April, 2007; Krokynstadt, Latveria…
"Approaching destination," the pilot called.
Clint Barton balanced his bow on his lap, examining the weapon for any deficiencies as he performed last-minute maintenance. Some might have called him 'obsessive' for how often he checked his equipment. In his opinion, proper or faulty equipment was the difference between success or being sent home in a casket.
And he had too much to live for.
Across from him sat the Quinjet's only other passenger. She'd equipped herself with a black catsuit, complete with fingerless gloves, a pair of utility belts, and a thigh holster. Her curly red hair hung past her shoulders; so far, it never seemed to be a hindrance. In her short time as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, she'd proven herself a master martial artist, and a spy with no equal. His decision to spare her life and bring her in had paid off.
"Natasha, you good?" he asked, checking the draw strength of his bowstring.
After a moment, she nodded. "Yeah, I think so." Even though her previous training probably included methods of changing one's voice, she'd still mastered an American accent in record time.
"Perfect."
She cocked her head to the side. "And what about you? Are you good?"
He flashed a confident smirk. "Always."
"You never lose your focus, even when everything goes pear-shaped. What's your secret?"
Clint leaned back in his seat. "I keep reminding myself what I'm fighting for: a life outside S.H.I.E.L.D., a place to call home."
"And where is that? Home?"
He pictured it in his mind, smiling as he remembered the feeling of warm sunlight and the smell of fresh-cut grass. "A farm. Someplace quiet, isolated, where I can think and have a chance to live."
"That sounds nice," she said with a slight smile.
"Maybe I'll show you someday."
He turned to look out the windshield, noting the cityscape in the distance. The pilot called, "Landing in 3…2…1."
The Quinjet shook as it touched down on the chosen spot, an abandoned farmstead just outside city limits. The pilot –a senior agent and their handler for this mission– powered down the craft's systems, then unstrapped himself and stepped into the passenger area. He tapped some commands into a tablet, then showed it to them. A list of cities and government officials appeared, all within Europe. Beside it, a picture of a dark-haired woman with striking grey eyes, long, dark hair, and pronounced cheekbones. Beautiful, but one look told Clint she was also deadly.
"Okay, here's your target: Ophelia Sarkissian, born in Budapest in '81, spent most of her childhood living in group homes. She ran away from foster care at age seventeen, and dropped off the map. After that, she popped up with various arrests for arson, theft, and assault. She seems to have graduated into mercenary work these days. "
Clint and Natasha shared a glance. Budapest held great significance for both of them.
The agent continued. "We've connected her to a series of assassinations and criminal activity all over Europe. Bombing a police station in Hamburg, kidnapping the daughter of an Italian senator for ransom, hijacking a Spanish cargo ship, and assassinating a member of the European Council by poisoning him in his sleep. And those are just the greatest hits."
"Sounds like a great girl," Clint quipped.
"Intel has been scouring official and unofficial channels, and last week we got lucky. We traced a transaction through a Swiss bank to an account in Sarkissian's name. It originated through dummy accounts and a few shell corporations, but we finally learned the identity of the person financing her activities." He swiped the screen, and the image of a balding man with an atrocious combover appeared. "Dominik Lazar, Minister of Finance for the Latverian government and the king's cousin."
"So we're thinking Lazar has been using Sarkissian as his personal fixer?"
"That's our assessment. He's currently in his residence here in Krokynstadt. We want you to infiltrate the building and bring him in for questioning. It's imperative he be taken alive; he might have information on other criminal groups in the region."
As Clint slung his bow across his back, he asked, "And if we encounter Sarkissian?"
"Take her alive, if possible. But Lazar's the target. If she can't be taken in, put her down."
"Fair enough."
"I'll be coordinating on comms. Security around the estate is tight, but their electronic systems are limited to cameras. Should be in and out with little resistance."
Clint flashed Natasha a confident smirk and asked, "What can go wrong?"
Ellen held the mirror close. The face reflected on its surface wasn't hers; the cheekbones were more defined, the lips thinner, and the eyes a striking, stormy grey. A perfect face which no one would believe as fake. The device that created the face of another woman was called a Photostatic Veil. A sophisticated layer of holographic film over synthetic flesh. She wore the first one ever made. Combined with tech that created a simulated voice and a black wig, it made the perfect disguise.
Ellen had become Ophelia Sarkissian. She wore a formfitting green catsuit, as green had been her mother's favourite colour. Everything done in HYDRA's service would honour her memory, so the colour seemed more than appropriate. It was made of a Kevlar tri-weave fabric, durable but also lightweight enough not to impede movement.
"This is Team 3," a voice spoke through comms. "We have eyes on a S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet. They've landed outside the city."
Tapping her earpiece, Ellen spoke in a Slavic-accented voice that wasn't hers. "Acknowledged. Move into position and wait for my signal."
Putting the mirror down, she stood up from the bed and approached the window. The decrepit hotel left much to be desired, but it offered a perfect vantage point. She'd propped her sniper rifle in the corner, near the open window. Picking it up, Ellen knelt and looked through the scope. Two city blocks were between the hotel and Lazar's residence, a modest estate that overlooked the breathtaking Latverian mountains and countryside.
