A Different Call

9. Storming the Red Room

With the Black Widow in her trademark catsuit, Clint was feeling a bit left out in his damp, wrinkled party attire. He emerged from the bathroom refreshed and comfortable in his S.H.I.E.L.D. winter uniform.

Romanoff was still sitting at the table. Her back and shoulders hunched over her project in a slouch unlike the graceful assassin. He threw his soiled clothes onto a chair. As he passed her, Clint peered over her bowed head to check her progress. Nearly complete.

He opened what looked like an ordinary closet, revealing the Quinjet's armory. A poor move on his part to do that in front of the Russian assassin, not that it mattered. If she wanted to kill him, she would have done so already.

Clint's spine tingled as he felt her eyes on him. He replenished his quiver and added some knives to the sheaths on his belt and boots. Then he grabbed two handguns and tossed them carelessly onto the table. Romanoff eyed them both critically before staring at him with a marginally raised eyebrow.

"I know you used most of your ammo back there," Clint began. "I don't have any ammo for Makarov PMs, but those are Walther PPK/Ss. I have extra cartridges here, too."

Romanoff gave the handguns a long look before slowly removing her Makarov PMs and her last cartridge from her holster and placing them onto the table. She took one of the new guns and turned it over, feeling it in her hand and running her fingers over the barrel. Finally, she grabbed some ammo and loaded it, repeating the process with the other one before slipping them both into her empty holsters. The swiftness of her movements told Clint she was satisfied.

  "Need anything else?"

  "No. Thank you."

Before closing the doors, Clint grabbed two more pieces off the shelf. He tossed one to Romanoff, who caught it easily despite being unprepared.

  "One last thing," Clint said as she opened her hand. "These earpieces are programed to each other on a private channel. Only we can hear what is said." S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't listening.

  "Unless someone hacks the channel," Romanoff pointed out, tucking the tiny device into her ear anyway and positioning her red hair to hide it.

  "Well, there's always the possibility," conceded Clint to her pessimism. His sarcastic tone earned a small smile from the Russian assassin.

A blast of cold air greeted them as the ramp lowered. Past the glow from inside the Quinjet, it was pitch black. All Clint could see were pinpoints of light from the Academy in the distance. Between them and their target was less than a mile of shin-deep snow. Without a word, the two assassins started walking.

The crunch of ice under their boots and their labored breaths were loud in the silent darkness. Clint and Romanoff didn't dare use a flashlight as the beam would bounce off the glistening white and alert the enemy.

Clint clenched and unclenched his fists as he stomped through the snow. His fingers were growing numb and he needed them warm to shoot. He blew on his hands, his breath freezing before it could hit his skin. He turned his head to check on Natasha. She seemed unaffected by the cold, he observed with envy.

  In a quiet voice, he asked anyway, "You good?"

She nodded.

He averted his gaze back to their destination. He could see the walls now. The archer rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck.

As they closed in, Clint and Natasha crouched low and quieted their footsteps. At last, Clint pressed his shoulder against the rough concrete brick of the wall.

It was go time.

In one smooth motion, Clint selected an arrow from his quiver, aimed high, and fired. The grapple arrow latched securely to the wall, leaving a line behind. Intending to do what they had done before, Clint extended a hand to the Russian.