WASHINGTON, D.C.
7:08 P.M.
TWO MONTHS LATER
Rotor blades whirred overhead as Barton steered the helicopter through the darkening sky. The sun painted the clouds purple and gold as it slipped below the horizon, and here and there a lonely star was bold enough to show itself. The city below twinkled with headlights.
Barton's gaze shifted to his destination: a rooftop where an enormous circle glowed around a large, luminous H. Through the dimness, he distinguished a handful of people standing near the edge of the roof.
"Approaching destination," he said into his headset. "Prepare for landing."
Barton brought the helicopter closer to the building, slowed, and began decreasing altitude. From this distance, he could see the people on the roof more clearly—a woman and three men in business attire, their hair and clothing whipping in the strong breeze from the rotor blades.
Barton eased the aircraft carefully onto the helipad and switched off the engine. He pulled off his headset, the shrill whine of the blades dying overhead, and climbed out of the cockpit. Behind him, his team slid open the cabin door and filed out, following him toward the standersby.
The woman approached them, the men trailing in her wake.
"Agent Barton?" she addressed him as she neared.
"That's me."
She drew to a halt in front of him and extended her hand. "Agent Jordan Rose, FBI. Thank you so much for coming."
Barton shook her hand. "Not a problem. We on time?"
"The supper's just starting," Rose replied. "Is your team ready?"
"All set."
"Perfect. Please follow me." She turned and led the way through an access door and down a short flight of stairs.
They emerged in an empty hallway, their footsteps echoing off the stark white walls.
"I have my team guarding all the entrances," Rose said as they strode down the passage. "They're gonna be approving everyone for entrance, checking their invites, the whole deal. In the meantime, you people will be stationed in the dining hall. The supper should be over by ten, so you'll be on duty for about three hours. It shouldn't be too hard; just stay out of the servers' way and don't let anyone die." Rose paused outside an elevator bank and pressed the button. The doors slid apart with a chime, and they all trooped on board.
Rose pushed the button for the second floor. "We're also gonna need one or two of you outside the control room," she said as the doors closed and the elevator whooshed downward. "At last year's supper, someone got in and messed with the security cameras. All the feed shows during the shooting is static."
"Do we have a way to identify the shooter?" Barton asked. "Description, photograph?"
"No photograph and only a basic description. Security was a bit lax last year and it all happened so fast," Rose said. "Only a few people caught a glimpse of her."
Barton looked sharply at Rose. "Her?" he repeated, heart rate spiking.
Rose nodded. "Blonde woman. Slim, not too tall, disguised as one of the guests."
She could've worn a wig.
Barton's hope was rising at the prospect of a new lead, but then Rubin caught his eye across the elevator. He shook his head slowly, and Barton deflated. Rubin was right. He had to think logically about this. An image of the redhead from Monte Carlo flashed through his mind; he'd been forcibly reminded that day that not every woman who could wield a gun was his partner. He scowled and looked away.
Get a grip.
"But I'm not too concerned about that," Rose went on, as the elevator slowed to stop. "The important thing is that your team is here. A little extra security should do the trick."
The elevator doors chimed apart, and Rose let the way down another hallway. Warmth and light and chatter spilled from the intermittent doors of the dining hall, issuing into the passage.
"Barton." Rubin was suddenly at his elbow.
"I know," Barton muttered back, irritated. "I know it wasn't her. Last year's election was in early November, so the supper would've been late October. She was still at SHIELD then; hadn't left yet."
"Alright, just making sure," Rubin murmured, and fell silent.
Up ahead, Rose was gesturing to a corridor that branched off to the left. "The control room's that way," she said. "I'll have Red show your men where they'll be stationed."
One of the suit-clad men at Rose's side peeled off and started toward the hall. "Follow me."
"Booth, Gutierrez, go," Barton ordered, and the two men followed Red down the passage.
