III
Abidjan
Third time's the charm, right? Right.
Now, it's not as if Clint hasn't had issues with the way Things Are Done at S.H.I.E.L.D. since Tbilisi; hell, no. He's still the guy who likes doing things his way, and because it usually works, he tends to get away with it. It helps that in addition to Coulson, he now has Natasha to back his plays (and to make up a few of her own, so his don't show up as readily). Mission reports don't stand a chance.
But this one … well, it kinda sticks out, if only because the fuck-ups were cumulative, starting with the conceptual stage, right through execution and evac, and were partly captured on video. Fucking video.
Anyway.
It's been a couple of years now since 'Barton-and-Romanoff' became partners. Clint still remembers the first time they were sent out together, a show of sentiment and affection so typically Fury:
"Now, I'm sending you on that mission with Romanoff for one purpose, Barton, and one purpose only. She fucks up, she goes rogue, she so much as twitches, you do what you were supposed to the last time. Before you finish your other job. She's your responsibility. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal, sir."
Clint had shrugged, then, and nodded. That was fair enough. No one, including himself, had any real way of knowing whether his impromptu salvage operation of the Black Widow had resulted in an asset or a liability for his employer.
But asset it was. And is. Most definitely.
He's never looked back, really. In the field, he and Natasha complement each other in ways they don't even notice, because it's just … there. Half the time they don't even need to talk, they just know where the other is at any given time, and what needs to be done. And after, they go over things, vent, level out - help get each other back into the headspace necessary for the next job. They're partners, where they used to be solitudes, and it works.
Ever since that first joint mission in Kyiv – a most memorable garden party, four corrupt oligarchs taken out for the price of one – Fury has teamed them up again and again. But he no longer does it because he thinks Natasha will turn her back on S.H.I.E.L.D., or that it's Clint job to clean up the mess he made. No, it's because together they're pretty well unparalleled, the most effective team in the history of the organization – evenly matched, complementary in skill set and temperament. The yin and yang of targeted killings.
Fury, too, knows a good thing when he sees it, goes with what works and doesn't fuck with it while it does. Even when Hill tries to get him to break them up because, you know, fraternization rules.
"You seen them in bed together?" Fury asks pointedly when she brings it up.
"No … no sir, of course not."
"Then how d'you know they're being inappropriate?"
"Well, sir, the last three missions they shared a hotel room."
"And I'm sure if you look into the mission logs they were posing as a married couple each and every time. Now don't you have something more important to do?"
One thing you can say about Maria Hill, while she may be an organization Nazi and probably has a bound collection of all of her favourite rules somewhere (the book Clint Barton regularly tosses out), she knows when she's beat and so she drops it.
That said, she stares pointedly at Fury when the two agents in question walk into the briefing room behind the other six that have been called in. They arrive side by side, arms touching; after they sit down he leans into her and says something that makes her giggle. Her whispered response, delivered while she is clutching his arm, makes him smirk.
Clint Barton is making the Black Widow giggle. Natasha Romanoff made Hawkeye smile. As far as Hill is concerned, they might just as well be having wild, uninhibited sex on the map table. She averts her eyes and activates the screen.
"Lawrence Katanga," she says when the image of a middle aged, bespectacled black man in his forties comes up. He is wearing Western clothes, and looks like he could be running the New York library.
"Harvard MBA, 1992. His father was President of Côte d'Ivoire, killed in a coup in the mid-nineties. Lawrence has been in exile in the West since. He returned to his country to mobilize the opposition against the ruling strong man, Joseph Dupré – the man responsible for his father's death. Then three months ago Dupré was pressured by the International Monetary Fund into holding an election. Katanga won, two weeks ago."
"Elections fair?" Clint wants to know. It matters, even in a place where the Good Guy is liable to end up being just as corrupt as the Bad Guy.
Fury is used to having Barton ask these kinds of questions. The Hawk does like to have the big picture when he's sent into a mission, and so he's willing to oblige.
"Not according to UN observers. Violence, intimidation of voters, attacks on polling stations – mostly in the areas where Katanga was popular, and mostly organized by the ruling party. That he managed to win anyway is a small miracle, and an indication just how awful the other guy was. Is."
One of the other agents, Johnson, can't contain his curiosity any longer. He's new and eager, and this is his second mission.
"And we come in where?"
Fury fixes him with a glare out of his good eye. It's one thing to drill deeper into the background, like Clint had; it's another to want to skip the briefing altogether and rush straight to the tasking. The one approach might get you info that could be useful; the other can get you killed.
"Problem is, the other guy refuses to quit. Joseph Dupré is a thug, an autocrat, and by now a very rich man. Assets in the billions, hidden around the planet. Claims the elections weren't fair. No shit. They've got Katanga surrounded in a compound outside Abidjan, won't let him come into town to take over. There's street fighting, and luckily the army isn't particularly effective. Some of them may be on Katanga's side, even, or at least hedging their bets to see who'll come out on top."
