasia. The tears on her face and the anguish in her voice felt and sound real enough, and for a moment she actually felt like she was Annabella, breaking up with her boyfriend Marcus in the middle of a crowded dance floor. Then she blinked and she was Anastasia again, staring at Charles through tear-muddled eyes. The whole room had stopped and was watching them and it was making her quite nervous-despite knowing that that was exactly what they wanted.
"Annabella..." Charles sighed and rolled his eyes in the perfect rendition of a boyfriend who is more than done with his girlfriend's theatrics.
"No!" Anastasia spat the word at him like poison, hoping that he would forgive her later-Charles was pretty cool. "You've been watching that blonde over there all night-don't think I haven't noticed!" She waved her hand at some random blonde over by the bar, who gasped and pressed her hand delicately to her chest.
"Anna, please-"
"Stop." Stasia was shaking now, letting the adrenalin that was coursing through her mimic the reaction of a distraught girlfriend.
"Anna, please sweetheart, we can fix this-"
"Just stop, okay?" Anastasia pushed herself away from Charles and stumbled backwards, creating a perfectly dramatic spectacle. "We're done, Marcus. We can't fix this, because this? This is over."
Anastasia spun on her heel and stormed off on what appeared to be a totally random path chosen in rage, but was, in reality, a well-planned and scouted route that Stasia probably could've walked with her eyes closed. She heard the expected sound of pursuit from Charles and let out the tiniest breath when she heard it stop abruptly. Thank God, everything was going according to plan.
She emerged from the hallway into a small, circular garden centered on a generic looking stone fountain. Stasia had cried enough real tears in her life that it was no trouble at all for her to produce a new wave of fake tears. She forced herself to breathe in gasps for effect as she tripped her way over to the little wooden bench across from the archway where she had entered. Her ears picked up the echoes of someone else's footsteps in the hallway, but the footfalls were too heavy to be Charles'.
He's faster than I thought.
The "he" in question was Scott Demana, a New Hampshire "businessman"-but what business he was in depended on whom you were and when you asked him. Unfortunately (and a little too conveniently), there was no evidence linking Demana to the shadier side of his business. The only lead they had on the man were several reports of young women disappearing in New Hampshire, always at parties hosted by Demana and always after they had a fight with their significant other. This, of course, lead to one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s favorite tactics: send in an agent that fit the profile and let Demana incriminate himself.
So here was Anastasia, sniffling rather noisily, sitting on a bench, waiting for Demana to come and "rescue" her from her misery. The footsteps kept coming closer until finally they stopped and when Stasia raised her head in pretend confusion, she could see a tall dark figure standing in the archway.
"What do you want?" Since she was supposed to have just broken up with her boyfriend, Stasia figured that she was fully justified in being a little snappy.
"I just thought you might want some water, and maybe a shoulder to cry on." His voice was deep and alluring and Anastasia could instantly understand how so many had been drawn in. She nodded and he proceeded over to where she was sitting. His hand brushed her arm when he handed her the water cup and she was suddenly hyperaware of the tracker that was imbedded below the skin of her wrist. Demana lowered himself onto the bench next to her and it took every muscle Stasia had to suppress a shudder. It went against every instinct that she had learned: in Russia, on the streets, from Talia, and from Barton and Romanoff. Each little molecule of her body was screaming at her to run, as far and as fast as she possibly could. Instead, she took an unsteady breath and tried to look at Demana, feigning difficulty focusing her eyes.
"Who are you?"
"Brad," he lied smoothly and Stasia had to bite back a disbelieving snort. Gingerly, she leaned her head against his shoulder, just like any distraught girl who's had a couple drinks might do with any stranger. Demana scooted closer and lightly laid his arm across her shoulders. Stasia raised the water to her lips and took a sip. The air was chilly enough as it was and she shivered at the iciness of the drink. In one fluid motion, Demana had his jacket off and had wrapped it around her, surrounding her in the scent of overpriced cologne. He gently rubbed the small of her back in what would have been a comforting motion, if Stasia was practically anyone else.
"How about I give you a ride back to your house?" Stasia hesitated before she answered, like any girl, even one slightly drunk, would do.
"That's probably b-huh-best," she hiccupped out, "I don't think I want to ride with Marcus." When she said Charles' cover name, Stasia let loose a fresh wave of fake tears and pressed her face into the sleeve of Demana's jacket. He sympathetically tightened his grip around her shoulders and helped her up.
"That's probably not a good idea," he agreed and they started walking. Anastasia let him guide her through the halls, her heart pounding in her chest as she waited for him to make his play. They were in the shadows just outside the parking lot when she suddenly felt something prick her arm and she gasped.
"Sorry about this Annabella," murmured Demana, sounding genuinely apologetic as he put his arms out to catch her when she fell. "But it was just too much of a waste to let you go home."
Stasia couldn't say a word; whatever drug he had injected her with was paralytic and it worked fast. Her heart was racing unashamedly now and even though Anastasia knew that she had to let him take her to wherever he kept the girls he took, knew that she then had to find a way out, knew that she had to make her own way back to the nearby base that they had set up, there was only one thing that she knew for absolute certain:
The rest was positively, completely, up to her.
It was a relief for Coulson to step back into his office. He was off duty for the moment; now it was Natasha's turn to babysit the idiot playboy in New York. Smirking briefly at the thought, Coulson sank down into his desk chair with a weary sigh.
Of course, his phone chose that moment to ring.
With a groan and no small amount of reluctance, the senior agent retrieved the device from his pocket and flipped it open.
"Coulson."
"Agent Coulson, this is Agent Reynolds."
Surprise flashed across Coulson's face when the caller identified himself. Reynolds was a well-qualified agent, more than capable of handling training missions, which he had done dozens of times before.
"What is it Reynolds?"
"Agent Charles Hewen just reported in on the New Hampshire mission, sir."
Anastasia's mission. For the barest amount of time, Coulson was relieved. Finally, he would be able to give Barton some news and hopefully keep the archer from breathing down his neck so much.
"Okay. What was the status report Agent?"
"Well, sir, there seems to be an issue that we need a senior agent on…" Reynolds hesitated and foreboding dread filled Coulson from head to toe.
"What was the report, Agent?" he repeated, voice suddenly tense. Coulson was halfway to the door even as he was asking his question; his infallible sixth sense was telling him that something was terribly, horribly wrong. He heard Reynolds take a deep breath on the other end before he heard seven words that brought all of his previous relief crashing down.
"Agent Silivanov's tracker has gone dark, sir."