Two weeks prior, she'd met with her father in his office in the Triskelion. There, he'd explained what her next mission would be. Clint Barton and his new partner in crime Natasha –formerly Natalia– Romanoff had been making a name for themselves. While Barton was already an experienced agent, the two of them were designated as S.T.R.I.K.E. Team: Delta. Thus far, their performance had been flawless, every mission completed with near-zero setbacks.
They were a threat to HYDRA, and needed to be eliminated.
Ellen accepted the task with no hesitation. After all, she couldn't pass up the chance to test her skills against two of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s best. She also considered it a service to the world. Barton was far from innocent, and Romanoff had knowingly murdered a child in a bombing in Budapest. All to 'audition' so she could defect to S.H.I.E.L.D. Not to mention all the other innocent lives she'd taken. The world could use one less blood-soaked assassin.
Her father gave her support in the form of a dozen unaffiliated mercenaries with nothing tying them back to HYDRA. Everything in hand for her mission, she'd started laying the groundwork. Barton and Romanoff were extremely dangerous, and she'd need every advantage to take them down. A trap would be the best strategy.
With the alias of Ophelia Sarkissian in place, Ellen had crafted a history of violent crimes and criminal tendencies. Next came the bait: she'd linked Sarkissian to crimes ranging from bank robbery to assassination all over Europe, leaving a breadcrumb trail for S.H.I.E.L.D. to follow. The only detail left would be where to spring the trap. The answer came in the form of Dominik Lazar.
HYDRA had been quietly acquiring land rights and shipping companies in Germany, Portugal, Greece, Sokovia, Belarus, and in Latveria. Government officials were paid off to facilitate these acquisitions, but Lazar proved himself something of a nuisance. He'd somehow learned of the payoffs and started investigating where he shouldn't. If he didn't stop, HYDRA's operations in the continent would risk exposure. He was a threat to them, and thus a threat to world peace.
Just because he investigated possible corruption, it didn't make him a good guy. As a member of Latveria's ruling class, he profited heavily from the labour and suffering of his people. Not to mention the involvement the king's government had in historic, brutal oppression and attempted genocide against the local Romani peoples. Lazar's only interest was staying in power, and he investigated HYDRA's plans as a way to remove a rival.
Ellen decided it might be better to kill two birds with one stone. With the aid of imbedded analysts in S.H.I.E.L.D., she'd forged a financial link from Lazar to her Sarkissian alias. Then, she merely had to wait for her targets to come to her. With the link discovered, her father made sure that Fury would assign Barton and Romanoff. Finally, her efforts bore fruit.
Now, she stared down the scope of her rifle. Guards patrolled the villa's exterior, while a few were posted on balconies and two on the roof. Lazar sat in his office on the top floor, talking to someone on the phone. A daunting task for many spies or assassins, but her quarry were in a league of their own.
She kept watching for nearly an hour, using her training to keep her mind focused despite the boredom. Turning the rifle left, she noticed one of the perimeter guards laying on the grass, unconscious. A flash of red drew Ellen's gaze down, where Romanoff dispatched another two guards. Grabbing one man around the chest, the former KGB agent took out the second man with a spinning kick. She then swept the first man onto the ground, cutting off his airway by clenching her thighs around his neck.
She was good, Ellen had to admit.
Romanoff picked the lock of the nearest door and slipped inside. Ellen knew Barton would be close, providing overwatch with his Robin Hood bow. The next time she looked up at the roof guards, both of them were writhing on the tiles, shocked by arrows in their chests. Noting the arrows' positions on the men's bodies, she aimed her rifle to the left, across the street. Sure enough, Barton crouched on a rooftop, bow in hand.
Ellen tapped her earpiece. "Both targets are on sight. All teams standby."
She received a trio of affirmatives. This was it, the calm before the storm.
Before long, she spotted a guard collapsing through the door of Lazar's office. The balding man jumped up in fright as Romanoff strutted inside, handgun pointed at his chest. Looking flustered, he said something to her as he backed against the wall. She said something, probably an order to follow her outside. He gestured frantically with his hands, completely oblivious. Ellen tried to centre her crosshairs on Romanoff, but the other woman wasn't an idiot. She stood away from the windows, near the door so she could keep an eye on it. Getting a clean shot on her wouldn't be possible.
Fortunately, Ellen had allotted for such difficulties. Romanoff would die by any of half a dozen methods. Centring her crosshairs on Lazar, she exhaled, held her breath, then fired her rifle twice.
Natasha Romanoff kept her pistol trained on Lazar's chest as he bolted up from his chair. "Oh dear God!" he exclaimed, speaking in the Latverian dialect of Hungarian common to the country's noble class. "What do you want? Please, do not kill me!"
Stepping away from the door so she could keep it in her eyeline, she responded in Latverian, "Don't make this difficult. Come with me, and you won't be harmed." The office had too many windows for her liking; every second in here meant being exposed.
Lazar wiped the sweat from his brow. "I have no idea why you are here. I-I…I have done nothing wrong."
Natasha cocked an eyebrow. "I won't say it again. Come with me now."
He paused, eyes widening. "THEY did this. They're the ones who sent you here!"
Something in his tone provoked her curiosity. Something didn't feel right. "What are you talking about? Who is 'they'?"