"The rest of you will be posted in the dining hall." Rose pulled her phone from her pocket and swiped briskly through it. "One last thing. Bill Segen—the man who was killed last year, as you may remember—was the Republican candidate for governor of Michigan. The Republican candidate this year is Rich Morris." She passed her phone to the man on her right, who passed it back to Barton. He studied the photo of the pasty, grinning old man for a moment before handing it to Rubin.
"Whoever shot Segen last year may not necessarily be targeting the Republican candidate; she may have singled him out for another reason entirely," Rose said as the SHIELD agents passed the picture around. "But I thought you should be aware, just in case."
McLane returned Rose's phone and she slipped it into her pocket, turning to face them. "We have medics on standby in case of emergency. Hopefully we won't need them. Good luck." She and her men continued down the hall.
Barton motioned his team toward the nearest dining hall entrance. "C'mon."
He led the way into a vast, high-ceilinged room, dimly lit by ornate chandeliers and trembling candlelight. Circular tables were scattered throughout the room, set with extravagant centerpieces and place settings. Black-and-white-clad waiters ushered arriving patrons into chairs while others carried steaming dishes to those who were already seated.
Barton spied Morris immediately, sitting at a table with other men in tuxedos and women in gowns.
"Morris. Red tie, two o'clock," he said. "Keep an eye on him." And then, "Mayer, Mackenzie, west wall. Rubin, Sabatini, north. Kelsey, McLane, you two take the east wall, Loor, you're with me on the south."
The agents moved around the edges of the room to their posts. Barton and Loor positioned themselves on either side of the swinging double doors that led to the kitchen; every time a waiter pushed his way through, heat and enticing smells flavored the air around them.
The dining hall continued to fill with elaborately-dressed guests—more men in tuxes, more women in evening gowns, crowding the room, settling around the large tables. Barton scrutinized each person who stepped through the doors, searching for anomalies—furtive expressions, quick movements, suspect bulges bespeaking contraband overlooked by primary security. But everyone was the same; every mouth laughed and spoke and ate and smiled and sipped wine, every hand clasped another in greeting, gestured animatedly, brandished forks and spoons and knives. Every eye was cheerful and without pretense; a few glanced toward himself and his team with expressions of relief and appreciation, doubtless glad to feel safe after last year's disaster.
All the while, Barton kept a close watch on Morris, as well as searching those around him for signs of malicious intent.
Time crawled tediously by in this manner, filled only with the sounds of laughter and chatter and the tinkle of silverware. Just when the situation was becoming unbearably monotonous, there was a commotion at Morris's table. There was a flurry of movement and a chair scraped back noisily; Barton and Loor started instinctively away from the wall, then hesitated.
Morris was red in the face, clutching at his throat, apparently choking on a piece of food, and his wife stood anxiously at his side, patting his back. Loor stepped back to the wall, evidently satisfied that this was not in their jurisdiction, but as Morris continued to choke and gag, an idea slowly bloomed in Barton's mind… poison.
Hardly had the thought registered when Morris's eyes rolled back and he fell convulsing to the floor. Cries and shouts of terror erupted all around, and Barton charged across the room toward him, skidding to his knees.
"We need a medic!" he yelled, rolling the writhing man onto his side. "Sabatini!" He pointed at the door, and Sabatini rushed off to alert medical.
An idea flashed through Barton's mind—the security footage. He leapt to his feet.
"Loor, stay with him," he ordered, and as Loor knelt down, Barton ran from the room and into the silent hall.
His rapid footsteps echoed off the pristine walls as he headed toward where Booth and Gutierrez had vanished. He reached a fork in the maze of hallways and hesitated, looking swiftly to the left and right. The sound of receding footsteps echoed on his left, and he whipped his head around.
"Booth? Gutierrez?"
An answering moan sounded from the right. Barton turned and ran towards the noise, making a sharp left at the end of the hall.
Booth and Gutierrez were sprawled on the floor in front of the control room door, which hung open on its hinges. Booth was stirring feebly, trying slowly to raise himself into a sitting position.
Dammit. Too late.
