VLADIVOSTOK, RUSSIA
10:01 P.M.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Barton's breath clouded the darkness as he trudged down the sidewalk, hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. Snatches of laughter and Russian conversation met his ears, and from somewhere nearby issued the throbbing music of a nightclub. Now and again a car whooshed past, its humming motor disrupting the relative quiet of the street.
Not far ahead, the word "ОТКРЫТО" glowed red through a storefront window, indicating that the establishment was open. Barton pushed open the door, and a bell jingled overhead as he let himself into the bar.
The small room inside was only slightly warmer. A bluesy song played faintly somewhere overhead, and a few rough-looking patrons slouched at various tables, drinking.
Barton spied his quarry immediately—a blonde woman in dark clothing, perched on a barstool with a smoking cigarette between her fingers. He approached the bar warily, sliding into a seat close to hers.
The heavyset bartender stared impatiently at Barton as he scrubbed out the inside of a glass, but Barton waved him away.
"Give me a minute."
The woman started at the sound of his voice, head turning toward him slightly, fingers gripping the cigarette a bit too firmly. She was trying to glimpse him from the corner of her eye—too tense, too easy to read.
Barton lounged against the counter, projecting casual interest while he analyzed her every movement. He jerked his chin upward in greeting. "Hey."
She looked sharply at him, his advance giving her an excuse to eye him more directly. He tossed her a presumptuous smirk, trying to lure her in, but she gazed back expressionlessly, eyes running up and down his frame. He saw her taking in his athletic build, doubtless pegging him as a fighter of some sort, and noted how her gaze lingered at his shoes and belt, searching for weapons. An American fighter approaching her in a bar was not likely to mean good news for her, and she knew it—her conclusion was visible in her stiff posture and comportment.
"Come here often?" Barton drawled, deliberately cliché.
She stared at him a moment longer, then abruptly turned away and extinguished her cigarette in an ashtray.
"No speak English," she muttered in a thick Russian accent, slipping off the barstool. "Doe svidaniya, ser."
Barton leapt to his feet and stepped sideways, blocking her path to the door. "Oh, I think you do, Galina Antonova," he said quietly.
Raw fear flashed in her eyes, and she pushed past him, the bell jingling again as she charged through the door. Barton raced after her.
He caught up with her as she paced down the sidewalk, eyes straight ahead. "I'm not gonna hurt you, I just wanna talk to you," he muttered.
"Get away from me." Her voice was sharp and icy as the air.
She was trying to hide her fear behind hostility, but he saw it in the quick desperation of her footsteps, her short, rapid breaths in the cold.
"This isn't a trap, I'm alone, I just wanna talk," Barton persisted, keeping pace with her.
In a heartbeat she had pulled her gun on him, breathing hard, her eyes dangerous.
"I said get away from me," she growled.
Barton, hands raised in a placating gesture, decided that it was time to play his trump card.
"Antonova," he said. "I wanna talk to you about the Goldfire Virus."
Her demeanor changed instantly; her eyebrows went up and her weapon lowered until it was pointing at the ground. She squinted, studying him.
"Who are you?" she asked finally. "How did you find me?"
Barton shrugged, hands still hanging in the air. "Long story."
She eyed him a moment longer, then scanned the street, doubtless noting the few passersby. Her gaze fell on him again.
"Nu nahyer," she muttered to herself, and he understood enough Russian profanity that he was unsurprised when she seized him roughly by the arm, her pistol jabbing the center of his back, and dragged him into the alley.
"Put your hands on the wall," she ordered, pushing him into the side of a brick building. He braced himself on his palms and she immediately began to search him, beginning with the pockets of his jacket. Finding them empty, she slid her hands along his belt until she found the pistol tucked in his waistband.
"Obludok," she hissed, hastily tugging the weapon out of his jeans. Bastard. "Why do you have this, if you are not going to hurt me?"
"'Cause I'm not stupid."
She growled a retort in Russian and continued to frisk him, checking his pantlegs and pulling his knives from his back pocket and the cuff of his boot. At last she stepped back.
"Turn around and put your hands in your pockets."
He did as instructed and found her tucking his weapons out of view.
"Walk now."
She clutched his elbow and dragged him back to the sidewalk. Behind his arm, he could feel her pistol digging into his ribs.
"One wrong move and I will shoot you."