"I knew this day would come. They want to silence me, to keep their existence hidden. I'll tell you everything I know. It all started when–"
At that exact second, the window facing east shattered. A fraction of a second later, it shattered again, and Lazar grunted. The crack of a sniper rifle followed each impact. Natasha was already throwing herself behind a large bookcase propped against a wall at the first shot. Her heartrate shot up, a lifetime of instincts kicking in.
Lazar collapsed onto the floor, blood soaking his shirt from two bullet holes. He gasped for breath, hands shaking. His lips moved, though he couldn't say anything. Natasha needed to reach him, to get any bit of info from him before he bled out. But the sniper would have her marked the second she moved from cover.
"Natasha, come in," Barton said over comms. "Natasha, come in!"
"I'm here," she spoke into the communicator on her wrist.
"What the hell's going on?"
"Lazar's hit, not looking good. I'm pinned down by a sniper to the east. Can't get a beat on them without getting my head blown off."
"Copy that," Barton said. "The estate's turning into a hornet's nest. Guards are converging. I need you to get the sniper to take another shot so I can spot their location."
"Copy." Natasha reached up to grab a thick book from one of the shelves. With the greatest care, she held it out in view of the window. A bullet pierced the book and then the floor, followed by the crack of a rifle. Whoever the sniper was, they were good.
Her earpiece crackled, and Barton said, "Got 'em. Hotel two blocks east, tenth floor. Get out of there; we'll rendezvous back at the Quinjet. I've got the sniper."
"Understood."
By this point, angry voices echoed from outside, accompanied by hurried footsteps. A guard burst into the room, distracted by the sight of Lazar's corpse. Natasha took him down with two bullets to the chest, then bolted forward. Three men were in the hallway, and even more in the nearby staircase. Scrunching her face and tensing her muscles, Natasha lunged at the nearest guard.
Even if her shots hadn't been fatal, Lazar still wouldn't survive. Ellen had laced her bullets with Curare, a poison from South America that caused death by asphyxiation. One target down, two to go. The estate's guards went into alert, rushing into the building. They would keep Romanoff occupied until the mercenaries were in position. As for Barton, she suspected he would deduce her position quickly. After all, he specialized in long-range ballistics and sighting. But his response came so rapidly it almost cost her.
She spotted the arrow flying towards her, and threw herself onto the floor as it pierced the scope and imbedded into the ceiling. If she'd moved a split second later, it would have left a hole through her brain.
Staring up at the arrow that almost killed her, Ellen said, "Okay, that was impressive."
Rising to her feet, she left the sniper rifle and hurried out of the room. She wore gloves, so there would be no fingerprints, and the rifle model was so common it couldn't be traced. Taking the stairs, she descended ten floors to the ground level. The front entrance would be too obvious, so she elected to leave through the back door.
By the time she made it to the street, Barton stood on a nearby rooftop. He spotted her and loosed an arrow. Ellen rolled to the left, then drew the Skorpion machine pistol on her back. She fired a quick burst, forcing him back. That gave her enough cover to run across the street. Aiming her wrist-mounted grappler, she shot it into the top of the wall. Retracting the cable, she half-pulled, half-walked, herself up. Vaulting onto the roof, she barely had time to react as Barton came at her.
He fired another arrow, which whizzed by her head as she dodged at the last second. Ellen closed the distance, firing another burst with her machine pistol. He ducked, then lunged with his bow and smacked it out of her hand.
Ellen aimed a roundhouse kick at his head. Barton caught her by the ankle, then tripped her other foot. She fell onto her back, rolling with the impact so she wound up back on her feet. Drawing the two combat knives sheathed at the back of her belt, she launched an attack. Barton proved to be every bit as good hand-to-hand as he was with long range. He somehow managed to use his bow as a baton and a staff, switching from one-handed to two-handed grips. Ellen had extensive training, but her opponent had the edge of experience. She needed to fight that much harder to beat him.
He was three inches taller than her, as well as being quite stronger. She focused on speed rather than force, death by a thousand cuts. Fortunately, there were ways of making such a strategy optimal.
Barton swung his bow at her in a diagonal arc. She moved low and jerked her hand down, slashing him in the arm with one of her knives. He hissed in pain, and Ellen followed up by viciously slashing with her other knife. Barton stepped back, carefully avoiding her blade, and managed to kick her in the chest. She stumbled back, then crouched with her knives at the ready.
"I gotta say, lady," he said, chuckling. "You're good."
"Coming from you, that's almost a compliment."
"Sorry to cut this short, but I'm more of a 'dance with the one that brung ya' kind of guy. My partner's waiting." Something drew his gaze to the south, and he smirked. "Besides, our ride's going to be here soon."
Ellen looked to the south, where the S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet rose into the air. It oriented towards the city, but before it flew a quarter mile, someone fired a missile from the ground. It struck the Quinjet, which tumbled through the air before crashing into a farmhouse and exploding. Team 3 performed their task perfectly. Ellen looked back at Barton, whose expression had hardened. He stared at her with cold, remorseless eyes, and she said, "So sorry, American, but you're not going anywhere."
He took a half-step towards her, then stopped. Barton blinked, licking his lips as his left arm stiffened. He grunted, staring at her in confusion before his eyes drifted down to the cut on his arm. It had already darkened from tissue necrosis. "Wha…" he mumbled. "What did you…do?"
"Mojave Rattlesnake venom," Ellen replied. "Quite powerful. Causes difficulty swallowing and speaking, and weakens the muscles."