Johnson is itching for action; it's clear.
"So we're going to get Katanga out?"
"No, we're not. We do that, Dupré's story that Katanga is a Western plant will gain credibility and undermine what he's trying to do. Plus, it wouldn't get him any closer to the presidential palace."
"You want us to take out Dupré instead," Natasha concludes, as Hill nods.
"Operation Abidjan is a targeting, not an extraction," the Deputy Director states flatly. "We can't be seen to be helping install the new Government, but we can do our best to make sure that the old one is sent on its way. Those are the Council's wishes."
"Anyone else have an interest in the place?" Clint asks. He remembers rather clearly the we thought he was our asshole comment Fury had made in respect of the Brazzaville assignment; always good to know what quarters your target may get support from. Fury does too, and so it's him who answers.
"Not that we're aware of. Dupré is pen pals with Chavez and Ahmadinejad, used to be with Ghadafi, but he's pretty well worn out his welcome with everybody else. Even with the Russians and the Chinese."
Clint nods and leans back in his chair. He'll do his own reading on the plane. If there is one thing he'd learned in his years in government, it's never to rely on your briefing notes.
"There'll be four teams going in. Johnson and Maddox are Alpha; Evans and Miyazaki, Beta; Barnes and Noble … Nolan, Gamma; and Barton and Romanoff, you're Delta."
Funny. Hawkeye and the Black Widow are always Delta Team, but Johnson is new and doesn't know that; he also seems to think Alpha means something it doesn't. He preens himself a little, looks around the table to see whether someone else noticed that he'll get to be top dog. Clint mentally marks him down as a liability; the guy might as well be wearing a Starfleet issue red shirt.
"I have a question," Miyazaki pipes up. "What's our story going in? Do we have one? I mean, some of us don't exactly fit in there. You know, Africa."
Probably not a bad idea to point out that only three of the operatives are black, although Fury gives Miyazaki a slightly pained look.
"We're not asking you to blend in. This is an in and out tactical op, minimum time on the ground. Drop is by chopper, ostensibly from one of the gold mines in the North. If by some misfortune you get caught out after the mission, feel free to be geologists, aid workers, UN types, whatever strikes your fancy. Make something up. Place is in chaos, no one will give a shit. Just take Dupré out and leave. Barton knows how this works. He's done this before."
Clint stares at his fingernails for a bit, then looks up. "Yeah, as a soldier. With air and tactical support a phone call away. This …"
He allows his words to trail off and glares intently at Fury, who holds his gaze with his good eye.
"You know this is shoe string crap, sir, don't you."
It is not a question, and so Fury doesn't bother to answer. Ops like this shouldn't be put together on five day's notice, everybody knows that, but the Council has clearly decided that Dupré has worn out his welcome and needs to be removed. Now. Times like this, the "L" in S.H.I.E.L.D. seems like someone's idea of a shitty joke.
Natasha twitches an eyebrow at him, and Clint suppresses a grim smile. This is the kind of mission where he'll be wearing his old dog tags, just … because. He isn't superstitious, but even in the best of circumstances effecting regime change in a country named after the body parts of an endangered species (stuff that it's now illegal to sell anywhere on the planet) has clusterfuck written all over it.
As it turns out, he's not wrong.
…..
By the time they're in country, eighteen hours later, the place is in full-on civil war mode. In this part of the world, people still seem to understand democracy as meaning "my guy wins." When that doesn't happen all hell breaks loose, and pretty soon it isn't even about politics anymore and people are at each other's throats just because.
Things are deteriorating so quickly, the UN is in the process of pulling out its mission; most foreign embassies are down to essential staff and a number of governments have put on planes to evac their nationals. Even the Red Cross and Doctors Without Borders are talking about leaving, and the only Westerners that can be relied upon to stay are the usual small posse of disaster journalists. The French, the US and the Brits have sent in small military contingents to secure their departing evac flights, but beyond that it's pretty much every man for himself.
The team's chopper is meant to fit in with the exodus; Quinjets are obviously out, if there's to be plausible deniability of outside involvement. With the mission having been put on with minimal notice and everyone trying to get out of the country, the only local lift S.H.I.E.L.D. could procure is a 30-year-old Ukrainian piece of scrap metal that Clint figures is held together with chewing gum.
Throughout the country's major cities, fighting is widespread and vicious, by now a toxic blend of tribal and personal resentments masquerading as a political cause. Mostly it appears to be spontaneous though, not orchestrated - gunfire one minute, calm the next. Flash mobs, African style, completely unpredictable and hence ever more dangerous, especially for foreigners caught up in them.
