Chapter 6

At 6:30am, local time, Barton and I left our economy class seats and walked along the air bridge from the plane into the Imam Khomeini International Airport terminal in Tehran.

We'd lost eight and a half hours of sleep due to the change in time zones, and exhaustion weighed heavily on my shoulders as we collected our bags and went through customs. My cybernetic arm caused a slight delay until we managed to convince airport security that it was just a high-tech prosthesis. When we finally stepped out of the terminal into the light of the rising sun, the air was already warm. A light breeze drifted across the carpark.

We took a taxi to a small three-star hotel in the city's District 6. We'd made a reservation, so it was a simple matter to check in before heading upstairs to our room, where we dumped our bags by the bathroom door.

The small room reflected the low price we'd paid for it, but it was clean and the two single beds were reasonably comfortable. We collapsed onto them with barely a word to each other and slept for four hours – him soundly, me in timed segments – before taking turns in the shower and heading back downstairs for lunch in the hotel's stuffy restaurant.

We ordered beef kebabs on rice and a drink called doogh – which turned out to be cold, watered-down yogurt flavored with salt and fresh mint. I don't think either of us like the tangy flavor, but anything that distracted from the dry heat was welcome, and we were too tired to be picky.

We returned to our room after the silent meal and Barton signed into the hotel's Wi-Fi to contact his spy gear supplier.

I moved to the room's single window and pushed it open as far as it would go – which wasn't far, thanks to the security catch. A slight breeze found its way in through the gap and I got a whiff of car exhaust.

From this height, three floors above the street, the view was mostly obscured by the neighboring buildings. Beyond them lay more of the city, a sprawl of modern buildings and traffic-congested streets. In many ways Tehran felt like an American city. That is, until you heard the people talking, or smelled the food, or saw the women wearing their headscarves, or felt the blazing heat of the sun.

I'd been to this country three times before. Each visit had marked the violent death of someone at the hands of the Winter Soldier. They weren't pleasant memories.

Barton hung up and flopped onto his bed, causing the springs to creak loudly in protest. "We'll be picked up a block from here at 11pm and driven to a warehouse where we'll meet a certain Mr. Shah," he informed me. "We've got some time to kill."

I turned away from the window. "What do you suggest we do? We're here, but we've also used up all our leads."

"Shah may be able to help with that. I've heard he doesn't miss much around here. He might know who Zara was working for."

"Maybe."

Barton sat up on the edge of his bed. "You're not big on optimism, are you?"

I shrugged. "I've stopped trusting in luck. If something can go wrong, it usually does."

"You sound like Natasha when I first met her." Barton smiled slightly. "She practically embodied cynicism. Not surprising, given her life up to that time."

"What'd she do?" I asked. I was curious to know a bit more about the Avenger we were trying to find. I knew she was ex-SHIELD, a skilled spy and assassin, but not much beyond that.

"Nat worked for an organization called the Red Room for most of her young adult life," Barton explained. "She was born and raised in Soviet Russia, and they turned her into a professional killer. I managed to pull her out and we've worked together ever since."

Interesting. Natasha seemed so confident and even easy-going at times nowadays. I wanted to know how she had managed to move on from her past, but Barton didn't really feel like the person to ask. Maybe once we found Natasha I'd ask her.

We lapsed into silence, and after a bit Barton returned to his phone and I resumed my contemplation of the cityscape.

Hardly three minutes had gone by before Barton stood up abruptly. "Forget this. I'm going for a walk. You coming?"

I nodded, grabbing my navy baseball cap out of my backpack. If we had to wait until tonight to further our search, then we might as well see some of the sights. Besides, the idea of remaining in this drab, stuffy hotel room with nothing to do for ten hours was extremely unattractive.

We locked our room and left the hotel, walking briskly in the shade of the tree-lined sidewalks. Having traveled in Islamic countries before, we'd both dressed in accordance with the local customs – light trousers, T-shirts, and sturdy boots. Barton wore an unbuttoned flannel shirt over his tee to give his arms some protection from the sun's glare. I wore one to hide my left arm from the curious gazes of the locals. A black glove covered my metal hand.

There weren't many foreigners around, besides us. The late-summer heat was detrimental to tourism – a fact for which I was glad. This way, there were less people likely to recognize us.

Barton seemed to have a particular destination in mind. He checked the map on his phone several times, and after about an hour's walk we reached one of the many entrances to the Tehran Grand Bazaar. Covered alleys ran for miles through a maze of wholesale shops and stalls, almost overflowing with shoppers and sales people.

The noise was deafening, and the jumble of smells – perfume, incense, and food – almost made breathing difficult until I became accustomed to it.