"Clever," he admitted, shaking his head. By now, he'd be seeing spots and suffering one hell of a headache.
She charged towards him, moving in to finish her weakened opponent.
A metallic rattle drew her gaze down, where a live grenade rolled towards her. Sharply inhaling, eyes widening, Ellen kicked the grenade away. It exploded in mid-air, shaking the rooftop.
Barton appeared in front of her, grabbing an arm and swiftly headbutting her. Her vision exploded into stars, and when she saw him again, he somersaulted onto the nearest roof. Midway, he knocked an arrow. The flashing red light on the arrowhead told Ellen it was explosive. She ran in the opposite direction and jumped off the roof. In the same second, Barton's explosive arrow struck, and a wave of heat bathed her from behind.
She landed hard, rolling to absorb the impact. Panting from the fight, she looked in the direction of the estate. Gunfire echoed like a deadly symphony. Yes, Barton got away, but the venom would cripple him. And there was still Romanoff to deal with.
Taking a deep breath, Ellen sheathed her knives and ran towards the estate.
Natasha fired an electric bolt from her signature Widow's Bite into the chest of a guard, shocking him. Another guard tried to aim his gun at her. She kicked his hand away, then leaped onto him and spun until her legs wrapped around his chest. Charging the other Widow's Bite on her wrist, Natasha jammed it into the man's face. Two seconds, and he fell unconscious.
Flipping her long hair back, she took stock of the situation. Nearly a dozen guards filled the sitting room on the second level of the estate. All unconscious, some shocked or bloodied. Their training was negligible compared to hers, so the only threat they'd posed had been superior numbers. Even that hadn't been enough to stop her.
Holding the wrist communicator to her lips, she said, "Barton, what's your status?"
Silence. Her hackles rose as a sense of foreboding came over her.
"Barton, respond."
"I'm here." He sounded hoarse, speech a bit slurred. "Heading back to the estate."
"What's your status?"
"I'm–damn, that hurts! I'm a little worse for wear. The sniper was Sarkissian. She's had significant tactical training. And she laces her weapons with snake venom."
Natasha tried to control her heartbeat as she listened to his words. She hadn't known Clint long, but considered him a decent man, a man of honour. Maybe even a friend. By rights, he should have killed her in Budapest, but he'd spared her. Given her a fresh start and the chance to make a positive difference. She owed it to him to make sure he survived every mission.
Checking the room to make sure none of the guards would be getting up soon, she opened the north door and walked down the hall towards the stairs. "The estate's clear. I'll head out via the back door and we can rendezvous at the Quinjet."
"The Quinjet's gone," Barton told her. "Sarkissian had people nearby. They shot it down."
"Okay, so we find another means of transport. Meet me at the parking structure to the northeast. We should be able to find–" Noticing the slightest movement outside through a window, she turned and saw half a dozen men in full body armour aiming assault rifles at her. Keeping her head low, she ran forward just as a hail of bullets shattered the window. The walls became perforated as bits of stucco flew like shrapnel, and had she been any slower, she would've died. Reaching the stairs, she said, "Barton, I've got hostiles outside the estate! Full tactical gear, definitely not guards."
"Copy. This whole thing's starting to feel like a setup."
"Yeah, I had that impression, too." Jumping the last few steps, she came within sight of the back door. It burst open as more men in armour appeared. They wore masks painted like fanged skulls to hide their identities. Natasha's arm moved of its own accord, her finely honed instincts acting before she had to consciously think. She aimed her pistol and shot at the men, even as she spun on her heel and ran back up the stairs mere seconds before they unleashed a volley. Going through a door that led to a study, she contacted Barton. "I count at least four more hostiles, heavily armed. I'm hunkered down in a study on the second floor."
"Just sit tight, I'm…almost there," he replied, breathing hard.
Natasha crouched behind a chair, pistol at the ready. She stared at the door and any other points of entry, listening and waiting. The estate was quiet, impossibly so. Shouldn't they be storming in after her? If they had tactical training –which she suspected they did– then they'd attempt to box her in and catch her in a crossfire with no avenue of escape. Instead, it sounded like they weren't coming for her.
"Barton, something's not right about this. So far the hostiles are just keeping on the perimeter and blocking my egress. They're not moving into the building."
"That is weird," he agreed. "Sounds like they're just keeping you inside, but if that's the case, then…"
Natasha's eyes widened in panic. "Then they probably have the whole building rigged to blow!"
"Hang on, I'm in sight of the estate." A distant boom echoed from outside, where she'd seen the first group of mercenaries. "West side window. Get out now!"
She burst out of the study, ran back to the shot-out window, and leaped outside just as the entire estate exploded. The sheer force of the blast threw her like a discarded doll. It took all of her agility to orient sideways, landing on her side as opposed to head-first. The grass of the garden softened the blow, marginally, and she rolled for several feet before bumping into the edge of a fountain. Natasha groaned as her body ached from the exertion and hard landing, even as her ears rang. The immense heat had sucked the air from her lungs, and she coughed after taking rattling breaths.
Her eyes stung from the wave of heat that bathed her whole body. She blinked fresh tears away, not even noticing the mercenary standing over her until a rifle barrel pressed against her temple. He barked something she couldn't hear, but just as she would've hit him with her Widow's Bite, he collapsed onto the grass. An arrow stuck out of his neck.