Coulson pitches an official request to HQ to abort, at Clint's suggestion. Given the shifting ground that comes with an active conflict, they simply don't have enough information about conditions at Dupré's stronghold, and BBC reports (their local stringer, a freelance adrenaline junkie reporting in via sat phone and a hand-held camera, is the best source of intel they've got) suggests that the reluctant loser has days left at best. There have been daily assaults on the presidential palace; sooner or later one will get through. The risk doesn't seem worth it.
The Council is adamant. Dupré must be taken down, and S.H.I.E.L.D. is the agency to do it. The mission is a go.
"For people who don't want our involvement in this known, someone on the Council seem awfully keen for us to be the ones doing this job," Clint remarks to Natasha when the word comes. She shrugs.
"Politics," she says. "Someone's always interested in something. Especially when it comes to regime change. Don't suppose the Council's any different."
They deploy at nighttime. That part's easy; air traffic control in this part of the world is spotty on a good day, and the Ivory Coast hasn't seen a good day in weeks. The chopper sets down with a groan and an ominous cracking sound on one of the high rises right downtown. Abidjan actually has a few of those, even looks quite modern from the air, but the buildings are unkempt and dilapidated. The country's considerable economic potential has been pretty much pissed away by the kleptocracy run by Dupré and his minions, and it shows.
The presidential palace is easy to spot; it's the only place that still has electricity. Power brings its own generators, apparently, and a good chunk of their output is directed at perimeter security. Surprisingly, the streets are empty; Clint had expected an angry mob surrounding the place. He and Natasha take point in taking out the guards silently, one by one, and Clint lets Johnson figure out for himself that 'Alpha' is only a letter, by making the guy retrieve his arrows for him.
"What?" the Hawk asks when Johnson stares in fascinated revulsion as he wipes the tips off on his fatigues and sticks them back in his quiver.
As per the plan they've had time to come up with, Alpha and Gamma help themselves to a couple of un-bloody uniforms. They'll stay at the gate, as back-up and look-out, while Beta and Delta teams head into the compound to do the job.
Occasional moving shadows in the park-like setting denote in-ground security, moving seemingly at random. Either they're disorganized amateurs or highly skilled professionals; Clint hopes for the former, but gives Natasha a hand signal to prepare for the latter.
Satellite imagery had shown a jacaranda tree in front of the windows into the President's suite. Clint heads straight for it, knowing that Natasha and her silent knives have his back. The tree is an easy climb, thick branches that hold his weight without much complaint. The flowers are a pain in the ass, but luckily Clint isn't the allergic type and he still has decent sightlines if he squints through them.
As luck will have it, the President is at home, and seems to be in a huddle with a bunch of his cronies. Probably plotting their exit strategy, Clint figures, because they sure as hell aren't in charge of anything anymore.
It's a beautiful night, the Southern Cross is high in the sky. It's surprisingly quiet; any gunfire is sporadic, and far away; the only sounds are the melodious song of African crickets and the occasional thud when one of Natasha's knives hits home. (Amateurs it was.) It's almost too quiet, Clint thinks, but he doesn't know what Abidjan is supposed to sound like, after a day of violent unrest. Maybe people are just taking a break from the bloodshed.
He whispers into his mic to Coulson.
"Single shot is out. Man's got company. We either wait, or I go explosive, take 'em all out at once, then run for it. Sit rep?"
Coulson knows that what Barton is after is an indication whether waiting is an option.
"All quiet in the streets here," he says. "You've got a few …."
As it happens, this is precisely the moment where the question of 'silence' becomes academic. Gunfire rings out from the front gate, and pandemonium erupts just outside. Clint doesn't hesitate and immediately shoots an explosive arrow into the room, before anyone there can react. Bodies are tossed in all directions, with the exception of Dupré who bears the brunt of the explosion and literally flies apart, the arrow having been embedded in his eye socket.
Mission accomplished.
Retreat, however, is completely fucked.
Clint vaults out of the tree, catches a glimpse of Natasha who waves him in the opposite direction from where they came.
"Front gate's not an option," she says, stating the obvious. Machine gun fire speaks louder than words. Alpha and Gamma are out; there's no contact. Coulson confirms he can't get a bead on them, his voice extra flat and calm – his personal tell, when the news is grim.
There's an all out assault on the palace happening now, with Katanga supporters clearly having decided to take matters into their own hand, starting reform efforts with the people they thought were presidential guards. There's no indication who may have fired first, the locals or one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, but it hardly matters.
Dead is dead. At least Clint hopes his fellow agents are dead; mobs are capable of worse things.
