Smuggler part2
I took my things to the room Stark had shown me. The space was furnished in a modern style, like the rest of the tower—painted white, with a very light gray carpet covering the floor. Opposite the door was a huge window that replaced one of the walls. Next to the door was a fairly large bookshelf, and between it and a wardrobe standing closer to the window was a desk with a black computer on it. On the other side of the room was a large gray and white double bed with two black pillows, and nightstands with lamps stood on either side of it.
My apartment is the size of this room—by my standards, this is luxury. After unpacking my clothes, I went to join the others so that someone could give me the case files.
I walked into the living room connected to the kitchen, where Clint, Steve, Sam, and Wanda were still sitting. I approached them and leaned my hands on the kitchen island.
"If we're going to work together, it would be nice if someone could brief me on the case."
"All the details are on the computer," Clint said, sitting by the kitchen island. I nodded and was about to leave when Sam stopped me.
"Hey, wait, if we're going to work together, we should get to know each other," the dark-skinned man suggested, moving away from the counter.
"Alright, so what do you want to know?" I asked, sitting down on a chair by the island and crossing my legs.
"What did you do before? Where did you live? Where are you from?"
"Handling goods for Nick and a few other clients. Top secret. Not your concern," I replied with a fake smile, turning away, not giving them a chance to ask more questions, and heading back to my temporary room.
I closed the door behind me and sat down at the desk. The first thing that appeared on the screen was a folder labeled "mission." I opened it and started reading. Dealers of dangerous chemical substances of unknown origin. A large criminal group working for a high-ranking gangster known as the Power Dealer. When I read the last sentence, my eyes nearly popped out of my head. "Fury, I'm going to kill you," I thought. Trying to take down the Power Dealer is like asking for death. I had dealt with him once, or rather with his people, and barely came out alive.
I practically ran out of the room and stormed into the living room, where the Avengers still sat, looking slightly confused by my irritation.
"Are you guys insane!?" I shouted, throwing up my hands. "Don’t you care about your lives?"
"Maybe instead of yelling, you could tell us what’s going on?" Wanda suggested.
"How on earth did your apparently thick skulls come up with the idea that you could catch the Power Dealer?"
"Do you know him? Did you work for him?" Falcon asked.
"Yes, that was before I started working for Fury," I began. "I was supposed to pick up a package and hand it over to a guy who would then deliver it to the Power Dealer. But as luck would have it, I had a very high-profile client, much higher than the Power Dealer at that time, and I swapped the suitcase with faulty goods. He found out, got really pissed, and his thugs shot me in the lung and stomach." I paused for a second to catch my breath. "I don’t know how the hell I’m still alive, but I do know one thing: we both hate each other and keep our business far apart, and it should stay that way."
"Do you know what he was dealing in?" the Captain asked, and I shook my head no. "Do you know where he is?" was his next question, but the answer was the same.
"Maybe let’s try a different angle. What do you know?" Iron Man suggested.
"I know he has a widespread network of thugs in Madripoor, but whether he’s there personally, no one knows. No one knows what he looks like, not even his own people—he could literally be anyone."
"Do you know the city?" Stark asked.
"I lived there for quite a long time, so I got to know it pretty well," I answered, not really expecting what would happen next.
"Then what are we waiting for? Let’s pack up," Clint announced with a smile, clapping his hands. I should have seen that coming.
"WHAT?!" I shouted. "No way, I have a good reputation there and great clients—I’m not going to ruin that by showing up with you guys." And why do I sometimes even bother speaking?
"And you say you're not a criminal?" James chimed in. "This isn’t our dream job either, but we're stuck with each other."
"I never said that. I said I prefer the term private entrepreneur with my own set of rules. Longer, but much less brutal, right?"
"So, it’s settled—we’re going," confirmed the Archer.
"Damn it," I thought. I won’t survive this—Power Dealer, Madripoor, what’s next? Just drop me off in Shanghai, where I’ll barely set foot before I have a bullet in my head.