They walked in silence for several minutes, their footsteps beating a rapid tattoo on the concrete. The only other sound was the occasional swish of a passing car, often accompanied by the heavy thump of bass. They passed few open businesses and fewer people.
Antonova was tense; her hands gripped his arm tightly and she cast frequent glances over her shoulder. Occasionally she would yank him into a back alley or down an empty street, and she retraced their steps once or twice.
"You don't need to do this," Barton said impatiently as she spun him around and dragged him across a road they had already crossed. "I told you I'm alone. We're not being followed."
She jabbed him hard with the pistol. "Shut up."
Not far ahead, the open doors of a restaurant spilled golden light and noise and laughter into the cold. Antonova steered him towards it, and they slipped through the doors.
Inside it was warm and noisy, and savory smells filled the air. Antonova cut a weaving path through the tables to the very back of the restaurant, where she shoved him into an empty booth and slid into the opposite seat.
"So," she said, leaning forward on her elbows. "Tell me what you know about Goldfire Virus."
Barton shook his head. "Not how this works. I'm here to make a trade, not deliver a present. You want something from me, you're gonna have to give me something in return."
She raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"
"Information," Barton said, folding his arms on the tabletop.
Antonova squinted dubiously at him.
"You know, you still have not told me who you are."
Barton shrugged. "Does it matter?"
"Yes," she snapped. "I like to know who it is I am giving information to."
Barton shrugged again and sat back in his seat, settling an arm on the backrest. "Name's Devon Colter. Ex-FBI. Used to work for the American government, but over time I realized how fucked up the system is over there. Those sons of bitches like to think they're so much better than the likes of Russia, North Korea, you name it, but the truth is, they're no better than the rest of 'em. Got fed up with getting told who I was allowed to shoot at, so I split. Now I'm a one-man show." He eyed her across the table, hopeful that she would be more trusting of a mercenary who shared her dislike of the American government.
He was pleased to find her nodding, already looking less suspicious. A bit amateur of her, he mused to himself, to accept this identity without question, but he supposed she had no particular reason to question it at this point.
"Alright then, Devon Colter," she said. "What is it you want to know?"
Barton paused, watching her across the table. Whether or not Antonova knew anything would be immediately apparent from her reaction to his question. This was his last possible thread, and a part of him dreaded pulling it.
"What do you know about Natalia Romanova?"
Antonova raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Natalia Romanova? The Black Widow?" she said, and Barton's hope began to drain. This was not the reaction of a woman who was hiding something.
"That's the one," he muttered, looking down at the tabletop.
"Not much," Antonova said. "Some call her the Slavic Shadow. Others the Red Death. I call her traitor. But why do you ask me? I am not KGB, I am not connected to her. You are American intelligence; surely you know more than I."
"Was American intelligence," Barton said shortly. His desperation was rising; his only remaining lead was beginning to look useless. He had known going in that it was a long shot, but everything had seemed to fit: Romanoff had been communicating with someone in Vladivostok, Antonova was based in southeastern Russia near Vladivostok, and Romanoff had vanished near Vladivostok on a mission which had involved Antonova. And yet Antonova's surprise seemed sincere.
"Well, I do not know much," Antonova said, eyeing him curiously. "She was KGB's puppet. She defected, and now she works for American government. SHIELD."
Barton nodded slowly, hot frustration clawing at him as his last ember of hope faded. Antonova was still watching him across the table.
"But what do you want with Natalia Romanova?"
"That's none of your damn business," Barton snapped.
Antonova frowned. "There is no need to shout. I told you, I am not KGB. Perhaps you could find out more from someone who is."
Barton raised his head slowly. "You know someone?"
Antonova smiled maddeningly. "I might," she said. "If your information is as good as you say it is."
"Okay, fine." Barton rubbed at his forehead, suddenly tired. "Tell me what you know and I'll fill in the blanks." In truth, he did not know the exact details of what had happened in Harbin, but he knew Romanoff well enough to guess at some of her methods given their results. Besides which he had pored over the Operation GOLDFIRE file enough to be quite familiar with the case.
Antonova shrugged, scowling. "I know nothing," she said. "I was supposed to be at train station in Harbin at one-thirty to meet the vendor."
"Huang Jung Tao," Barton supplied, nodding.
"He never showed up," Antonova said, brows still furrowed. "And when I spoke to him later, he insisted he had met me and we had completed the transaction. I believed he was lying to me. But you know otherwise?"