Certainly, the presence of the attack force explained the eerie silence of a few minutes ago, the emptiness of the street. Element of surprise, and all that. Clint wonders whether their own actions were seen but doubts it; they'd have been stopped. Or assisted. The crowd must have amassed elsewhere, in an unusual show of planning.
Fuck. Where was our intel?
"Beta team, do you copy? Meet us at the north wall." Natasha.
They don't wait for a response and start running; there's people pouring out of the palace now, whether to join the fray outside or to get away from it and the fire in the wing Clint blew up, is hard to say. Fact is, a lot of them are carrying guns, business end forward.
Clint stops briefly and fires another explosive arrow into the building's main opening to slow them down, while Natasha takes care of strays getting in their way with her Glocks. Next thing, the building goes up in a ball of fire way bigger than Clint's arrow merits, knocking them both for six. On-site ammo storage – obviously Dupré and his gang were prepared for a siege.
"You okay?"
Clint huffs at Natasha as they pick themselves up off the ground. Biggest drawback of carrying that quiver - the thing is a fucking pain when you have to roll.
"Yeah. You?"
He answers her by picking up his pace.
The North Wall is about twenty feet high. Would be an easy climb with a grappling hook, except the bloody thing is topped with three rolls of razor wire; Dupré obviously did not feel very secure in the love of his people.
Clint spits a curse, dials up another explosive arrowhead – he's got one left after this – and lets fly about the time Evans and Miyazaki get there. Evans is covered in blood ("not mine," he reassures them) and all four of them make it out across the smoking ruin of the back wall. If Katanga ever gets to take over, he'll need to invest in some serious renos.
Coulson comes on with more bad news. The chopper's out – third-rate Ukrainian equipment may make for a good disguise, but rather unreliable transportation. What remains of the strike force is ordered to head for the airport immediately, to evac with the last flight put on by the US military for embassy personnel. It leaves at nine a.m.; Coulson is already headed to the airport in an armoured jeep courtesy of the remaining marine detachment from the embassy, and has secured spots on the flight for the surviving team members.
And no, they can't bring the jeep to pick them up; there's a thousand people with guns in between them and the palace, and the marine commander won't risk it. Beta and Delta Teams are on their own to get to the airport. Clint turns off the comm and shrugs his quiver in place.
"Let's move," he says simply.
The area of Abidjan where they are is now officially a war zone. The veneer of peaceful civilization granted by several dozen multi-story office buildings is only skin deep; gun fire echoes around almost every corner and not a single ground floor window is whole.
Word of the President's demise does not appear to have gone out yet, although it's only a question of time; cell phones and twitter accounts abound, even here. But even once the news spreads, those who benefited from his reign will not likely slip quietly into that good night, and quite probably exact revenge before they do. Dupré's people outgun Katanga's by a factor of at least four. The fighting will likely rage on for weeks, if not longer, and where there are no guns it will be done with knives.
The airport is ten kilometres to the south, so they turn their back on downtown and start moving at a good, steady clip, as fast as the need to stick to the side of buildings permits.
About six blocks into their trek, Evans gets hit in the shoulder by a stray ricochet bouncing off a steel girder and goes down hard, his own blood now mingling with that already on his shirt. Natasha manages to apply a makeshift pressure bandage with a piece of dusty cloth she finds hanging off a line; hygiene is the least of Evans' worries right now. Miyazaki picks his partner up and starts half carrying him onward, without a word. They've already left four of theirs behind; there will not be another.
Clint keeps looking for a car to hotwire, but the streets are mostly empty of vehicles. Those that are on the road and aren't burned out are occupied by gangs of thugs wielding semi-automatics, who fire indiscriminately at anything that dares to venture out into the fractured night. A couple of well-placed arrows and two quick shots from Natasha's gun, and they gain possession of a half-rusted jeep. Clint and Natasha pull out the bodies, keeping their guns and Clint's arrows, and Miyazaki loads a groaning Evans into the back seat. He sticks one of the spare weapons into the crook of his arm in the hope his partner can still use it in a pinch.
With Clint driving and Natasha riding shotgun, they get through downtown relatively unscathed, although the car suffers when he rams it into an oncoming vehicle that tries to block their way, spinning the thing around. Natasha takes out the driver, fires a shot into the gas tank and they keep going without looking back at the fireball.
The car runs out of gas after about six or seven kilometers, coming to a stuttering halt. Still, it gained them considerable time and Clint immediately starts looking for a replacement as they walk, dragging a weakening Evans with them. He asks to be left behind but Clint tells him to just fuck off, 'coz that just ain't happening.
With the grey light of dawn, the fighting intensifies and they advance slowly, street by dilapidated street, forced at one point to duck into courtyard where three children take shelter behind their mother in a corner, staring at the intruders with eyes like saucers.
"Nous partirons dans un instant," Natasha says in French. "Ne vous inquietez pas." We'll be leaving immediately. Don't be afraid.
