Colombia

His hands left bright red streaks of blood on the dull grey bricks of the wall as he gingerly made his way to the door of the cell. With every step he could feel blood trickling down his body as the sudden movement of killing Campos had reopened much of the long cut trailing down his torso. The room hadn’t stopped spinning since he had stood up, the gnawing emptiness in his stomach along with the blood loss made him feel as weak as a kitten.

It took all his willpower not to stop and slide down the wall to rest, because he knew if he stopped he might not be able to get back up again. It was pure adrenalin and stubbornness that kept him on his feet headed towards the door. He knew from observing Campos’ comings and goings that the door was never locked if Campos was in the room, providing him one less obstacle to overcome.

“Where do you think you’re going boy?” The sharp angry voice had Clint nearly jumping out of his skin. His breathing hitched and he kept his head down continuing his stumbling walk to the door. It is not real. He is not real. Keep moving. He kept a running dialogue in his head trying to keep his drug addled mind on track.

“Don’t you turn your back on me boy. Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” He reflexively cowered waiting for the blow he knew was coming. Sometimes it was a thrown beer bottle, other times it was a fist if he was in reach of the old man. He had learned quickly to hide when the door was thrown open and his father’s yells echoed up the stairs followed by his mother’s soft cries.

The small portion of his mind that was somewhat lucid screamed at him that this wasn’t real, that there was no way his father was in the room with him, he had seen his father’s limp body all those years ago. But the line that separated reality from the horrors in his mind was blurred thanks to the drugs still pumping through his system, and he couldn’t help but revert back into the cowed seven year old boy he had been.

“You always were a coward, slinking around and hiding. You’re no better now, you can’t even kill like a man, instead you hide and wait and kill from a distance.” His father’s words seemed to close in on him from every direction, his body trembling, breath coming in shallow pants, the war separating reality from fantasy raging on inside his head.

“You deserve to die in here, like the coward you are.” The harsh words seemed to break through the nightmarish haze in his mind. He was not going to die here, he had to get to Phil and tell him about the mole in SHIELD. Phil would know what to do. Clint wasn’t sure exactly when the older man had begun to win his trust, but he knew that he would probably be dead by now if it weren’t for him.

His determination renewed, Clint gripped the blade tighter and collected himself trying to bring his familiar mask down and switch into predatory mode. He placed one hand on the door of the cell, it was now or never. He gently eased the door open, keeping his breathing light; to the left of the door was the man who had tied him up earlier when this nightmare had begun. The man turned as he heard the sound of the door, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Clint, shirtless with blood staining much of his body, holding a long black knife threateningly.

In the few seconds it took for the man to gather himself from the shock of seeing a kid who should be too drugged to move, Clint pounced. Launching himself forwards, he ducked under the harried punch the man threw, and slid down between his feet, ignoring the scrape of the floor on his exposed skin. With one deft flick of his wrist he sliced through the mans right Achille’s tendon.

The man let out a howl of pain and dropped to one knee, Clint rolled from his slide into a neat crouch then moved forwards, gripping the man’s neck and twisting quickly. The snap of bones echoed through the dark hallway as Clint let the now dead body slump to the floor. He sucked in a deep breath, fighting off the dizziness, before he was able to get a good look at his surroundings.

He was in what appeared to be an old wine cellar, dimly lit, and smelling faintly of fermented grapes. He had been unconscious when he had been brought in, but he guessed he was still in Bogota, more than likely in Campos’ mansion, or perhaps another house in town. A series of sconces, heavily covered in cobwebs, provided a muted glow, highlighting the way to the staircase out of the damp room. Another cursory glance of the space didn’t reveal any other rooms or hiding places for his gear, which he was sure Campos had kept when they brought his unconscious form in.

Steeling himself again he started towards the stairs, unsure as to what he would find at the top, but prayed that it was an abandoned building. Alas, Fate was a fickle bitch, as Clint neared the top of the staircase he heard multiple sets of footsteps and barely held back a groan of annoyance. In the shape he was in right now he wasn’t really wanting to have to deal with multiple targets at once.

