Little bit longer chapter this week - things are heating up!

And, shut down.

As Natasha hit the button in the security room, a fire alarm sounded 3 streets wide. A small fire had been started at the rooftop of a few of the buildings, to ward off people who would try to re-enter. They would be waiting a half hour for the evacuation, and in the meantime, the group would get into position. Moving with the crowd, Clint would position himself in the apartment to provide sufficient cover for Thomas and Natasha. When the path was clear enough, he would cross over by a hastily prepared zip line from roof to roof, and join the others. Natasha took camp in the small lobby outside of the hotel room, checking her weapons and clothing. With the fire-doors open, she could just see Thomas, who waited by another set of stairs down a long corridor.

"Hawkeye do you copy?" Natasha requested, comfortable behind a felt chair as people rushed around her.

"Copy Widow." Clint responded as he screwed an extension onto his sniper rifle. He had brought his bow and quiver with him, but none of these arrows would pierce the glass exterior of the hotel.

"If I buy wine later, will you smash the bottle again?"she asked through the commotion.

"If I buy a house later, will you turn up uninvited again?" teased Barton.

"A house ain't gonna get you drunk."

"Are you in position?" asked Thomas, slightly annoyed at their quibbling. With no reply, he sighed and checked his gun. "This is a suicide mission, right?"

"I love those." joked Clint.

"I hope not." Natasha said at the same time.

"Great."

"So is Carlos your age then?" Romanoff questioned.

"A year younger." he answered uneasily.

"Cool." she smiled. "When I was your age..." Her voice trailed off with the fading of her smile.

"When I was your age, I was driving around to football games." Clint recovered. "American football that is, not soccer."

"Yeah right." Nat mocked.

"I was! Didn't bother getting on a team, of course."

"Why not?" asked Thomas.

"Had better things to do." Clint sighed. He turned his head and caught sight of his quiver. His mind rolled back to an afternoon a thousand years back, a cold wintry one that brought nothing but anger and rejection letters. He had nailed them each to a tree in this desolate field, and then, with a cheap wooden bow, had fired arrows, hitting the salutations. His shots followed a rhythm and a pattern, each arrow piercing in time to a beat. Clint kept firing, splinters from the cheap wood digging into his fingertips, his inner arm scratched with markings from where the bow string had rippled in rushed shots. He wore no guard nor gloves, and the indentations in his fingers became the grounds for the grooves that lay there today. The singular acceptance letter he would receive, as he later found out, simply arrived late.

When the half hour was over, the group sprang into position. The security that came with the reality machine surfaced as the only group of people on the floor, and a late sunset set strands of gold spiralling into their eyes.

"Come in Hawk."

"What do you need, Widow?"

"How many in the room?"

"About 10 visible in main area, but it's a large suite. "

"I'll wait for them to filter out. They gotta know something's up."

"Copy that."

Natasha felt around her utility belt. Two fully loaded firearms, one penknife, one larger knife, the emergency teleport, a few first aid supplies... She missed her Widow's Bite. She could really use a little spark. Moving out of cover now, she confronted the guards at the door. And, as silently as she could, she incapacitated them. There was no struggle and the only thing that ailed her was the warm sun pounding on her neck. After she moved their bodies to the far left, she retreated to her cover.

This could be a long night.

*i*

Clint scoped out the premises. He had a good view of his companions; Natasha was taking out guards one by one and Thomas was, well, Thomas was waiting for Nat's call for him to come in. At any time, there could be movement on his adjacent, but Clint had enough ability to cover him from hostiles until he could retreat to a better position. The building was a large tower, a new building consisting of mainly glass. It was hard for Clint to see properly with the sun glare, but years of experience had rendered him capable for the job.

He missed S.H.I.E.L.D.
It was a comfort to him, a sort of grounding.

Barton was shaken awake by a warning shot that pinged off at generator beside him. He ducked behind the slight wall of the roof.

"Shot fired at my position, hostiles entering the building at west side." Clint reported.

"How fast?" asked Natasha. She seemed unfazed.

"Elevator's out, 10 minutes tops before they get to your floor."

"Copy that." She checked her belt again and shuffled into position outside the door.

"Watch your 6th Pirate." Clint warned. Thomas pulled up his pistol and checked it over, taking cover behind a wall. "If you can't hold them off, retreat to Widow's position."

"Copy." replied the 19 year old.

It was indeed around 10 minutes before a large group of men charged the floor. Firing broke out from along the corridor and so Natasha sped up her attack. She ducked and spun and threw her legs around someone's neck to take them down - far more freedom now than the sparring match with Clint earlier. Though the security was high, the guards seemed poorly equipped for such a job. It became increasingly clear, by the lack of security measures implemented, that the machine and its guards had not been at the hotel for long.

"Could use a little help." reported Thomas after a brief interlude of silence. Clint watched him as he stumbled away from a litter who ran past him, blocking one of the fire doors.

"Widow, Pirate's got trouble."

"Do your job, Hawkeye."

"Negative." he listened for a reply - there was none. He sighed. Oh, what the hell. "Tasha, can you get your ass over to your colleague already?"

"Negative." she responded, clearing the area and assembling the machine. She had studied the blueprints before, and slotted pieces together from memory. Clint peered into the space where Thomas was. He was getting overcrowded, not enough bullets left for recipients. He stumbled into a corner, no unobstructed path to him, and his assailants pulled shut the doors. Shots kept sounding from behind the foliage that he seemed to be moving around in.

"Nat, he's in real trouble."

Natasha sighed, resting her head on her chest. She pulled up her gun and began to jog down the corridor.

"Natasha get over to him -"

"Give him some cover." she shouted as she struggled her way through the people who were trying to flank her.

Screams for help erupted between shots from Thomas' comms and so the spy broke into a sprint.

"Clint!" she screamed down her comm set as she ran. "Clint, cover him!"

"I can't Nat, I can't get a clear shot."

"Move then!"

"If I move then I won't be able to cover you."

"I won't get there in time, fucking move Barton."

The communication system fell silent. Natasha bounded off the walls, taking down every thing in her way, and she reached the door where she could hear the commotion. With a singular kick she was in and fighting, the bullets around her unable to catch up with her movements. Eventually there was one man left standing, and in an indistinguishable flurry, two shots sounded.
Her gun had been aimed at his heart.
His had been aimed at Thomas' head.

Her gun had fired last.

"No..." she gasped.

In undesirable fury she ripped out her earpiece. It had been a long time since she had lost a team member on a mission, well, lost one that stayed dead that is. A small trickle of blood made its way down her chin and she realised that she had been hit once or twice on the way into the room. With frustration, and prompted by movements behind the door, Natasha barricaded the entrance and exit to the small enclosure. The art deco style chairs and tables would not hold for long. It took her a few moments before she found out that she was crying, and she left rough marks on her skin where she wiped away the tears. Her fists pounded the wall side of the corridor once and clearly before she forced herself back into the mission; she slunk carefully now to cover, and to the body of her friend.

"I told you not to bring him." Nat said softly as Clint kicked through a roof tile.

He was breathing heavily and was unusually reactive to his environment. Instead of his sniper rifle he now carried his bow, and his quiver was strapped to his back.

"Come on Tash," he started.

"Let's go." she finished, and she stood up and pried the barricade away from the door. As soon as the fire door opened, a gun appeared in her line of sight, and she curved down to high kick it out of whoever's hands. As her foot swung up, the gun fired and, though her desperation fought for another option, for anything other than this, she knew that she had been the last to finish once again.

Thanks for reading!
I'm glad to see that there's still a lot of interest in this story.