Two minutes and a quick check with Miyazaki's GPS later, they make a run for it. Clint spends the next two blocks cursing under his breath. Natasha doesn't bother asking why.
The way to the airport leads through increasingly poor neighbourhoods and is made rather more difficult by the fact that a number of them are on fire. Whenever one erupts it does so spectacularly, the result of a highly combustible marriage between flimsy, cardboard construction and the fact that Molotov cocktails are the weapon of choice for those who don't have guns.
They're about a kilometer from the airport when they come across another band of armed thugs who have surrounded a white, battered SUV. The vehicle appears to have blown two tires, driving across the sharp remnants of a sandstone building brought down by explosives - probably in the early days of the riots. If there was a fire it's long since gone out, although the smell lingers.
Two of the thugs are armed with Uzis, the rest are wielding machetes. The owners of the SUV are about to be overwhelmed; if the very sporadic gunshots emanating from the front window are any indication, they have one gun and its running out of ammo.
Clint really wants that car.
But then he hears it, that sound coming from inside: a baby, crying. And a voice, a woman's voice, pleading in Parisian-accented French.
"Laissez-nous, laissez-nous; on a des enfants blessés." Leave us alone, we have injured children with us.
Shit.
"Clint."
Natasha heard it too. Understanding passes between them, and they vault into action. She starts shooting two-handed at anything that moves, while he fires arrow after arrow, drawing the thugs away from the car. As soon as she has emptied the magazine of one of the guns she's picked up along the way she drops it, moves on to the next.
It takes longer than it should, as the thugs are getting reinforcements by the minute. The car is clearly the holy grail of the moment, its occupants a minor inconvenience that will doubtless be dealt with swiftly when victory comes. The lone gun inside the SUV falls silent after a shot from an alleyway.
The angle they're at, there's no proper shot to be had at the remaining thugs, who are rapidly converging on their position. They'll need to get in between the SUV and the attackers.
"There," Clint points at the optimal spot from a tactical standpoint. He doesn't wait for his partner to acknowledge; he knows that she does. Leaving Miyazaki and Evans – the latter can't fight, the former can't leave his wounded partner but wil provide cover – Natasha and Clint make a run for it, taking shelter behind whatever is on offer, zigzagging and dodging bullets. They end up behind a dusty pile of bricks, in front of a wall of corrugated metal soft enough that they won't have to worry about ricochets.
They're back to back now, totally in focus and in synch, mirror images dodging bullets and concrete splinters, dealing death with every bullet, every arrow. It's almost like a dance, one they have rehearsed and executed a dozen times over, and when they're done the silence is absolute.
They wait for a moment to see if anything moves in the shadows. There's a small motion in a curtain behind one of the windows, but it doesn't happen again and Clint figures it was probably just the early morning breeze or a scared civilian, checking if it's over.
He heads for the dead bodies, the ones with his arrows in them. He's running low, and they're not there yet.
"Ç'est vous, encore!" a tight, breathless voice comes out of the SUV. "Ç'est la deuxième fois que vous m'avez sauvé la vie." It's you again. This is the second time you have saved my life.
He turns and frowns, but it comes to him quickly and he suppresses an involuntary curse. Shit. It's the French doctor from that refugee camp in the Congo, from a couple of years ago. It's not too surprising that she recognizes him, he supposes; the occasion then had been somewhat memorable and this is a bit of a rerun. And as for the coincidence of her presence here, today – she obviously makes it her business to help people in the world's hellholes. Since Côte d'Ivoire currently ranks near the top among those, it's almost logical that she should be in Abidjan.
He can only hope that she won't make the connection between his presence in a given place, and the sudden demise of its resident strongman.
He doesn't bother responding though; there are more important things to attend to, and they really don't have time for small talk. But Natasha has noticed the exchange (when does she ever miss anything?) and takes a couple of steps over to Clint.
"Friend of yours?"
"Acquaintance," he shrugs. She arches her eyebrow at him, and he flashes her a fleeting grin.
"Jealous?" he drawls, and she snorts.
"You have nothing to worry about, Agent Romanoff. Way before your time, and I don't think she remembers me fondly. Left her with a few dead bodies to dispose of."
"Close friend, then?" his partner shoots back, a smile dancing in her eyes that hits him a little in the gut. Somehow the adrenaline in their system always seems to translate into … what? Playful banter? Is that what this is? Clint files the thought under don't examine too closely.
"More like, I'm surprised she still talks to me. Arrows, ya know."
He pulls one out with a deliberate twist, shakes off the bits of thug that cling to the tip with a flourish. Natasha doesn't bat an eyelash. He'd have been surprised if she had. For a moment, the two of them look each other in the eye, take a breath in recognition of who and what they are, what they have done.