Barton rushed past his men and stepped into the control room. The many screens in front of the control panel were abuzz with static, confirming his fears. Frustration clawed at him—he had failed.
Barton stepped back into the hall and approached Booth. "What happened?"
"Dunno," Booth grunted, finally sitting up. He touched the back of his head and winced. "We were attacked. Some guy in a stocking mask… It all happened so fast."
"Guy?" Barton repeated.
"Coulda been a woman. Didn't get a good look… it all happened so fast"
Barton moved to Gutierrez, who remained motionless, and stooped at his side. He pressed two fingers to the side of the man's neck and found his pulse steady and strong.
Barton glanced at Booth, who was blinking and prodding gingerly at his head. "You okay?"
"I think I'll make it. Gutierrez okay?"
"Think so." Barton stood. "Morris was poisoned."
Booth stared at him in shock. "What?"
"He started seizing; medics should be with him now. I didn't think it was an accident." He gestured to the control room. "Now I know for sure."
Booth shook his head. "Shit. I fucked up, didn't I?"
"Agent Barton!"
Barton turned to find Rose sprinting down the hall toward them, face puckered with worry. Her gaze slid from Gutierrez to Booth, who was stumbling to his feet, and her eyes widened. "The footage?"
"Gone," Barton said simply.
"It's gone?" Rose halted in place, staring at him. "Goddammit!" She pressed her palms into her temples. "I hired you to do one thing, Agent Barton! It's gone? Dammit!" She began pacing back and forth in agitation.
"I'm sorry," Barton said immediately. "We should've stopped this. That's what you hired us for."
"You're sorry?" Rose snapped, still pacing and wringing her hands. "A man is dead, Agent Barton! And now we have no leads to his killer! Dammit, this is just last year all over again!"
Barton was quiet, giving Rose a moment to pace. No doubt she blamed herself for instructing him to leave only two of his men guarding the control room, which in retrospect should perhaps have been more heavily guarded.
"It made sense for security to be tightest near Morris, given how things went down last year," he said reassuringly, as Rose continued stalking back and forth, head down. "It's impossible to prepare for every scenario."
Rose slowed to a stop, her shoulders slackening. She leaned against the wall and looked up at him. "I appreciate that, Barton. But as head of security, this is on me." She sighed and folded her arms. "I shouldn't have laid into you like that. Frankly, your team was just insurance; I've got multiple security details stationed throughout the building. At some point we've just got to accept that whoever did this was better prepared."
Barton just exhaled and shook his head. He felt frustrated and defeated.
"Are your men alright?" Rose asked finally.
Barton glanced at Gutierrez, who was still out cold. "Should probably get looked at."
Rose pulled her handset from her belt. "Agent Rose to Malcolm, send the medical team to the control room."
"Copy that."
Rose brushed past them and stepped into the control room. Barton joined her, disheartenedly watching the hissing static.
"Sure there's no way to recover the footage?" he asked finally.
Rose shook her head, arms crossed. "It's the same as last year. Static. Our people couldn't restore it."
Barton dragged his gaze across the glitching screens, an idea forming. "I might know someone who can."
S.H.I.E.L.D. HEADQUARTERS
NEW YORK CITY
2:13 P.M.
"Agent Barton, Agent Barton, report to Deputy Director Hill in Conference Room Thirteen, thank you."
Barton detected the strange mood as soon as he entered the conference room. Hill was pacing back and forth at the far wall and Coulson sat at the conference table with his head down, hands clasped on the tabletop.
"What's going on?" Barton asked warily, glancing from one to the other.
Hill turned to him, placing her hands on her hips. "Sit down, Barton."
Barton eased himself into the end seat, anxious questions swirling in his mind.
Hill folded her arms and worked her jaw back and forth, clearly hesitant to begin.
"We got Rich Morris's tox screen results back from the lab," she said finally. "Sarin, lots of it. It's a biotoxin—colorless, odorless, virtually undetectable. His death definitely wasn't an accident."
Barton nodded. "So, no surprise there."