The next time she blinked, she saw Clint crouching beside her. His mouth moved, but the ringing in her ears prevented her from understanding his words. Finally, her hearing started to come back after a few more blurry seconds.
"…asha! Natasha! Are you injured? Come on, talk to me!"
Grimacing, she replied, "Are you still good? 'Cause I'm fantastic."
He breathed a sigh of relief. "You gave me quite the scare, there."
"Yeah, me too."
Slinging his bow over his shoulder, Clint helped her stand. Her head spun a little, but a few deep breaths and concentration cleared it up. Reloading her pistol, she said, "We need to find a place to hold up until backup arrives. The rest of those mercenaries are probably on their way right now."
"Okay, let's get out of here."
They hurried down the street, him with his bow in hand and her with her pistol. Before they made it another block, bullets whizzed past from behind. They turned and saw Sarkissian wielding a pair of Glock 17s. With her were seven more mercenaries, and they all started shooting. Natasha crouched and shot back, while Clint knocked two arrows on his bowstring. He took aim and fired in less than a second. Both arrows flew true, striking two mercenaries in the throat and killing them instantly.
Natasha followed Clint as they retreated. A shootout in an empty street only equalled death. They needed to find someplace less exposed. As emergency sirens neared the smoldering ruins of Lazar's estate, they emerged onto a busy street. People crowded the sidewalks, murmuring as they pointed and stared at the plume of smoke. Clint gestured to an open-topped jeep, and Natasha nodded. She hopped in the driver's seat, while Clint got in the passenger seat.
As she hot-wired the jeep, she noted her partner's heavy breathing. His skin was pale and clammy, signs of poisoning. She then noticed the angry slice on his arm, the surrounding tissue swollen and red. He'd mentioned Sarkissian laced her weapons with snake venom. A nasty and –if Natasha were being honest with herself– an efficient way of killing someone even without a normally fatal wound. She suspected the bullets used to kill Lazar had also been laced with something.
Just as she got the jeep's engine turned on, she spotted the mercenaries running onto the street. Putting their new ride in gear, Natasha told Clint, "Keep your head down!" All around them, people started screaming and running for cover as the mercenaries raised their weapons.
She peeled away at top speed, keeping one hand on the wheel. With her other hand she shot at their attackers. One of them she managed to hit, and he collapsed onto the asphalt.
Natasha returned her attention to the road, driving as far and as fast as she could. Something tiny reflected in the driver's side mirror caught her eye. It looked like a person, standing on a rooftop. Sharply inhaling, she moved her head to the side just as a bullet struck the dash. The crack of a sniper rifle echoed in the distance. As Natasha took a left turn, she pursed her lips. Sarkissian certainly was determined, and she found herself developing a grudging respect for the mercenary.
That wouldn't stop her from putting a bullet between Sarkissian's eyes for trying to kill both her and her partner.
Militia Camp, Rudnik, Serbia…
"And that's why you never bring a gun to a pencil fight," Tony quipped, wiping the sweat from his brow.
The other man, a former army officer and self-styled warlord by the name of Bogdan Ristovski, lay slumped against a table with a map of the region. A pencil eraser protruded from his eye, the rest driven into his brain. Tony wanted to keep things silent, and during the fight had grabbed a pencil from a shelf. In the proper hands, anything could be a weapon.
With his target eliminated, Tony crept out of the warlord's tent.
Ristovski had been raiding local settlements with his militia, terrorizing people even in neighbouring Symkaria and Hungary. His little grass-roots movement wouldn't survive without him, so S.H.I.E.L.D. decided to send an agent to 'remove him from the equation'. Leave it to spies to dance around words like 'murder' and 'assassination'. Couldn't say such dirty things in this business, no, no. 'What a joke,' Tony thought to himself as he moved through the camp.
He moved past the bodies of the perimeter guards he'd stuffed under one of the trucks. Most of the camp were in their tents, eating or otherwise relaxing. They were so convinced of their superiority, so ill-prepared for an enemy infiltration. Tony felt compelled to teach them a few things about redundant layers of security and roaming patrols, but since they hadn't paid him, they wouldn't benefit from his knowledge.
Once away from the camp, he strolled down the forest on the mountain slopes. His Quinjet was parked half a kilometre to the south. Stepping onto the ramp, he turned to face the forest. Before entering the camp to kill Ristovski, he'd placed demolition charges further up the mountain. Their leader might have been dead, but there were still a few hundred assholes with munitions up there. Taking the detonator out of his pocket, Tony pressed the red button.
The three charges detonated simultaneously, creating a thunderclap as light bloomed like fireworks. A few seconds later, rocks and boulders started tumbling down the slope like spilled sprinkles. It became a full-blown rockslide. He could picture the men in the camp, crushed in their tents or sent tumbling down. Either way, the militia wouldn't trouble anyone anytime soon.
Raising the ramp, Tony sat down in the pilot's chair and contacted S.H.I.E.L.D.'s European headquarters in Munich.
"This is Agent Masters, reporting in."
"Go ahead."
"Target has been eliminated. Enemy militia is also crippled; local authorities should have no problem cleaning up."
"Affirmative. Well done, Agent Masters."
Tony checked his watch. "Thanks. Expected arrival at European HQ: 19:40 hours."