This dance is done, and we're still here. Again.
The French woman has been watching the interplay with some fascination, and introduces herself to Natasha with a resolute expression on her face. To Clint, too, for that matter – they'd never actually gotten to exchanging names the last time.
"Béatrice Duchamp," she says. "Médecins sans Frontières."
"Peter Marsden," says Clint, not skipping a beat. He leaves it to Natasha to come up with a name for herself. And since they can't very well pretend to be an aid worker or even the rugged extractive sector type, given what the good doctor has just witnessed, he adds, "ArmaPro International."
Private security – one of the few industries that thrive in places like this. S.H.I.E.L.D. should maybe have thought of that as a cover, before saddling its team with a Ukrainian piece of flying shit in the name of an explanation no one asked for. This part of the world is crawling with mercenaries - a profession Clint feels some affinity with, regardless of what it says on his paycheck. He makes a gesture that encompasses all three of his fellow agents; Béatrice's eyes widen a little as she takes in the small arsenal of acquired guns they're carrying, and Evans' condition.
"Colleagues."
Two other doctors, one a man named Torsten Something whose horn-rimmed glasses and demeanour practically scream 'German,' and an older woman, who introduces herself as Trine Petersson in a vaguely Scandinavian lilt, follow Beatrice out of the car. Torsten pulls out their dead driver, obviously a local man who doubled as security, checks his pulse and lays him gently on the ground. Then he heads over to Evans with the determined stride of one who knows how to do triage, even in the face of friendship.
Coulson comes on in Clint's ear, asking where they are and what the hell is the hold-up. The plane is military, it will depart on time, and there won't be another.
"We got held up. Heard the gunfire just now, 'bout two klicks from the airport?"
Coulson did.
"Well, that was us."
They have twenty minutes, Coulson warns. Gunfire or no.
"You headed for the airport too?" Clint asks the French doctor.
Béatrice nods.
"If there are any flights left at this point," she says. "We had a spot on the German flight yesterday, but we couldn't leave. One of the children wasn't safe to transport. But she died this morning, so …"
Her voice trails off, and she chokes back a sob.
Scanning the surrounding buildings for movement, finding none, Clint heads over to the car – the supposed prize that has instead become a cause.
The sight that greets him almost turns his stomach. Four kids, ranging from age about four to ten, are sprawled over the back seat, all suffering from what appear to be traumatic injuries. Bandaged eyes, shoulders, everything. The Norwegian, Trine, is clinging to a baby with a head so bandaged it barely shows a face; the little thing just cries and cries, in a voice already dry and hoarse.
"We had more patients than that," Trine says, "but their parents took them when the fighting got bad in the neighbourhood where we have … had our hospital. These ones have nobody left."
The smell in that car is something else. The metallic scent of blood is something both Clint and Natasha are intimately familiar with, but here, coming from these children, it is disturbing, almost obscene. Clint's eyes fall on a little boy, the oldest of the four. Both his feet are gone at the ankles.
"Hacked off with a machete," Béatrice explains softly. "His parents and siblings were all killed. His father campaigned for Katanga."
"He's developing gangrene," she adds matter-of-factly, pointing at the black lines spreading up both the child's legs. "We've been out of medication for a month. The new shipment of antibiotics was supposed to arrive last week."
She stares defiantly at Clint.
"He'll die if he doesn't get to a proper hospital. That's why we're here. To get him out. We would have stayed, even though Paris told us to go."
He almost tells her that she doesn't have to explain why they abandoned their … hospital, lazaretto, whatever it was that they had in town, but there's no time. There really is only one choice, as far as he's concerned. He taps his mic.
"Coulson. How full is that plane of yours?"
Phil's voice comes on in his ear, dispassionate as always. "Why? We've got seats for you. Are Alpha and Gamma teams not down?"
Clint ignores this last; he doesn't feel like confirming the abysmal failure and waste of life that this mission has been. He's got a new target in his sights.
"I need …" he does a quick head count. "Eight additional seats. No, make that seven. Someone can hold the baby on their lap."
Coulson almost loses his cool, for him.
"Baby?" he says with an expression of mild surprise.
"Civilians," Clint answers smoothly. "In need of evac. What that plane is for, no?"
"I'd have to check," Coulson replies, his voice a little suspicious. Barton picking up strays again?
"This is a US military flight. Council got us on. Additions aren't my call to make."
"Make it yours. We need those seats. Marsden out."
Clint is irrationally pleased with himself that he remembered his off-the-cuff pseud, and turns to the others.
"We'll all need to get in that car. Should be manageable."
