Clint bent low over the forest floor and held a large leaf aside. Finally.

Butted against a half rotted log was part of a footprint. He'd spent most of the morning widening his search around the shack. There were a few more drops of blood, two prints where she'd jumped from the tree, but no solid leads to follow… until now.

The track was relatively new, no more than two hours old. It was heavier on one side, like she'd been trying to keep her feet off the ground and slid. Clever. He glanced up in the direction it led, gun drawn, but safety on. He wasn't quite sure what his plan was, but he knew he needed to find her and figure out where she'd come from. The last thing S.H.I.E.L.D. needed was another surprise player in the field. He'd radio base when he knew more.

But first he had to actually find her and keep her in one place. He had to admit, the tree thing was a good trick. Not one he'd fall for again, but good. He inched through the jungle, eyes watching the trees like he expected something to jump out and bite him. Or maybe just punch him again.

He glanced up, but the branches above him were empty besides a rather startled troop of macaques. The monkeys chattered down at him, bouncing from branch to branch in his wake.

"Yeah, yeah. Fine," he grumbled. There was no way he was sneaking up on her like this.

He ducked his head and moved along.

Twenty minutes later, he found another print in the thin silt of a riverbank. This one was whole. Fresh. The outline of each toe was pressed clear and deep. Well, this is a trap. He ghosted his fingers over the impression and turned just in time to see the branch swinging towards his face.

Fuck.

He took the brunt of the hit against his temple and fell back into the sand. The gun flew out of his hand, clattering over a rock. She darted forward and closed her fingers around its black metal before he had a chance to even try to snatch it back. The next thing he knew the safety clicked off and the barrel was aimed directly at his forehead.

He was getting too old for this.

Clint eased himself onto his knees and raised one hand, palm open. The other hand was pressed against the ground, supporting his weight. Well, he'd found her and she was technically in one place. It wasn't the play he'd have gone with, and his head felt like he'd gone ten rounds with a train, but he could make this work.

Now that he got a good look at her, he saw her slightly too thin face, the dark hair tied back in a wild ponytail. She wore a dirty gray t-shirt with a faded print of palm leaves over her torso. It was torn at the seam above her shoulder. Several other small holes pockmarked the fabric. Her jeans were caked with mud and ripped on one knee. Her feet were bare. If she was a day over twenty he'd eat his bow.

Hazel eyes locked onto him with a hard edge that told Clint she'd shoot him without thinking twice if he gave her a reason.

She was standing two arm lengths out of reach, muscles rigid in a way that reminded him of a cornered animal. A crusted line of red stretched over the knuckles of her left hand. There was another cut along the bottom of her chin. He grimaced at the dark, ugly bruise on her cheek where he'd punched her. A metal band–about an inch wide–clung to her throat. There was a small red lightbulb on it, currently dark. His gaze flicked to the dirty bandage wrapped around her left forearm.

Her eyes followed his before switching back to his face.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Clint leaned back a fraction, keeping his hand up and his expression even. His chest was pounding, but this wasn't the time to get scared. It was the time to think.

"Why are you following me?" she spat.

American, and not a tourist.

He came back with a counter question, "Why'd you break into my shack."

"It's my–look–" She took a step forward and there was a hint of hesitancy in her movement. Suddenly, he realized that she didn't want to be near him. She wanted to run, and that was almost more dangerous. "Tell Rayner I'm done."

"I don't know who that is," he answered. But I'm sure as hell going to find out.

"Liar."

He shook his head. "I'm not lying."

Her eyes narrowed.

"I know how this looks. Believe me, I do."

Her eyes darted around like she might find someone else watching.

"But, if you're in some kind of trouble," Clint turned his raised hand just enough to gesture towards her bandaged arm, "I can help."

It was the wrong thing to say.

Her eyes snapped back to him and his stomach sank. Every ounce of hesitancy he'd been counting on was replaced by pure instinctual terror.

The collar beeped, red light flashing.

Her grip tightened on the gun.

"Hey, hey, hey." He lifted his palm a little higher, spreading the fingers as if to emphasize their emptiness.

"Don't touch me!" she snarled.

"Got it." He lowered his hand a few inches, letting the fingers come together. "No touching."

Her chest heaved. She blinked, swaying in place. Sweat beaded on her forehead as the gun shook in her hands. Panic attack?

He ducked his head to try and catch her eye, keeping his voice low, soft. "Hey, stay with me, okay? Breathe."

She shook her head and started to back up.

"Leave me alone."

Clint stayed exactly where he was, face twisting with regret at the sight of his gun backing up with her.

At the last second, she turned and bolted. And, just like that, she was gone.

He waited to a count of ten before hefting himself back onto his feet. His eyes scanned the spot where she'd disappeared. His lips pursed. Well, at least he had a lead.