Black Ops In Red Square
Black Ops In Red Square
“Hello, Clint.”
He froze, his hand still on the doorknob. That wasn’t Coulson’s voice. It wasn’t even a man’s voice. But still, he recognized it–he’d come to know it much more intimately than he would have thought possible just a few months ago. That same voice had whispered sweet nothings into his ear just last week, in a raggedy shack on the outskirts of Novosibirsk.
Shit.
And double shit, because he was unarmed. He looked frantically around the small anteroom in search of something he might be able to use to cut or stab or gouge, but the place had been conveniently cleared of any potential tools.
“Come on in already, we’re waiting. And take off your shoes if they’re dirty, I just finished cleaning.”
For a split second he caught himself looking down—just before snapping out of it and mentally kicking himself. The only place those boots were going was right up that bitch’s rear end.
He clenched his jaw, put on his best Don’t Fuck With Me face and stepped into the living room slash kitchenette area. Coulson sat strapped and gagged at the head of the table, much like a pig at a county fair. Next to him, Natasha Romanoff lounged on the corner of the table, casually flipping a knife between her fingers. The blade was coated in blood. Triple shit and a half.
“Come, sit,” she said, patting the empty chair beside her.
“I’m fine standing,” he said dismissively.
She shrugged, seemingly unbothered. “I went to visit your mother today. What a pleasant, nice woman. I wish I had gotten the chance to chat a little longer, but alas, fate intervened. My sincere condolences.”
He almost choked on the spit in his mouth.
“What—did you do something to her?”
Jesus fuck, shit times twenty. He’d been made. He’d been made in the worst possible way.
Natasha chuckled, the sound like nails down a chalkboard.
"Me? No, darling, of course not. That’s menial work. Young Katya Osipova did it. She may have gone a bit overboard with the arsenic—I made sure to deduct points for that—but she'll only improve with practice, won't she?"
Considering that Katya Osipova was all of twelve years old, Natasha's assessment was more than accurate. No doubt the girl had plenty of time left to perfect the art of poisoning unsuspecting victims.
He gestured towards Coulson.
“Why don’t you let the man go and we can have a civilized conversation?"
“Oh, we’ve been talking already.” Natasha’s gaze shifted between him and Coulson. “Your… father, I presume? The resemblance is uncanny, truly. And it was about time I met the parents, don’t you think? After all the… intimate moments…we shared, this little introduction was long overdue.”
Clint bit down on his tongue, raked his fingernails into the heels of his palms—and still couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut. “If you’re hoping for a ring and a white picket fence next, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. I’m not exactly the settling down type.”
Her smile was as sharp as the knife in her hand.
“Yes, I know that. That’s what makes this all so intriguing.”
She stood up, stepping around the table and towards the kitchen counter. The knife went with her. Not that he’d expected anything else. She was a lot of things, but not sloppy. He watched her open the overhead cupboards and pull out four glasses before returning to the table, pouring just as many generous shots of Stoli from the bottle that was already there.
“This one’s for your mother,” she said, topping off the fourth glass. “It’s considered rude to leave the deceased out of a toast, after all.”
Clint clenched his jaw so hard he thought his teeth might crack.
"She was an actress. She had nothing to do with this. You killed an innocent woman. Cheers to that, right? Though I doubt you'll lose any sleep over it."
“Probably not,” Natasha replied nonchalantly, raising her glass with a mocking salute before knocking back the vodka in one swift gulp.
“What do you want?” If this was just about blowing his cover, she would have already eliminated Coulson. And most likely him too.
"Actually, a little foreplay would have been nice. Like the other day." She glanced at Coulson beside her. "He was quite eager the other day, you know."
Despite cursing himself internally, Clint could feel his cheeks flush.
“Let’s cut the crap, alright? Your stint here just killed my mood faster than the thought of a root canal. What is it you want, Natasha?”
She pouted.
“You’re no fun today, Clint.”
“I’ll redefine ‘fun’ for your sorry ass as soon as I get to pick up a phone. You’ll be stuck in a tiny cell with nothing but a bunk and a crapper to keep you company for the rest of eternity. I’ve got so much shit on you, honey, you wouldn’t be able to dig yourself out of it with a bulldozer.”
Natasha arched an eyebrow.
“And who is going to pass on this crucial information? You?” Again, she gestured towards Coulson. “Him? We’re still in Russia, Clint. Me? I don’t even need to make a call. I can let you and your friend go right now, give you a generous head start—six hours? twelve? would you need that long?—and you still wouldn’t make it out of the country alive. Do you really think you can take on the entire Russian intelligence apparatus by yourself?”
“It’s a team effort, sweetheart. I’m not playing solo either.”
“Clearly. And I’m sure you’ll practically trip over yourself to introduce me to the rest of the family at some point. Preferably before I have to sic the Soldier on you. You’ve met him. You know he doesn’t like when somebody pisses all over his favorite toys.”
Fuck you, Clint thought. Fuck you, fuck you and then some more.
“What. Do. You. Want?”
“More of a smile on your face would be a good start,” Natasha said coolly. “Here is how this is going to go. I’ll give you a little bit of rope, see if you make a noose with it. Your ‘father’ can leave. If he has any sense, he won’t run straight back to your employers unless he wants to make things difficult for all of us. You and I, meanwhile, will be taking a trip together. Just the two of us. Consider it a bonding experience.”
Her grin was that of a predator who had successfully trapped its prey.
“We might even have a chance to clear the air between us.”
Clint snorted.
"The only thing that could clear up that mess is a nuclear bomb."
Natasha’s face darkened.
"Watch your attitude or you might accidentally press the big red button." She turned to Coulson. “Report this encounter and this is the last you’ve seen of your agent. I’ll personally ensure that his death comes slowly and very, very painfully. Your call.”
Clint tried to deflect.
“You think they would have sent me if I wasn’t expendable?”
That earned him an eyeroll.
“Of course not. In fact, they must view you as something less than a cockroach, to exile you all the way to Novosibirsk. But surely, after spending so much time at the Academy, you don’t need me to give you the old sermon about being pawns in a larger game.” She flicked the knife in Coulson’s direction. “Now set him free and let’s go. It will be a cold night and I want to get somewhere I don’t have to freeze. Don’t worry—I’m not expecting any warm embraces tonight.”
Well, she was spot on with that assumption. After this little display, he wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole, let alone hug her. She could be the last living being on this planet and he still wouldn't give her the time of day.
He moved over to Coulson instead, working him free of the restraints, removing the gag last.
“You okay?”
Coulson simply nodded, choosing not to speak. Probably best that way. The walls had grown ears in this place.
“Let's not make this emotional, boys,” Natasha interjected. “If everyone behaves themselves, we’ll stay in touch. Come on now, Clint. You know I hate it when you make me wait.”