The details Barton was missing had fallen into place, and he smirked a little, unable to suppress his satisfaction at Romanoff's success.
"Romanova got there first," he said aloud. "Impersonated you, probably disguised herself—unless you'd never met Tao?" he added, on further thought.
"Not in person," Antonova confirmed. "We only spoke over the phone."
"That made it too easy," Barton said. "Tao had no way of knowing she wasn't you. She just waltzed right in and took it."
"Then where is the virus now?" Antonova demanded.
"Romanova brought it back to America," Barton said. "SHIELD has it."
Antonova lapsed into silence, glaring at the tabletop, while Barton wondered abstractedly how Romanoff had escaped Antonova's notice during the trade-off. She'd met Tao somewhere else, if he had to guess—had called him beforehand pretending to be Antonova and changed the rendezvous point; or, more likely, had arrived early and convinced Tao to meet her elsewhere on some pretense. Whatever her method, it had clearly been effective.
"Then you and I both have a reason to seek Natalia Romanova," Antonova spoke up. Her eyes were shining with dangerous intent, and she leaned toward him across the table, dropping her voice below the conversation and hubbub in the room.
"What do you say we work together?" she asked. "We will get our word with the Slavic Shadow. We will walk right into SHIELD and take her by force if we have to."
Rather than pointing out what an ineffective and foolhardy move this would be, Barton raised his eyebrows and said, "You know, you still haven't named that KGB contact you claim you have."
Antonova grinned.
"Then how about another trade?" she said. "I will give you this name, and in return, you will bring me Goldfire Virus."
"And how do you expect me to do that?" Barton asked in disgust. "Like I said, I'm not American intelligence anymore. Never SHIELD to begin with."
"But surely you have connections in American government which I do not," Antonova said, still smiling widely at him.
"If I did, that's where I'd be," Barton shot back.
Antonova laughed softly and leaned back in her seat.
"Very well, then," she said with a sneer. "There is no deal. No virus for me, no KGB contact for you."
Her mocking tone indicated that she expected to be contradicted, but as far as Barton was concerned, the conversation was over. He was not going to hand a deadly weapon to a known hostile in exchange for the name of one person who may or may not know slightly more about Romanoff than Antonova did, which was not much to begin with. Committed though he was to finding her, he was not stupid—he recognized a bad deal when he saw one. But he was getting the distinct impression that Antonova was not going to let him leave without some semblance of an agreement.
So he sat back and stroked his chin, feigning uncertainty. "I'd have to think about it."
"Please do," Antonova said, with a rather nasty smile. "You have one week. If you do not contact me in that time, there is no deal."
"Fine," Barton said. "Can I have my weapons back now?"
Antonova slid them across the table. "I assume you know how to find me."
"I'll be in touch," Barton lied.
He stood and left the restaurant.
S.H.I.E.L.D. HEADQUARTERS
NEW YORK CITY
8:39 P.M.
Barton was surprised to find Hill waiting for him when he strode in from the hangar.
"No news from Vladivostok, I take it," she said, falling into step beside him.
"It's just a matter of time," he grunted, cutting a path through the noisy hallway. "City's only so big. Odds are I'll run into her eventually."
"Well, it's good to have you back," Hill said briskly.
"Well you know I'm not stopping here long," Barton replied. "Just crossed off what would've been my last lead, but see, on the flight back, I got to thinking. We don't know who she was contacting, but we do know they're in Vladivostok, and based on that and the fact that the line was scrambled, it's probably someone she knew from before, right?—"
"Barton, what do you know about the uprisings in southwest Europe?" Hill cut in.
Barton blinked. "I—What? Nothing. First I've heard of it. Anyway—"
"There's been some attacks. Local," Hill went on before he could finish. "Extremists or terrorists, we're not sure which, but they're causing a lot of trouble, and the powers that be are in over their heads trying to handle it. We've been sending teams down in the past couple weeks to lend a hand." She paused. "I was hoping you'd be interested in helping out."
She had by now followed him all the way to the cafeteria, which was at the peak of its lively dinner-time rush. Barton waved a hand dismissively, heading toward the food line.
"Listen, I'd love to, Hill, but like I said, I'm not staying long; I gotta get back to Vladivostok," he said. "Just needed to refuel, restock on ammo, and do a little research for my next lead." He grabbed a plate and began loading it with food.