Suck it up Barton, you’ve survived with worse odds. His inner self piped up, and he was right, that time in Tehran he had been half dead from heat stroke when he took a bullet to the leg as he was fleeing from a hit that had been a set up to kill him. It was a good thing he was about as easy to kill as a cockroach.

If he could just figure out exactly where he was without being detected he would be better able to form a plan of action, plus he needed to find something to stop the bleeding from the deep cut down his side. He listened carefully, trying to figure out what was going on beyond the door but the noise had died down. After several more minutes of silence Clint sent up a prayer to whoever was listening and opened the door just enough for him to poke his head out and survey the surroundings.

He was in what seemed to be an old, empty, but rather large, shed. After another tense few minutes of listening he decided he was in the clear and crept quietly out from behind the door. Moving as silently as he could across the weathered wood floor, Clint slowly made his way towards the bigger room, peeking around the corner then drawing back immediately when he caught sight of at least three men sitting around a small table, cards in hand. He guessed they were Campos’ personal bodyguards and were waiting for him to return from his latest round with Clint.

Leaning back against the wall he held up the black blade and considered his options, wishing desperately he had his throwing stars on him. He knew he needed to drop or incapacitate the men quickly as his body wasn’t really up to a prolonged fight. Fuck it, I don’t have time to come up with a plan I need to get to Phil now. Adrenalin coursed through his body as he slipped the knife into the waistband of his black fatigue pants and stepped out from around the corner.

“Afternoon fellas, or is it morning?” He called out as he sauntered towards them, his voice casual and flippant. “You know, I’m not even sure what time of day it is. Would any of you have a watch to spare?” As the last word left his mouth he had gripped the knife between his fingers and sent it sailing, end over end, where it buried itself in the throat of the man closest to him, who had been beginning to move towards him.

The two remaining men exchanged quick looks as they charged at Clint, both reaching for the guns in the holsters by their sides. Clint somersaulted forwards just as they opened fire, the rounds sending up showers of splinters as they dug into the wood planks on the floor. He landed in a crouch behind the taller of the two men, dodging a fist that swung out at him and the leg of the other man, then he grabbed the wrist and spun quickly underneath the outstretched limb. The elbow gave way with a sickening snap and the man let out a yelp of pain. Without stopping his movement Clint knocked the gun out of the taller man’s hands as he fell to his knees, cradling his bad arm.

The sharp retort of a gun had Clint’s ears ringing as he abruptly felt like he had been punched in the back. He snatched the gun from the floor then whirled quickly, squeezing off two successive rounds into the remaining man’s head as the he was reloading. Before the body hit the ground he had already turned to the taller man on the ground and fired one round, point blank, into the man’s skull. The gun slipped from his suddenly numb hand and clattered to the ground noisily. He was panting heavily, having a hard time getting a full breath into his lungs.

His vision wavered as the color seemed to drain out of everything around him. He shook his head hard, trying to rid himself of the buzzing in his ears. A glance at the dead man at his feet revealed that he had the least amount of blood on his shirt and Clint crouched down to strip the shirt off of the body. Once he had the shirt on, he went to retrieve his knife from the throat of the man toppled halfway out of his chair. Clint wiped the blade on the man’s shirt before tucking it in the waistband of his pants.

He frowned as his hand came away wet, and held it up to inspect it closer. Blood coated his hand and a few drops ran down his forearm. He didn’t remember getting hit, but knew he didn’t have time to stop, anyone nearby could have heard the shots, and Clint still needed to find Phil. Wiping his hand on his pant leg he continued on towards the door of the shed, intent on finding his handler before his strength ran out.
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He had been crouched in the grass on the side of a hillside for over twelve hours, binoculars held up to his eyes as he tried desperately to make out any sign that Clint still lived. Coulson sighed in frustration and reached for his water bottle in an attempt to stay hydrated in the harsh midday sun.

