Jeremy Cruz is a bad guy, Clint decided as he watched the man from the roof of flat across the street. From the two days Clint had been watching him, he'd noticed two guards accompanied him at all times. According to the contract the archer made with some rich bastard named Sitwell, he had by the end of today to take Cruz out.
For once, Clint might feel too bad about having to kill someone. Jeremy Cruz is the head of a human trafficking ring and a drug cartel, possibly more horrible shit. On top of all of that, he was an abusive drunk. And Clint had his own experiences with abusive drunks. There was no doubt in the young man’s mind that he would be doing the world a favor by getting rid of Mr. Cruz.
All he had to do now was wait for a clean shot. Clint crouched down and unlatched the case holding the bow. The one good thing about Cruz is that he has a pattern. In ten minutes, he'll come to his bedroom window and yell at his wife for a few minutes. After that, he and a body guard will come out on to the balcony for a smoke.
The mercenary checked over everything quickly and rolled his shoulders as he waited. The watch on Clint’s right wrist beeped just as the bedroom door opened. He shut it off quickly and pulled an arrow out of the quiver. The arrow was nocked two minutes before Cruz went out for a smoke. Clint glanced at the fletching between his fingers and nodded slightly to himself when he noticed the purple one facing the right way. Can't damage my equipment, it's all I have right now to keep myself alive, he thought to himself. And it was true. The bow was all Clint had left. The archer let out a long breath to center himself as he stared down the shaft of the arrow at the balcony. The door opened and Cruz stepped out.
The arrow thudded into the center of his chest and Clint smirked at the shocked expression on his face. Another arrow was pulled and shot before his guard could react. Clint could hear Cruz’s wife screaming inside but the contract said nothing about her, so Clint let her be even though she wasn’t much better than her husband.
Clint winced when he heard sirens and guards yelling. Usually it takes a while for the sirens. The brick in front of him exploded in shards and Clint felt a bullet zip past his ear.
"Crap," Clint groaned to himself.
He grabbed the case for his bow and hooked it on his belt quickly before running across the roof. He jumped and felt his stomach drop as Clint glimpsed the ground far below. The young man grunted when his feet hit the next roof but kept running. There were more gunshots nearby but none struck him. Clint paused at the edge of the next roof and eyed the distance between. It was a much longer jump, but there was a canal just below if he missed.
There was a flash of movement in the corner of his eyes and Clint frowned, just barely fighting the urge to turn and look. No way could those dumbass guards have already caught up to him.
Turn and shoot? Wastes too much time, just shoot backwards. He pulled another arrow and fired without looking. A hoarse yell of pain told Clint the man had dodged it for the most part. Clint took a couple of steps backwards before leaping across the gap.
The breath was knocked out of Clint and his ribs felt like they were on fire. Clint fought to get a good breath in as he rolled onto his stomach to push himself up. Clint became aware of a pair of fancy black shoes, polished almost to the point of shining, just in front of his face.
He swallowed and slowly lifted his gaze upwards just to see the barrel of a gun pointed between his blue eyes.
"You're a lot younger than I thought you would be. How old are you?"
The blue eyes looked past the barrel of the gun and glared at the man. He had brown hair, light blue eyes, was well dressed, and had calm hands...CIA again? Clint thought that he had managed to get away from them for good the last time they came after him.
"How old are you?" He repeated.
"Twenty."
"Don't lie to me, Hawkeye. Get up."
The archer eyed the bow where it rested nearby. The man kicked it away and Clint glared at him as je pushed himself up.
"Seventeen."
"Agent Garret, are you alright?" The man called, glancing towards the last building he jumped from.
Clint took a step away and a gun went off. Seconds later, pain shot up through his thigh, and he felt his leg give out. There was a muffled groan as he hit the concrete of the roof. Clint couldn’t remember the last time he had been shot.
"Sorry about that, can't have you running off again. It took us months to find you," the man said, crouching down and pulling at the knot of his tie.
"Who the hell are you?" Clint snapped, twisting around to kick the man in the suit in the jaw with his good leg.
"I'm Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Linguistics Division."
"That part of the CIA? MI6?" Clint demanded, somehow managing to awkwardly get to his feet.
"I will shoot you again, just so we're clear. I'm here to offer you a job."
"No thanks."
The gun was once again pointed at Clint’s head, held steady, and Clint bit his lip as he pressed a hand against his injured thigh. Holy shit, it burned like hell.
"It's in your best interest to hear me out, Hawkeye."
"You just shot me!" Clint yelled, lifting a red stained hand to prove his point.
"And you just shot my agent. You can either accept my offer of working with us, or I'll kill you where you stand."
"What does strategic whatever want with me?"
"You've got skills that we need and you've become a danger to the well-being of our organization."
Clint studied him for a moment and realized with a start that his face hadn't changed the entire time they had been talking and that he was actually offering Clint a chance to stay alive. It wasn’t something he was used to, people being sincere that is.
"You're being serious?"
"Very."
"Okay. I kind of value my life sometimes, and this is one of those times."
Agent Coulson nodded and moved forward with his tie again. Clint jumped back when the agent touched his leg.
"Don't fucking touch me," Clint growled.
Agent Coulson held his hands up in a placating manner and then reached out to hand Clint his tie.
"Tie it around your leg until I can stitch you up."
Clint didn’t bother hiding the anger in his eyes as he used the tie as a tourniquet. If the asshole hadn’t shot him in the first place, Clint wouldn’t need his help. He didn’t like feeling indebted to people.
"Sitwell, I've got him. Bring the car around. Can you walk down stairs?"
The last part was directed at the injured archer.
"I don't know, you shot me," Clint snapped.
"Get up." Coulson’s voice allowed no room for arguing.
Clint rolled his eyes but did as he was ordered. As soon as the teenager was on his feet, Coulson spun him around and cuffed his wrists together.
"Walk."
"Bastard," Clint muttered but did as Coulson said.