Hill followed, filling a plate for herself. "Just to be clear, Barton, saying 'I was hoping you'd be interested' was my way of trying to give an order in a less overbearing way; it doesn't actually mean you have a choice in the matter."
Barton raised his eyebrows, briefly diverted from his train of thought. "You? Trying to be less overbearing? HR must have some real dirt on you, Hill."
"It's part of their initiative to create what they called 'a less punishing work environment' for my subordinates," Hill said dryly. "Regardless, you're sidestepping the question."
Barton shook his head, moving down the line. "Sorry, I just don't have the time; see, I was thinking, if we made a list of all the current and former KGB members we have on file here and narrowed it down to those in the Vladivostok area—"
"Barton," Hill said sharply, and the authority in her tone stopped him. "There's a reason I'm asking for your help on this one."
Barton eyed her warily, pausing at the end of the line. "What's that?"
Hill hesitated, watching him closely. At last, she set down her plate and said, "Barton, you're not going to be able to continue the search for Romanoff."
Barton froze. "What? Why not?"
"Because the reality is that we have more pressing concerns." Barton started to retort, but Hill cut him off. "Barton, listen to me. I know how important this is to you; believe me, I do. But the fact remains that you have done nothing but look for your partner for the past six months."
Barton scowled, setting his plate aside. "One of our own went missing under mysterious circumstances, in a country that is not an ally. We should all be working at a hundred percent on this."
Hill pinched the bridge of her nose. "This may come as a shock to you, Barton, but there are other things going on in the world right now."
Barton crossed his arms, glaring quietly at her.
"Now, I am sorry about what happened to your partner," Hill went on. "She was a valuable asset and, more than that, a good friend. But we have next to nothing to go on, and all our evidence indicates that she left voluntarily, which means she may not even be in any danger. In the meantime, there are other people who are in immediate danger, whom you could actually be helping."
"I just need more time," Barton said urgently, stepping closer. His chest was heavy with dread. "I know I can track her down, just—please just give me a few more months."
"Even if I wanted to do that, I couldn't," Hill said. "The order comes directly from Fury; it's not up to me."
"Then let me talk to Fury," Barton countered.
Hill shook her head. "Fury's right. We need you here."
Barton sighed and massaged his forehead. "Just give me another chance."
"Barton, this is not a discussion! The answer is no!" Hill said sharply.
Barton went silent, cowed by her severity, hopelessness welling up in his stomach as he began to comprehend that there was no way around this. His despair must have shown on his face, because Hill sighed and folded her arms, looking up at the ceiling.
"Goddammit," she said. "Why does Coulson always make me play bad cop? One of these days I'm gonna make him play bad cop for a change, see how he likes it."
Barton didn't reply. He was evaluating just how much trouble he would be in if he continued the search without SHIELD's knowledge.
"Look, no one's saying you can't keep looking on your own," Hill said, as if reading his thoughts. "But when you're using SHIELD time, money, and equipment, it has to be on SHIELD-issued cases, otherwise you're just a drain on our resources."
Barton picked up his plate again and moved slowly to the nearest table, silently acknowledging Hill's logic. He lowered himself into a chair, staring vacantly at his food as Hill slipped into the seat across from him.
No more quinjets or helicopters at his disposal, no freedom to drop everything and leave Headquarters at his own whim. But he knew Hill was right. Romanoff's case was barely moving; SHIELD needed the aircrafts and funds he was using, and SHIELD needed him. SHIELD's willingness to turn a blind eye to his use of company supplies for so long (for what had become a personal investigation) was a testament to how much they valued and trusted him, and how much lenience they were willing to show someone who had worked faithfully and efficiently for them for many years. He doubted whether the average SHIELD lackey could have gotten away with that. Yet what did he have to show for all that value and trust? Was it reasonable to ask them to continue supporting him in this endeavor when, if he was being honest with himself, he'd uncovered little with regard to Romanoff's whereabouts?
Barton exhaled and buried his face in his hands. Suddenly she seemed farther away than ever before.
"Okay," he said finally, looking up at Hill. "From now on, I'll look for her on my own dime."
Hill nodded her approval.
Barton shoveled a forkful of beans into his mouth. "Tell me about the uprisings case."
Thank you to Katie MacAlpine for reviewing ^-^ And thank you to everyone who followed! Hope you are enjoying it! Happy Christmas Eve to all who celebrate :)