A Different Call

8. The Flight to Byelorussia

The Quinjet was impressive, she'd give S.H.I.E.L.D. that. Unbelievable speeds, summoning autopilot, and–

  "Cloaking engaged." Settling himself into the pilot's chair, Hawkeye pushed a white button, then flipped a switch above him, which Natalia assumed changed the piloting system to manual as Clint grabbed the controls.

  Natalia raised an eyebrow, casually crossing her arms. "Cloaking technology?"

  "A prototype. Director wants all Quinjets to be equipped with better stealth technology for STRIKE teams. We're invisible and undetectable right now if that's what you're worried about. Figured it'd be best not to underestimate the KGB." Without removing his hands from the controls, he turned his head to look at her. "Technically, I'm not supposed to tell you any of that. So if you're reconsidering my offer, I'll have to kill you."

  "Technically, you should have killed me already," she pointed out with a half smile, "but noted."

  Clint refocused his gaze to the windshield. "Good. You have a sense of humor. All agents are required to have one." He gestured to the co-pilot's seat.

  As she sat down, Clint returned the ship to autopilot, then swiveled his chair so he was facing her. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and rested his chin on his folded hands. "So what's our plan?"

  "Firstly..." Natalia swiftly removed her knife, twirling it in her fingers till it pointed downward. She noticed the minute tremor of Barton's muscles tensing; otherwise he didn't flinch. He remained still as she plunged the knife into her thigh, though he winced at her suppressed cry. The blade searched her flesh, dark blood oozing from the ripped fabric. The tip fround something hard and Natalia flicked it out. A tracker chip clinked against the metal floor, splattering flecks of crimson on the black surface. A tracker chip that the Red Room had implanted in her so she couldn't escape them. 

She crushed it beneath her heel.

A white box rattled in her face. Natalia glanced up to find Clint standing and offering her a med-kit.

  "Thanks." The Widow accepted the box and opened it, taking a roll of linen. She cut a piece and pressed it against the wound. The white bandage quickly turn red. It would need stitches later when she could find some privacy.

  "So what's after step one?" Clint asked, returning to his seat.

  "That's as far as I got," Natalia admitted. "I thought you would be better at the whole mission planning thing."

  He leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. "I don't typically make the plans, though I can improvise if one goes south."

  "And how often do they go south?"

  Clint ignored the question. "I'll need intel on the Red Room and its fortifications."

Her training told her to seal her lips. He was asking for information on where she was raised, where she trained, who she worked for. He was a threat to national security and the Red Room. But so was she. She told her training to take the backseat.

  "The Red Room Academy is located in Byelorussia posing as a boarding school."

  "Byelorussia?"

  "Belarus," she corrected. "Our handlers encouraged us to call it Byelorussia even after it's dissolution from the Soviet Union in 1991." She gave him the exact coordinates since an address was nonexistent.

  "Ah. What about defenses?" He typed the coordinates into the computer. Once he hit confirm, she felt the ship adjust its course. 

  "Thick stone walls topped with glass and barbed wire, twenty-four hour guard, and watch towers."