"Standby, agent, and stay on the line."
He waited for a few seconds, patting his knees to the tune of Ozzy Osbourne's 'Crazy Train'. Eventually, a new voice came on. "Agent Masters, this is Commander Whitfield. We've got a situation we'll need you to deal with before a return to HQ."
Must have been something big. "Roger that, sir. What's the situation?"
"Agents Barton and Romanoff were deployed to the city of Krokynstadt in Latveria. Their mission was a simple snatch-and-grab for a high level POI."
"With respect, if Barton and Romanoff are on it, then they're already done."
"Normally, yes. Even so, their mission handler is supposed to keep regular check-ins with us every six hours. As of right now, he's missed his first check-in and isn't responding on comms. Barton and Romanoff only have short-range communicators on their person, and if the Quinjet comm is down…"
"Then their primary means of escape is either damaged or destroyed," Tony finished, seeing the concern.
"You're the closest asset we've got in the region. Go to Krokynstadt and establish contact. If it's a simple equipment problem, report back and provide assistance. If, however, their Quinjet has been destroyed, then your mission is to retrieve Barton, Romanoff, and their handler and return them safely to HQ."
"I understand, sir. Making my way there ASAP."
"Bring them home, agent. Whitfield out."
The transmission ended, and Tony powered up the Quinjet. Legolas and Anastasia had been building quite the reputation; if a hostile managed to take out their transport, then the threat they faced was at least capable and therefore dangerous. As he lifted off the ground, he looked forward to the prospect of being their guardian angel.
Krokynstadt...
Clint grunted as Natasha jammed the needle into his arm. While their field medical kits weren't as extensive as those back in the Quinjet, they did include doses of antibiotics and anti-venom. Next, she tore a length of bandage and wrapped his arm. "Thanks," he said, resting his head against the concrete wall.
"No problem."
She'd chosen a church closed for renovations as a temporary hideout. Unoccupied and empty, it also offered multiple entrances. The last thing they needed to be was backed into a corner with no way out. She'd lodged a brick on the jeep's gas pedal and sent it down the street. If Sarkissian and her mercenaries found it, it would take them time before they came to the church.
It had been a few hours since they escaped the wreckage of Lazar's estate. They'd missed a scheduled check-in, and with any luck, headquarters would notice and send backup. They just needed to hold out until then.
Natasha craned her neck, looking past the pews at the front doors. So far, nothing.
"So, you starting to regret taking my offer to join S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Clint asked, giving her a wry grin.
She smirked. "Never."
"That's good to know."
After glancing at the door again, she added, "I can't stop thanking you for what you did that day. By rights, I should be dead and buried. After everything I've done, maybe that's what I deserve."
He swallowed. "Not in my book. Sure you made mistakes, but everyone makes mistakes."
"Even you?"
"Yeah. When you're in this business, you learn to ignore those feelings of doubt. Regret. Remorse. Sometimes it isn't enough to think we're doing the right thing. If you're not careful, you…lose yourself. That day we met, I could see it in your eyes. The regret. Everyone deserves a second chance, even if they don't think they deserve it."
Natasha couldn't help but smile. "I guess it helps to remind yourself what you're fighting for."
He smiled back. "A life outside S.H.I.E.L.D. Place to call home."
"You said you'd show me yours one day. I'm gonna hold you to that, Barton, so don't die on me. I'll be very upset."
Clint laughed, which made him cough and grimace. "Copy that."
Natasha opened her mouth to say something else, but stopped when she heard something. Footsteps. She carefully leaned from cover and saw one of the mercenaries entering the church. He aimed his assault rifle high and low, muscles tense in anticipation.
Looking back at Clint, Natasha mouthed "Be right back." He nodded, and she crept between the pews. Once close enough, she waited until the mercenary had his back turned. Running into the open, she leaped onto him from behind, using her leverage to spin, grab his neck with her legs, and flip him onto the floor all in one move. He hit the concrete hard, and an elbow to the back of the head knocked him out.
Another mercenary came into view. Natasha took out her long-empty pistol and threw it at his head. He dodged it, but that gave her enough time to stand and charge him. She used her built-up momentum to deliver a solid kick to his chest. Unfortunately, he managed to shoot a burst from his rifle as he impacted the wall.
As Natasha worked to neutralize him in hand-to-hand, his radio crackled. "Wolfpack 4, this is Viper. Come in."
The mercenary dropped his rifle and drew a large knife, but Natasha twisted it out of his grip and stabbed him in the gut, behind his vest. He gurgled as he stiffened, sliding down the wall.
"All teams, this is Viper. Wolfpack 4 went down in the church. Targets are in the church."
Natasha looked back at Clint as he knocked an arrow on his bowstring. "Well that ain't good."
Ellen stood in front of the church, staring with arms crossed. For the moment, she had her targets cornered. That wouldn't last. Either Barton and Romanoff escaped or S.H.I.E.L.D. would dispatch more agents to the city. Neither of those were acceptable.
"Should we go in?" one of the mercenaries asked her. After the firefights and the chase, and now the two men down inside, only six of them remained. Seven, including her, but against such highly trained opponents, Ellen needed every advantage.