"We're having our people look for commercial sources in the area, see if they can pick up any leads," Hill said. "If the killer bought it recently, we may be able to find a money trail."
Barton nodded again, waiting expectantly for her to continue. She remained silent, however, scrutinizing him, until at last he said, "Is that all?"
Hill and Coulson exchanged a glance.
"No," Hill said slowly. "Max was able to decrypt the security footage you brought back from DC."
Barton raised his eyebrows, curiosity sparking. "Yeah? So we can see who did it now, right?"
Hill paused. "We can." She turned to tap the screen which was mounted on the wall behind the table, and a grainy, sepia-toned image of a busy kitchen blinked to life.
"Wait." Dread was swelling in Barton's stomach. Hill's hesitance. Coulson's subdued silence. Their meaningful shared glances.
"Is it someone we know?" he asked, feeling he already knew the answer. There was no need to specify to whom he was referring.
Hill and Coulson shared another glance. Then Hill tapped the image and it sprang to life.
The rapidly-moving timer in the lower right-hand corner placed the time at slightly after 8 pm. Waiters and chefs were moving swiftly through the hazy space; steam rose thickly from pans and skillets on the stove, and neatly arranged-dishes sat waiting on the sideboard. Now and then a waiter would whisk one or two of these away through the swinging doors by which he himself had been stationed.
From the left-hand side of the screen strode a familiar figure. Barton's heart thudded hard in his chest.
She was dressed in black and white waitress uniform with her hair tied back; a stack of dishes was balanced in her left hand. As she passed the sideboard, her right hand slipped out of her pocket, hovered briefly over one of the dishes and returned to her pocket. The movement was so quick that it could almost have been mistaken for a glitch in the footage. And then she was out of the frame again, having only been visible for a few short seconds.
Hill paused the clip and turned appraising eyes to Barton. He was silent, cold with shock. It was her. She had killed Morris.
It registered with a pang that he had been on the other side of that wall, mere feet away from her. Hot frustration flushed through him at the thought, and he gritted his teeth. If he had just stepped through that door…
"Barton, that's not all," Hill spoke up. "FBI sent footage from last year's shooting. It had been tampered with in the same way, and Max was able to restore it." She swiped to a new image: the dining hall, looking just as it had last week—busy, cheerful, and glowing.
And then there she was again—loitering in the lower left-hand corner in a light blue gown, hair pale and curled. She cast a quick glance around, raised a handgun, and fired. A man at the far side of the room shuddered violently and toppled out of his chair, and panicked partygoers all around were diving under tables. She turned toward the camera, preparing to run away, and Hill paused the clip.
Barton stared into his partner's serious face, heart beating rather fast. He had not looked at that face in a long time.
"I went through her field reports from last October," Hill spoke up. "She had a solo op in Virginia the same day as the supper. Wouldn't've been hard to drop by the Capitol while she was out there."
The room was silent for a few long minutes as he tried to process when he was seeing and hearing.
"So… she killed them," he said finally.
Neither Hill nor Coulson replied. Coulson had not yet looked up from the tabletop.
Barton turned on Hill. "Why," he asked tightly. His face had gone oddly numb; he wasn't yet sure what he was feeling.
Hill shook her head, arms still crossed. "We don't know." She paused for a long moment, and Barton tensed. Hill seemed to be bracing to say something that was somehow even worse.
"Barton, as of today, SHIELD's classified Romanoff as a hostile, threat level ten."
"What." Barton jumped to his feet, suddenly hot and cold all over.
"Barton, sit down," Hill said sternly.
"What do you mean, she's a fucking threat level ten!" Barton yelled. "That's bullshit, she's not a goddamn terrorist—!"
"Barton, calm down, that's not—"
"'Calm down'? It's a damn kill order!" Barton shouted. His head was pounding. "Level ten is fucking 'kill on sight'! You just authorized every sad sucker with a badge to put a bullet in my partner's head, and I'm supposed to 'calm down'?"