He directs Miyazaki to put Evans in the passenger seat with the Scandinavian doctor and the baby, tells Béatrice to climb in the back with her kids, and with Natasha's help proceeds to rip out all the doors. The other three will just have to hang on as best they can, from the outside. If people can ride fifteen to a three-wheeled tuktuk in India, they should be able to manage everybody in a Japanese SUV.
None of the doctors protest when Clint announces that he'll do the driving. He does, in finest Barton fashion – fast and determined despite the missing tires, grinding metal across pot holes and debris, bouncing everyone around but not losing those clinging to the door frames. Trine screams at one point, when he guns the engine and powers straight at a group of thugs trying to stop the car, but self-preservation in the face of a set jaw trumps bravado, and the group scatters just in time. Clint almost regrets it when they do.
Fifteen minutes later and they're at the airport. It's surrounded by a couple of thousand people - Ivoirians, not Westerners - waving wads of cash, all desperate to find some kind of lift to get out. They're being held back by US marines on the other side of the fence, tasked to protect the plane that's visible on the runway behind the wire from being overrun. The scene is raw desperation and chaos and hell's fury all wrapped up in one, and there's no way even Clint can get a car through the throng without having it torn to shreds.
"Out," he says, and nobody argues. They distribute the sick kids and Evans evenly amongst the able-bodied adults; he takes the footless little boy on his back but to do that, he has to leave his quiver behind. No matter, he wouldn't be able to use it in a crowd.
Natasha is the only one not carrying a kid – her body is her best weapon, and she may need it. So she takes point, firing a gun over the crowd to part them as they head for the gate. God knows how they make it to the front but they do, and then all that separates them from the holy grail of air lift is a chain link fence, a locked gate, and a bunch of armed marines.
Coulson is there at the gate, arguing with the officer in charge who doesn't look happy. They come over, and Clint pulls out his dog tags. Fuck that whole inter-agency cooperation thing, pulling rank, whatever. The guy making the decisions is military, and soldiers speak one language better than any other.
"Lance Corporal Clint Barton, Special Ops, Third Group," he says by way of introduction, not giving a shit what Béatrice might think of his sudden name change. Best to go with what it says on the tags. To her credit, she doesn't even flinch.
"Afghanistan, '01 to '03. Requesting transport for these civilians here. Injured kids, sir, and medical personnel required for their treatment. Protection mandate. Sir."
The guy, a Captain, gives Clint a long hard stare.
"Whose kids are they?" he finally asks. "We're not allowed to take locals out of country."
"Mine," Clint says, "and hers. Ours." He points at Natasha with his chin. She nods immediately.
"They're adopted," she says, all practiced sincerity and doe-like green eyes. "We were forced to leave the papers in the car. You know, we were in a rush. All that horrible violence …"
Her voice peters off prettily, and it's clear the Captain is smitten, even if he doesn't believe a word he just heard.
"Of course you were," he says, looking at Coulson in the vain hope that the civilian with the impressive badge can do something, anything, to reconcile the wildly divergent story lines he's heard this morning, if only so he can justify his passenger manifest.
"Mr. and Mrs. Barton are known for their quick and unorthodox decision-making, even while in the line of duty," Coulson supplies, at least partly truthfully, with his usual deadpan expression. "I only just learned of this one. I have no doubt they will make fine parents."
The Captain takes in the blood and the filth on the four S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, the state of the injured kids and the exhaustion of the doctors, and he, too, makes a decision.
"I'll probably get into shit for this," he says, and nods to his men to open the gate. "You better find a way to make it right when I do."
They make it through, one by one; the marines fire off a couple shots to stop the rest of the throng from crowding in behind them.
Clint nods his thanks to the Captain as he passes, the footless little boy still on his shoulder.
He hands him off to Béatrice gently, silently shaking his head at the stoicism, the … trust in those huge brown eyes. Someone brings a field medic kit, and Béatrice immediately starts rummaging through it, looking for penicillin. When she finds it, she looks up at Clint, her eyes blazing. Whatever she knows, whatever conclusions she may have drawn of who or what he is, he knows with utter certainty she won't speak of them.
What she says is, "Merci, mon ange de la mort."
Angel of Death. He's been called worse.
Once they're settled in the plane – he, Natasha, Coulson and Miyazaki have to sit on the floor because it's full now, he leans into Natasha and whispers in her ear while Coulson watches through half-lidded eyes.
"Mrs. Barton? Pleased to meet you."
…..
Mission debrief is pretty acrimonious, even by Clint's standards; it's not always that the agency has such a complete clusterfuck on its hands.
The archer is pissed, very pissed. He'd been smelling a rat throughout this operation, been looking for those other interests at play, and now he's found it. More precisely, Natasha has found it, because she's much better at ferreting out such stuff than he is.