"Yes," she replied after a moment. The situation reminded her of her classical studies in school. When the Mongols encircled an enemy force, they left a gap in their line. The enemy would rush through, thinking they were safe, only to be massacred much quicker than a drawn-out siege. "But only use the front and east entrances. I'll take two men and wait in the alley by the west entrance."
The mercenary nodded.
"Don't use radios; the targets have two in there, so they'll hear anything we say on them. Pass the word in person."
A few minutes later, she stood at the end of an alley which the western door opened onto. The two mercenaries stood in front of the door, weapons raised, while she pressed herself against the church wall. The other four should be entering the building right about…
Gunshots came from inside. Ellen nodded to the two men with her, and they readied themselves.
More gunshots, and the odd crumble of breaking stone and concrete. Something heavy crashed, splintering wood. More gunshots. Then came grunts and screams, masculine but not Barton's. Her men were being torn apart, but she'd expected as much. She just needed them to flush the targets out. The noises came closer and closer, until the fighting sounded just past the door.
The door flew open without warning, and the two mercenaries shot the person who came out. Except it was one of her mercenaries. It proved enough of a distraction for one man to get an arrow in the eye, and the other to get shot in the neck. They collapsed, and Barton and Romanoff emerged into the alley.
'If you want something done right, do it yourself,' Ellen thought. A part of her preferred it this way.
Romanoff whirled on her, but Ellen kicked the gun out of her hand. She launched a furious assault, utilizing all her training. The redhead proved every bit her equal, and in some ways better than her. They punched, kicked, flipped, and grappled each other, holding nothing back. She saw a look of determination and surprise in Romanoff's eyes; apparently, her opponent viewed her as a legitimate threat and a true opponent. Ellen felt flattered at the thought. Now only one question remained.
Which was the deadlier predator? The Viper, or the Widow?
Unfortunately, the Widow had an edge in the form of the Hawk. Ellen jabbed at Romanoff's throat, but the other woman caught her arm, locked it, and spun her around. That gave Barton the opening he needed to deliver a powerful right hook to her face. She grunted, her face throbbing from the impact. Never one to quit, she tripped Romanoff with her right foot and used her weight to push them both to the ground. Ellen then manoeuvred herself out of the grip and rolled away.
Barton came after her, knocking an arrow and shooting it at her abdomen. She pivoted out of the way, then managed to kick him in the knee. Not enough to break it, but enough to make him kneel. Flipping onto her feet, Ellen drove her knee into Barton's face, knocking him on his ass.
At the exact second he went down, Romanoff leaped over him and punched her in the shoulder. Ellen stumbled back, then drew both her knives and attacked. During her years of training in that abandoned mining town, she'd excelled in Kali, particularly with edged weapons. Romanoff dodged and avoided her slashes, keeping her eyes on the blades. She clearly knew about the Rattlesnake venom.
Ellen lunged, aiming for her opponent's throat. Romanoff pivoted out of the way, revealing Barton crouched with another arrow at the ready. He fired, and it struck Ellen in the shoulder. She grunted as pain lanced through her body, dropping the knife in her left hand. Before she could retaliate, Romanoff activated the Widow's Bite on her wrist and shot an electric bolt into her chest.
Every muscle in Ellen's body screamed and tightened. She collapsed onto the ground, spasming and clenching her teeth so hard she feared they might crack. Something dark moved overhead, but in her agony she didn't notice.
The pain was intense, but no worse than what she'd endured before. Her vision started to blacken, but she mustered every ounce of willpower to stay conscious. Finally, mercifully, the electric shock wore off. Ellen forced herself to stand. The arrow in her shoulder made her left arm numb, and she whimpered. Shrugging it off, she saw Barton and Romanoff in the street, moving away from the church. Grabbing a machine pistol from one of the dead mercenaries, she chased after them. Emerging onto the street, she started shooting at them. The two master assassins ducked and took cover behind a parked car.
That was when Ellen noticed the Quinjet hovering above them.
She got a quick glance at the pilot, handsome with a stubble over his square jaw. Then she noticed the craft's underslung gatling gun spinning up. Gasping, she bolted as armour-piercing bullets carved up the asphalt behind her and some of the alley wall. Chips of stone hit her like shrapnel, and it was all she could do to avoid becoming red paste. At the far end of the alley, she took a moment to face facts.
Her support gone, the element of surprise lost. She ran low on ammo, and the breakneck pace of the chase and fighting caught up to her. Now that they had air support, Barton and Romanoff became impossible to kill.
She remembered one of Taskmaster's lessons. "If a threat is too much for you to handle, then it's best to retreat. Know your limitations."
So, she did the only sensible thing: retreat.
Tony paused when he spotted the green-clad assailant. She had a different face and different hair, but he sure as hell recognized her stance. Her physicality. Only someone like him could spot something like that. "Looks like you've been busy, kid," he muttered. It had been over two years since he'd seen her. Ever since then, not a single one of his students –criminal or legal– had taken his lessons to heart the way she had. Even now, wounded and exhausted, she moved like the spirit of determination itself.
Squeezing the trigger on his joystick, he fired his gatling gun at her. Close enough to drive her back, but not to hit her. Then, he lowered the ramp and touched down on the street below. Looking back, he saw Barton and Romanoff run into the Quinjet's hold. "We're in!" the archer called. Tony raised the ramp, then rose above the city.
"What about your mission handler?" he asked.
"Didn't make it."