"—will you listen to me for one goddamn second?" Hill snapped.
Barton shut his mouth, glaring fiercely at her. He was breathing hard and his head was still pounding; he needed to punch something.
"I know this is hard for you," Hill said forcefully. "I know it's personal. But Barton, look at the evidence. She killed those men, she walked off base—"
"ROMANOFF'S NOT A FUCKING TRAITOR!" Barton roared.
"Will you just let me—!"
"There's a perfectly logical explanation for everything she's done!" Barton blundered on recklessly. "We can't just fucking decide she's the enemy! Whose bright idea was this anyway? Coulson?" He turned to his handler, fuming.
Coulson shook his head.
"Hill?"
"Barton, relax, it's not—"
"It was Fury, wasn't it?" Barton growled.
"Calm the hell down, agent," Hill said sharply. "It's not just a matter of—Barton!" she called, for he had spun around and was charging heedlessly through the door. Hill called after him again, but he ignored her, moving blindly down the halls toward the elevators.
He emerged on the penthouse level, strode down the corridor, and let himself into the reception area. Fury's secretary looked up in surprise as he marched toward the door that led to Fury's office.
"Hey! You can't go in there!" she said shrilly, as he searched wildly for a card slot. "You don't have an appointment!"
Barton pounded on the door. "Let me in, you one-eyed son-of-a-bitch!"
"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave!" the secretary said, as he continued pounding.
"Open the door, goddammit!"
"Agent, if you don't leave now, I'm calling security!"
And then Fury's voice sounded over the intercom: "Let him in, Eileen."
The secretary tutted disapprovingly, but she pressed a buzzer on the desk and the lock clicked open. Barton opened the door and barged into the office.
"Threat level ten?" he snapped, stalking toward Fury. "Threat level fucking ten?"
Fury, who stood by the floor-to-ceiling window with his hands behind his back, turned to face him. "You would've gone lower?"
"IT'S A FUCKING KILL ORDER!" Barton yelled. "You want her to die? You want her to fucking die without a chance to explain herself?"
"No, I don't."
"THEN WHY'D YOU PUT HER ON THE KILL LIST!" Barton shouted. "Newsflash, people fucking die when you put 'em on the goddamn kill list!"
Fury glared at him. "Well if you'll let me speak, I'd be happy to explain."
Barton crossed his arms, glaring right back.
Fury moved across the room toward his desk. "A classification of threat level ten is not a kill order," he said. "Among other things, it authorizes agents to use live rounds should they happen to encounter more dangerous individuals." He halted behind his desk and turned to face him. "I'm not sending anyone to take her out; I'm not painting a target on her back. Just allowing people to use deadly force to defend themselves if they happen to run into her."
"I know that," Barton spat. "But why'd you—?"
"Because classifying her as a threat without allowing my people to use bullets is signing the death warrant of every agent who engages her," Fury said.
Barton clenched his jaw.
Fury pressed his palms into the desk, leaning forward. "You and I both know what Natasha Romanoff's capable of," he said. "There's only one person in this building who has the ability to bring her in without killing her, and I'm looking right at him."
Barton scowled and looked away, unwilling to acknowledge Fury's reasoning.
Fury settled into his desk chair. "You asked me if I want to hear her side of the story, and I do," he said. "I'm just afraid she won't give us that option."
"We still don't know she's a damn hostile," Barton snarled. "We don't have enough evidence."
"Well, let's see." Fury sat back in his chair. "She's former Russian intelligence. She's apparently been making unauthorized kills at least since last October. We found an encrypted communications line with Russia on her personal computer. She abandoned her post without leave near the Russian border. We have footage of her murdering two American governmental candidates. I'd say we have plenty of evidence."
For the first time, Barton felt a twinge of doubt tugging at him. He impatiently brushed it aside without allowing himself to consider it. She's not a traitor. She can't be a traitor.
"But what if there's another explanation?" he demanded. "What if she's not acting voluntarily? What if someone else is pulling the strings?"
