Garoua, Cameroon (03/03/2007)
The target grated on Natasha’s nerves. She wasn’t often so emotionally affected by her marks - prided herself, actually, on her impartiality - but this one was, for lack of a better word, a psychopath. She considered it. Actually, calling him a psychopath may have been an insult to genuine psychopaths.
She glanced over at where Clint was sitting in the hard, deceptively comfy-looking chair that all down-market hotels were required to provide. His booted feet were up on the desk, and he’d moved the phone to make room. “Have you checked for taps?” asked Natasha, knowing she was being overly cautious. Clint nodded.
“How’s the view?” He swung his legs off the desk, knocking a bottle of water to the floor. “Aw, bottle, no,” he sighed, leaning down to pick up the plastic and gazing forlornly at the way the water seeped into the brown, scratchy carpet. “Do you think they can sue for damages?”
“It’s water, Clint,” replied Natasha, still looking out of the window. “And besides, it’s probably an improvement.”
“Yeah, I don’t think anything could make this carpet worse,” mused Clint, coming over to join her at the window. “Seen her yet?”
“No. She’s late.”
Clint put a hand on her shoulder. “Relax! She can handle herself.”
“I know that,” snapped Natasha. Clint pulled his hand away, looking hurt. Natasha swallowed. “I’m sorry. This target just… doesn’t sit right with me.”
“What, because he murdered and raped women across the country and then escaped to a non-extradition country?” guessed Clint.
“How on Earth did you manage to deduce that one, Sherlock?” said Natasha dryly. “She’s fifteen minutes late now.”
“It’s just a diplomatic meeting, Nat.” Clint flung himself over the chair again, picking up his coffee from where it had been cooling on the desk. “Ahh! Still hot.”
“What if he got to her?” Natasha picked up her Makarov, fingering the barrel.
“You’re not her handler,” said Clint, waggling a finger. “You just have to trust she’ll send the distress beacon if she needs help.”
Natasha raised her eyes. “You clearly don’t understand the concept of pride.”
“If one of the top SHIELD agents were in trouble, we’d know.” Clint sipped his coffee, pulling a face. “Too sweet.”
“We’d know,” repeated Nat. “Would gunfire be an acceptable distress beacon for you to finally get off your bum and do something?”
“It certainly would,” declared Clint proudly. He looked over to where Natasha had jumped to her feet and started packing his arrows in the quiver. “Damn. Is the hearing aid messing up with low-pitch noises again?”
“Definitely.” The two of them were out of the door in a flash, racing down the stairs and into the hot African sun. The target burst out of the doors of the building opposite and turned a sharp left.
“I got the target, you check civilian damages,” said Clint breathlessly. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it quickly.
“Don’t let him kill you!” Natasha called after him.
“Wasn’t planning on it!” He sprinted after the mark, cocking his bow.
Natasha changed direction and ran inside the building. There was a body lying on the floor in reception, a pink-clad blonde-haired woman who had clearly fallen victim to the mark’s cloying fake charm. Panic seized her, and she began to run. “Maria?” she called, starting up the stairs. She entered an office, and found Maria standing over a government official, coolly pointing her gun at him.
“This one’s in on it. Abbot’s paid him off. That’s the only reason he’s not dead like the others.” Maria snapped her handcuffs on the squirming man. “Where’s Barton?”
“Chasing Abbott,” replied Natasha, making her way to the window on the opposite side of the room and sliding the sash up. She levelled her Makarov, took aim, and fired. From across the crowded square, the agents could faintly hear, “No fair, Nat, come on!”
Maria raised her eyebrow at Natasha. “He could have handled it.”
“I know.” Natasha holstered her gun, throwing Maria a smile. “Just like I knew you could handle yourself, too.”
Maria’s eyebrow seems to be permanently halfway up her forehead, a wry smile plastered on her lips. “Thanks, Natasha.”
“Oh, itsy bitsy spider,” called a faint voice from outside the window. “Would you pleeease come and pick up your fly?”
Natasha rolled her eyes and saluted Maria, moving to the window.
“See you later.”