His rather unproductive surveillance of Campos’ large estate told him that Campos was a very busy man, as multiple cars had come and gone even in the dead of night. Other than the man who answered the door Phil had not been able to see anyone else. All of the windows in the house seemed permanently covered in drapes, offering him no glimpses of what was going on within the walls of the house.

The urge to burst in, guns blazing, was very tempting, but he knew he would stand no chance, by the time he would be able to ascertain his captive agent’s location, they more than likely would have eliminated him. So instead he watched, grasping at straws, desperately looking for any sign of where the archer was being held, with an extraction team on stand-by.

Holding the binoculars back up to his tired eyes he swept over the property for what felt like the millionth time. With the lazy drone of insects in the background and heat of the midday sun on his back Coulson felt his eyes starting to droop, he hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a time since being separated from his agent. He tried to fight it, he had to keep looking for Clint, but his exhausted body overruled him and his eyes drifted shut as he began to doze.

The sharp crack of a gunshot caused his eyes to fly open. He scrambled to bring the binoculars up to his tired eyes to find the source of gunfire. Seconds later he heard two quick shots followed by a pause then one final shot. He frantically looked to where he thought he had heard the gunshots come from, but saw only an old rundown building, not much bigger than a storage shed, isolated from the rest of the property.

It couldn’t have originated from there, he hadn’t seen any activity around that area of the property, and when he had done a short search in the dead of night there had been no evidence that anyone had been inside the shed in years. The surrounding hills must be throwing off the acoustics, making it difficult to pinpoint the location of the sound. Still he kept his eyes trained on the shed, a particular feeling in his gut not allowing him to look elsewhere.

The door of the shed seemed to move, and Phil drew in a sharp breath, sending up a prayer that it wasn’t a trick of his tired eyes. But was rewarded when the door swung completely open revealing a tall figure he would recognize anywhere, Clint. He barely repressed a whoop of joy, he had known Clint was still alive! Returning his eyes to his agent he realized something was very very wrong.

Clint was not moving with his usual confidence, instead his steps were unsteady as he listed against the wall of the shed. Phil had seen enough, he needed to get down there to the kid before he walked himself into Campos’ security team. He scrambled quickly, tossing the binoculars and water bottle into his bag and drawing out his Glock. He started moving rapidly down the hill he was perched on, headed in the direction of the archer who had worked his way into Phil’s heart.
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Clint pushed open the shed door and squinted against the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. His eyes watered profusely as he stepped out into the warm sunshine and attempted to take in his surroundings. Once his eyes adjusted somewhat to the sunlight he took a few staggering steps, leaning heavily on the wall of the shed.

His vision was fading in and out, he was crashing from his earlier adrenalin high, and his body was starting to protest the abuse. A hot fiery pain spread across his lower back, the pain familiar, he had managed to get himself shot…. again. Clint knew his luck with bullets was never very good, so he really wasn’t that surprised, but it still hurt like a son of a bitch every time.

Pushing the pain to the back of his mind he returned his focus to planting one foot in front of the other and finding Phil. The rational part of his mind chimed in that he might very well bleed to death before he ever got the chance to find Phil, but he ignored that too, driven only by the sheer force of his will.

Despite everything his senses still managed to warn him that there was someone headed his way, the prickling of hairs on the back of his neck were unmistakeable. Too exhausted to disappear back into the shed he merely held the knife tightly in his raised hand, in a pathetic attempt to ward anyone off.

“Barton?” The voice floated to him, sounding like he was underwater. He tried to reply he really did. But the fire in his back was getting hotter and his mouth wouldn’t open, the words stuck on his tongue. He tried to focus his eyes on the approaching figure, his voice soothing and familiar. Clint was vaguely aware that he had fallen to his knees and the figure’s mouth kept moving rapidly but he couldn’t understand it.

The last thing he remembered before the shadows took him was the comforting scent of fresh cotton on the breeze as a hand brushed gently over his forehead and words floated through his mind.

Be still my baby. It’s over.

Notes