We let the flow of the crowd take us where it would, and I began to notice the grouping of different merchandise types. There was a form of order in this chaotic world of arched roofs and bright colors.

I wasn't overly interested in the wares on display, but then we hadn't come here to shop. Barton had needed something to take his mind off Natasha, and the Bazaar seemed to be doing the trick. Several times he stopped to chat with friendly passersby or get a closer look at an artisan's craftsmanship.

I was more focused on our surroundings in general. My senses were going nuts, and I was having a hard time not letting my unease show. There were so many people all pushing and shoving around me, and I was highly aware that if one of them was an enemy I wouldn't know it until I was dead. I wished I were balanced on one of the ledges far above the stalls, or knew that everyone in here was a confirmed enemy. That would be easier for me to cope with.

When Barton suggested we go into a small coffee shop to sit down for a bit, I agreed readily. The shop was a calm little bay in the sea of noise and activity beyond its curtain-draped doorway.

There was only one other customer within the dimly-lit shop: A woman dressed in a burka sitting in the far corner. I guessed that she, like us, was seeking temporary refuge from the business of the Bazaar. It wasn't like she could drink anything with her face completely covered by her outfit. I noted that she hadn't ordered anything.

Barton chose a table away from the door and we ordered coffee and baklava. Barton watched me drinking my cup of thick Turkish coffee with raised eyebrows. His less traditional latte sat on the table between us. "How can you stand that stuff?" he asked.

I drained the cup and set it down, ignoring the glass of water customarily provided with the bitter drink. "Practice. Maybe it'll get rid of the jetlag."

Barton chuckled. "If it did, I'd drink it."

When we'd finished, we left the shop and rejoined the river of humanity flowing through the Bazaar. A couple of minutes later when I looked back the way we'd come, I saw the woman in the burka a few feet behind us. I shrugged it off as mere coincidence and kept walking, but when Barton stopped to look at Persian rugs, the woman found something to look at a couple of stalls away.

When we moved on, she did too.

I moved up to walk beside Barton and said quietly, "We're being followed. It's the woman from the coffee shop."

"I don't think that's our biggest problem right now," he replied grimly.

I followed his gaze and cursed quietly.

Two figures in gray bodysuits were pushing their way through the crowd in the alley up ahead, coming straight towards us. People moved away hurriedly as they saw the pair, fear evident in their expressions. They knew these guys meant bad news.

I turned around as shocked cries rang out from behind us. The woman following us had stripped off her burka to reveal another gray suit.

Great. Just great.

"How do you want to handle this?" Barton asked.

In reply, I pulled off my long-sleeved shirt and cap, chucking them at the base of a shop wall as I started towards the two nearest assassins.

"Okay then," I heard Barton say quietly. Then he yelled, "Everyone get out!", repeating the command in Farsi.

Some obeyed. Others stayed and pulled their phones out – either to call the police or to video the fight they knew was coming. At least they'd moved out of the way, crowding into shops and side alleys. That left the large intersection of alleyways where Barton and I were free of civilians. It was just Barton, me, and the assassins.

One of the masked women lunged towards me, electricity sparking across her suit. I narrowly avoided touching her by dropping to the ground and rolling out of her path. Then I leapt to my feet behind her and grabbed a wooden chair from beside the door of a woodwork shop. I had to remind myself to aim for her legs rather than her head when I threw it.

It still shattered on impact, but what was I supposed to do? It was their fault they'd gone and made themselves untouchable.

I ducked forward as the woman stumbled to the ground and yanked off her mask, being careful not to touch the exposed wires running across it. Thanks to JARVIS' breakdown of Zara's suit, I knew the mask was key to operating it – as was the control screen on the suit's left forearm. I smashed that moments before the second assassin grabbed hold of me from behind.

I crashed onto my back and she knelt over me, closing a hand around my neck. It felt like an angry swarm of hornets had taken up residence inside my throat. I shook as the electric current rushed through my nerves to every part of my body. I couldn't get enough coordination back into my limbs to escape.

My opponent seemed to realize her suit wasn't powerful enough to kill me at its current setting. She let go of my throat quickly, reaching for the control screen on her opposite forearm.

In that moment I brought my left arm up against the side of her head, knocking her out. I ripped the mask off her and smashed her control screen just to be safe. Then I looked up.

Barton's opponent lay sprawled out on the ground, and he was fighting my first opponent hand-to-hand. Without the help of her suit, she wasn't keeping up so well with the Avenger. Within seconds Barton had her on her knees, her arms pinned behind her back.

That's how things were when the police arrived.

AN: In this chapter and the next few, I have tried to do my research of Iranian facts and write things properly. If you notice anything that is wrong, please let me know. The last thing I want to do is offend anyone. :)