"I won't deny there's a possibility," Fury said, rubbing his chin. "But we have to act based on what we know, not what we wish we knew."
"So you admit there's a chance she's on our side, yet you're willing to risk her life without knowing for sure?" Barton said, his voice rising angrily.
"I do not have the luxury of sitting around waiting for more information to come in!" Fury barked, his eye blazing. "Nor do I have the privilege of making decisions based on what I feel may be the case! I am taking the best possible course of action based on the facts. What astonishes me is your complete inability to even consider that you may have been wrong about Romanoff!"
Barton leaned across the desk on his palms. "I know her," he said forcefully. "And I trust her."
"Trust is often misplaced," Fury replied. "And it can always be broken."
"Oh, you're a regular Aesop," Barton snarled. "This the part where you and Mad-Eye Moody warn me about 'constant vigilance'? Whine at me about the fleetingness of friendship like a couple of paranoid, one-eyed freaks?"
They glared at each other.
Fury said, "Are you finished?"
Barton shrugged and folded his arms. "I know she wouldn't betray us like this. Not her."
Fury raised his eyebrows. "Interesting. Yet you have no trouble believing she betrayed her own people to work for SHIELD. Is this really any different?"
Barton glowered at him, unsure how to respond. Again that prickle of uncertainty.
"Barton."
Barton turned. Coulson was standing quietly in the doorway.
"Let's go."
Barton turned back to Fury. "You're wrong. She's not a traitor," he said fiercely. "And I'm gonna prove it." He turned to follow Coulson out of the office.
"I hope you're right," Fury said from behind. "I don't like the idea of having her as an enemy."
Coulson closed the door.
They headed down the hall to the elevators. Barton stepped inside and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes while Coulson selected the floor. A storm of conflicting emotions was churning through him: disbelief, confusion, frustration, hurt, and, beneath it all, that deep, ever-present sense of longing. The doors swooshed closed and the elevator started downward.
Barton opened his eyes. Coulson was standing across from him with his arms folded, staring at the floor. Strips of light slid up the crack between the doors as they passed floor after floor.
"You don't believe it, do you, sir?" Barton spoke up.
Coulson sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I don't know," he said, looking up. "I know I don't want to." His face was drawn and exhausted, and Barton realized for the first time that his handler was taking this perhaps as hard as he was.
"She's certainly capable of defection," Coulson added, echoing Fury's remark.
Barton shook his head.
"That was different. She was a different person then," he said. "Now she has a sense of right and wrong."
Coulson blinked thoughtfully at him.
"I think Romanoff has always had a sense of right and wrong," he said. "It's just… adaptable. It fluctuates. Sometimes it lines up with ours. Other times it doesn't."
Barton frowned.
"So you're saying you wouldn't put it past her," he said stiffly. "You think it's possible she betrayed us."
Coulson paused. "I'm saying… I think it's a mistake to trust her unequivocally."
Barton's frown deepened. "Meaning?"
"She's like… she's like…" Coulson ran his gaze across the ceiling, apparently searching for the right analogy. "She's like… the ocean," he said finally. "Sure, I'll get on a boat. I'll trust the ocean to carry me safely for a while. But I always bring a lifejacket. Because, no matter how clear the weather is, I know deep down that the ocean can turn deadly if the wind changes." He looked at Barton. "Do you see what I'm getting at? You can absolutely choose to trust Romanoff, but you need to be aware that she's… unpredictable. She's an opportunist; she's a survivor. She breaks the rules when she decides they're worth breaking. She's… well, she's not safe."
Barton nodded slowly.
"But is she a traitor?" he wondered aloud.
Coulson looked at the floor again. "I suspect only Romanoff can answer that."
Longest chapter so far! This was one of my favorites to write. :)
I've been feeling pretty fangirly lately and had to post - I've been brainstorming some upcoming plot points too. I'll try and get the next chapter out soon. It's got a bit of a different vibe.
Let me know your thoughts; I love hearing from readers! ^-^