Tony nodded. "Copy that." He oriented to the west, then put full power to the engines. Soon enough, they'd be leaving Latveria. Contacting headquarters, he said, "This is Agent Masters. I've got Barton and Romanoff. Mission handler is KIA. Bringing them in."
"Copy, Agent Masters. Good work."
Ending the transmission, he locked in the coordinates and activated the autopilot. Getting out of his chair, he entered the hold and looked his passengers over. When he saw Romanoff, he froze and blinked like a dear in headlights. 'Jesus H. Christ! She's gorgeous.' He'd never gotten the chance to see her in person before now. Her dark red curls framed a perfect face with striking green eyes. Even dirty and battered, she had a body to die for.
She noticed him looking and asked, "What's your name?"
Clearing his throat, Tony replied, "Agent Masters. You can call me Tony."
"Tony. Thanks for the lift."
"No problem." He then asked, "So…are you two good?"
They shared a curious look with each other, then chuckled. "Yeah," Barton said, reclining on the left row of seats. "We're good."
After sneaking out of the city, Ellen stole a car and drove to the nondescript airstrip where the jet waited for her. Her left arm still hung limp at her side, so she had to hold the railing of the steps with one hand as she boarded. The pilot looked up from his magazine, blanched at her pissed off expression, then started prepping for takeoff. He didn't bother asking about the mercenaries; even if they had lived, they wouldn't have gone back with her.
She sat down in one of the cushioned seats, panting as the door sealed. The only other passenger, a support tech, moved to her side. "We'll need to get that arrow out," he said.
Ellen sighed. "Yeah, I kinda figured." She grabbed the edge of the Photostatic Veil and peeled it off her face like a bandage. The wig came with it, and she placed them on the table beside her. The tech grabbed a pair of snips from a toolkit. Holding the end of the arrow with one hand, he cut the shaft close to her catsuit. Ellen unzipped and gingerly pulled the suit back, letting the top half hang loose.
The tech worked on her as the jet moved onto the airstrip and took off. She laid on her stomach as he moved the strap of her tank top away. Scalpel in hand, he caught her eye and said, "You really should be sedated for this."
"Just do it," Ellen snapped. Today had been a failure, and she stewed in the bitterness of coming so close, yet letting victory slip away.
The tech nodded, then cut into her shoulder. Ellen clenched her jaw tight, suppressing a grunt as cold fire seared her flesh. Then, he reached into the cut with a pair of forceps. She closed her eyes and bit down on the seat cushioning, trying not to scream. Through the agony, she felt the horrifying sensation of metal gripping metal inside herself. Slow and steady, the arrowhead moved until the tech pulled it out.
He stitched both ends of the wound, and Ellen felt fluttery. Her eyelids closed as fatigue, at last, set in, and sleep overtook her.
Sometime later, she awoke feeling sore all over, but otherwise intact. Her jaw ached from Barton's punch, and her chest felt constricted as she breathed. Probably a remnant of getting hit by the Widow's Bite. Ellen sat up, groaning. She touched the bandage over her arrow wound, hissing at the sharp, biting sensation. The tech sat at the far end of the cabin, asleep.
After changing into jeans and a black jacket, she sat down and turned on her laptop. Running the extensive encryption algorithms, she typed a message to her father.
From: Madame Hydra
To: Architect
Reporting mission failure. Lazar is dead, so one objective accomplished. Level 7 targets both survived and escaped. I'm returning to base, and will give a full report when I arrive.
If I had another chance, I'm sure I could eliminate the targets.
Ellen sent the message, then leaned back in her chair. They never used real names in communiques like this; even with the highest secrecy known to mankind, they couldn't risk discovery by implicating themselves. She'd picked her own, after Rumlow egged her on by calling her 'princess' and 'your highness' with no end. He wanted to call her that? Fine. He'd have to call her Madame from now on.
While she waited for a response, she idly ran a finger over her wrist. Years ago, while trapped in a dark place, she'd sought the easy way out. That decision had been made out of despair and weakness. Shortly after graduating from the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy, Ellen decided not to let herself be reminded of her old weakness. Now, the bottoms of her wrists were covered by intricate Henna tattoos, concealing the scars. She'd chosen a beautiful floral design from India. Her finger traced the edges of the red tattoo. Ellen wasn't that scared, helpless little girl anymore. She channeled her trauma and pain into work that meant something, so other little girls could grow up happy and safe.
The world had done its best to crush her soul. She'd change it, make sure that never happened to anyone ever again. HYDRA would create a world of order, a world of peace.
A message appeared on her screen, and Ellen leaned forward.
From: Architect
To: Madame Hydra
Good work taking out Lazar. Our European efforts will proceed without issue now.
Leave Barton and Romanoff. After today, S.H.I.E.L.D. will be on the alert for more threats. We'll let them be for now, but don't worry. They'll get what's coming to them. For now, your alias is well-established, and you've proven yourself a most formidable threat. Anyone else would have died in such an attempt. We work best in the shadows, and I'm certain you'll make great contributions to HYDRA.
You've done well. I'm proud of you.
Ellen smiled when she read her father's response. Someday, she would get another shot at Barton and Romanoff. She just needed to be patient. For now, the mission was complete, and Ophelia Sarkissian would rest until the next opportunity. Closing the laptop, Ellen leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes.