Road to War Part II: Yes, Anastasia

Thought I'd been through this in 1919, counting the tears of ten thousand men

She wasn't wearing any shoes.  Her cocktail dress was out of place in the dim warehouse, and there were a few runs in her stockings.  The chair beneath her was old, brittle, and would come in handy if she needed it.  Her wrists were bound to it with paracord, which would be difficult to break but easy enough to slide down and off the wood if the chair was broken.  One of the men struck her across the face, and she acted convincingly frightened.  To intimidate her further, she was leaned backwards in the chair over the several-story drop behind her.

The official questioning her was arrogant, glad to explain to her how she was just a misinformed girl.  Though he did call her pretty, which was nice.  He signaled one of his men when she responded, perhaps annoyed that she wasn't sufficiently cowed.  The man opened her mouth uncomfortably as the officer walked over to their table of implements for torture.  Amateurs, she thought.  There was nothing small enough to be of good use in an interrogation; large blunt objects were not useful if you wanted information.  They made the pain too intense too quickly.

Suddenly, a phone rang, giving them all pause.  She watched, expressionless, as the other hired muscle answered the phone and then handed it to his boss.  He blustered into it, but then stopped, intimidated, and brought the phone to her.  She frowned, leaning her head to hold it in place on her shoulder.

"We need you to come in," Coulson told her.

She wasn't surprised it was him.  Who else would call her?  If she hadn't been so annoyed, she would have been amused at the effect the mild-mannered agent had on her mark.  "Are you kidding?  I'm working," she said impatiently.

"This takes precedence," he replied placidly.

"I'm in the middle of an interrogation.  This moron is giving me everything," she told him.  The mark looked at his men and seemed distressed.  She might have felt sorry for him, if she didn't know what he'd been up to lately.  She gave him a look when he tried to deny it.  "Look, you can't pull me out of this right now," she said firmly.

"Natasha."  Coulson paused and her brow furrowed.  "Barton's been compromised."

The words sent a chill through her, though she hid it well.  Finishing this mission was something she'd have to wait on, then.  Barton had never been compromised, as far as she knew.  She forced herself not to consider exactly what that meant, and decided to get herself out of this situation first.

"Let me put you on hold," she said calmly, looking at the mark pointedly.  He reached forward for the phone, and she kicked him, hard, despite her shoelessness.

The chair turned out to be more useful than she had initially thought, using it to knock out the hired muscle.  Then she wrapped a chain around the officer's leg and tossed him out into the open space.  He didn't scream, to his credit.  But perhaps he just realized no one would hear him.  There was no reason to let this be a total loss, and who knew when she'd be back to finish the job.  Her opponents effectively dispatched, she returned to her phone and picked it up, as well as her heels.

"Where's Barton now?" she asked, voice still level.

"We don't know."

"But he's alive," she pressed.

"We think so.  I'll brief you on everything when you get back," Coulson assured her in his own mild way.  "But first, we need you to talk to the big guy," he added.

She smirked.  "Coulson, you know that Stark trusts me about as far as he can throw me," she reminded him, amused.

"Oh, I've got Stark.  You get the big guy," Coulson clarified.