Turns out, one of the Council members has been friendly with the Katanga clan for a couple of decades. She also happens to hold a considerable stake in a gold mining operation that's hoping to set up shop in Cote d'Ivoire. And while the S.H.I.E.L.D. operation will not be made public for obvious reasons, there's nothing to stop anyone from whispering a few private words into the right ear. No doubt the incoming government will express its gratitude in due course - perhaps even in the form of mining rights.
So when Fury opens with a grim, "That could have gone better," Clint spits out a lecture on conflict of interest, reckless endangerment and wasted resources that is both succinct and laced with expletives. Normally Fury would shut him down, or Phil would delicately clear his throat, but given that there are four dead agents Fury decides to let him rant for a bit.
"You're not wrong, Barton," he concedes. "I'll raise it at the next Council meeting. Hopefully this won't happen again."
Clint just snorts contemptuously, and Natasha rolls her eyes. Sure. That assurance and fifty grand will buy four empty coffins.
Next, Fury gives the teams moderate shit about getting too involved with the civilian population, which brings another pointed comment from Clint.
"They gave this organization the most idiotic and tortured name imaginable, just so they could have a nice-sounding acronym," he said. "But who, exactly, are we supposed to shield, if not injured children? And from what, if not certain death?"
"You can shield them all you want, Barton," Fury snaps back. "Buy them coffee, help get them out of burning buildings, and don't shoot at them if you can help it. But you're not supposed to bring them home for tea."
Clint looks over at Natasha, who smiles encouragement at him with her eyes. She tends to lay low at these meetings, lets him blow up and then cleans up the debris behind him. But the way she calculates these things, in this case their ledger got a little more balanced at the very end there, and that's worth a reprimand from the boss any day. Maybe Johnson, Maddox, Barnes and Nolan would agree.
Fury probably does himself even if he can't say it out loud, and Hill has been conspicuously silent. And so Clint decides to shut up and sit back in his chair. He's made his point ,and the kids are safe in France.
But there's more bad news. Turns out, the movement behind the curtain that Clint noticed when they were making their stand around the doctors' SUV? Apparently it was that BBC stringer, whose reports they'd been using in the absence of intel. And he had his camera.
"He managed to acquire detailed footage of you and Agent Romanoff," Fury says, and now he does sound pissed off, although at whom is hard to tell.
"Fortunately, his transmission was intercepted before it could be aired. We had to call in a number of favours from MI-6 to get onward transmittal blocked and all the original data erased."
(What he doesn't say is that he asked Hill to keep a copy of the video, for training purposes. Seeing S.H.I.E.L.D.'s two prime human assets in unstaged action in the field? Priceless. And no one needs to know about the circumstances.)
"That it?" Clint asks. Really, the list of fuck-ups on this baby could fill a toilet roll.
"Yes. No. One more thing." By this point Fury has worked himself into a bit of a general lather, and he doesn't really care whom he directs it at. Clint is the most convenient target, for one thing he can take it, and for another he generally deserves it.
"I hear left your quiver behind," the Director glowers at Clint. "Do you have any idea, Barton, how much one of those fuckers is worth?"
Clint shrugs. He really, really doesn't give a shit. Not normally – hell, how much do Fury's toys cost the taxpayers? – but especially not today. All he wants is to do is get off the helicarrier and onto that plane to Lijiang, where he and Natasha have booked a few days off the grid to level out.
"I dunno. About as much as a little kid? Maybe a bit less? Take it out of my salary if you must."
Hill, who hasn't spoken until now, gives Clint a long, hard stare before turning to the Director.
"That won't be necessary. Sir, I've already written it up as a mission expense, together with the helicopter. Three replacements have been ordered."
The briefing over, Hill grabs her papers and stalks out. Natasha raises one of her patented what the fuck? eyebrows at Clint, who looks as if he may just have witnessed the second coming.
He turns to Coulson.
"Speaking of replacements, Phil. You know where to buy that Nespresso stuff, don't you? I need to stock up."
END NOTE:
There's a little clip on one of the monitors on the helicarrier, seen when team members first arrive there, that shows Clint and Natasha fighting back to back in what's obviously a war zone. I used to think that might have been Budapest, but when you freeze frame the shot on DVD, it actually reads Operation Abidjan. Being generally oblivious I only found this out after mentioning Abidjan in my other story, "Going to Ground", and after I started writing this chapter. Talk about serendipity!
And a note on links with real life: In 2010, the then-President of Côte d'Ivoire, Laurent Gbagbo, refused to relinquish power to his elected successor, Alassane Outtara. A civil war followed that lasted well into the next year, resulting in over 2,000 deaths and the displacement of thousands more. That said, everything in this chapter is utterly fictional, with the exception of Médecins Sans Frontières, an organization I hold in the highest regard. A percentage of my frequent flyer points goes to them every time I step on a plane.