A Different Call

7. Pursuit

Bang!

The loud noise followed by the shattering of wood made both assassins jump. Thinking quickly, Clint whirled around and fired a grappling arrow out the window. The line became taunt as the grapple hooked securely onto the neighboring building.

  "Hang on," he warned before catching Romanoff's waist with his arm and pulling her close to him. He felt her bristle under his touch, but he didn't have time to ask for her consent as two more Widows burst into the room with guns drawn.

Gunfire followed them out as Clint jumped out the window. As they fell, Natasha finally decided to follow his advice and squeezed his torso. Hawkeye's one handed grip on his bow kept them from becoming a stain on the concrete. The freezing night air whipped past his face as they swung towards the neighboring building. They simultaneously lifted their legs so their boots made contact with the wall. Clint allowed his knees to bend, cushioning the impact. With a tug, the line slowly lowered them down.

The moment their boots touched the ground, Natasha pushed away from him as he released her. With another tug, the line broke from the bow.

He glanced up at Romanoff's apartment window. Two heads popped out before ducking back in, no doubt to follow them down.

  "We need to get out of here."

Natasha nodded in agreement, oddly quiet. Clint couldn't help but notice the unsettled look in her eyes and how one hand gripped her opposite bicep like she was hugging herself.

Before Clint could ask if she was all right, she snapped out of it. Natasha dropped her arm and straightened her posture, that steely determination returning to her.

  "We need to find a place they won't know about to lay low and plan our attack," she said as they approached their parked motorcycle.

  "I know a place."

The agent kicked back the stand, gripped the handlebars, and started the engine. Romanoff slipped the helmet over her head unprompted and moved to sit behind him.

The familiar crack of a gunshot echoed down the alley. Instinctively, Clint flattened himself against the bike while Natasha found cover against the side. They glanced around for the origin of the sound.

Clint craned his neck and spotted the telltale nozzle of a sniper rifle above.

  "Sniper on the roof," he relayed to Natasha.

  "And two Widows on motorcycles incoming!" Her weight slammed into him as she jumped onto the motorcycle. "Go, go, go!"

The tires squealed as they tore away. Natasha's arms squeezed his stomach, the sudden movement threatening to throw her off.

  "We need to lose them."

  "Working on it," Clint snapped back, changing lanes to avoid a car driving too slow for his liking. "How close are they?"

  "Close enough and gaining." He felt her shift, using only one arm to hang on while freeing the other to pull out her gun. "Just drive. I got your six."

Clint didn't know how comfortable he felt with entrusting his six to a Russian assassin, not that he had much of a choice. Two precise shots shattered his rearview mirrors, leaving him blind to the action behind him.

  Clint climbed past the speed limit, neglected to signal, and ran red lights all to lose their company. Judging by Romanoff's "They're still gaining on us!", their pursuers didn't care about driving laws either.

He jerked the handlebars, turning the bike in an illegal left turn into opposing traffic. Horns honked angrily and breaking tires squealed. Clint paid the cursing drivers no mind. He diverged all his focus on avoiding two tickets to the afterlife, one way or the other. Only when they shot out the other side did he realize how rigged he was.

  "A little warning next time!"

  "Sorry. Kind of a last minute decision."

  "Well, at least you committed." Her statement was followed by two bangs from her glock.

  Clint frowned. "Are they still behind us?"

  "Yes!"

  The archer slammed his fist against the handlebar. "Damn it! What is going to take to get rid of them?"

The Black Widow was silent. Clint hoped that meant she was thinking instead of a silent "I don't know." Before he found out, an idea popped into his head first.

  "Well," he began, reaching into his pocket, "if we can't get to safety without getting shot, bring the safety to you."

  "What?"

Clint lifted a tiny remote into the air and clicked a button. Then he returned the device to his pocket and continued driving like a crazy person.

  "So do you have a plan or what?" Romanoff shouted over the noise. She jerked her head to the right as a bullet clipped her helmet. "I'm running out of ammo here."

  "You'll see," Clint assured her. He couldn't see behind him, but he could imagine her glare burning two holes into his skull.

Two more bullets scratched the black paint of the shiny motorcycle.

  "Any day now, Barton! Preferably before they shoot out our tires."

  "There!" He pointed at a pair of moving lights in the night sky.

  Natasha raised the visor and squinted, shielding her eyes against the glare of the street lamps. "What is that?"

In a matter of seconds, the speck in the sky became the Quinjet soaring right above their heads. It zoomed past them, creating a wind that ruffled through Clint's hair. The ship looped through the air and automatically shot forward so that it was in front of them, lowering the ramp.

  "You first."

Romanoff hesitated for a moment. Then she fired a couple shots at the Widows for cover before jumping onto the ramp.

Clint suddenly felt vulnerable as his back was now exposed and unprotected. The two Widows behind him realized this and laid the gunfire down thick. Clint flattened himself against the dashboard as best he could as metal whizzed all around him, keeping him glued to his seat.

The Quinjet began to rise. Gazing ahead, Clint became aware that he was running out of road. The mouth of a tunnel yawned before him. The Quinjet had sensed it, and was lifting above it, leaving Clint behind.

  "Jump!" shouted Natasha, laying on her stomach with her arm stretched out over the edge. "I'll catch you!"

Clint had no time to evaluate if he trusted her or not. Balancing on the seat, he coiled his legs like a spring and launched. His hand found purchase just above her wrist. Her hand tightened around his upper arm, just as she promised.

Clint heard their abandoned bike skid against the pavement. The Quinjet changed directory and shot into the sky, nearly throwing the two of them out. As Natasha pulled, Clint used his other hand to grip the edge of the ramp and pull himself along. Once he was onboard, the two rolled inside as the ramp shut behind them.

The assassins lay on the floor cool floor, taking deep breaths. After a moment, they sat up and glanced at each other. Natasha yanked the helmet off her head and shook the loose curls back into place.

  Clint spread out his hands. "Romanoff, welcome aboard the Quinjet."