Fill in the Blank - Clintasha

7

**October 16th 2009**

Clint stifled a yawn as he slipped through the window of Giulio De Felice's humble home, several generous miles outside of Naples. The sun wasn't ready to rise yet, the sky outside an inky black and smattered with stars. It was far too early for people to be awake, Clint thought, and he wasn't alone in that sentiment. The security guard posted at the front door had dozed off at about 3AM and hadn't moved a muscle since.

Clint kind of envied the guy.

He edged his way down the hallway towards the living room on the top floor. The entire house consisted of five main rooms and a renovated attic. All the essentials for its single inhabitant with no extravagant ballrooms or pricey private theatres. It was all very minimalistic and homely, kept clean thanks to an elderly housekeeper and protected by a basic security detail. It was simple and snug and everything you would expect from a man trying to keep a low profile.

De Felice had more than a little unwanted attention on him at the moment. He'd retreated out here with the intention of waiting it out. Everyone would forget about it in a few months and he could move back into his mansion with its thick stone walls and it's 24hour CCTV.

Unfortunately for Mr. De Felice, Clint wasn't the type to forgive a man who beat his wife half to death and apparently his clientele wasn't either.

When the job came in Clint had done research of his own, more than he normally did anyway. It was more because the guy was a high profile politician than anything else. Clint didn't usually get involved in petty political hits; they were too publicised, too unpredictable and too bitchy for his taste. But this guy. This guy was an exception.

Clint could've done this hit from afar, but he had wanted to do it this way instead. It felt more personal somehow, and this prick deserved a painful, slow, intimate death.

As soon as he opened the door Clint was slammed by the stench of stale sweat and vomit. Bottles of alcohol, both empty and full surrounded the man passed out in an armchair. A snore like a foghorn emitted from his prone form and Clint wrinkled his nose in distaste.

De Felice's unhealthy relationship with drink was well known, and his recent split from his wife was even more so. He'd lost his kids in the legal battle that he barely fought and most of his cash had been thrown down the drain in the form of whiskey and lawyers. His lacklustre security precautions were a surprise to exactly no one.

All in all, it would appear the guy's life was going down the gutter. And damn, Clint was about to make things a whole lot worse.

He slipped his 9mm pistol out of the holster at his thigh; a present from Nat that he used far more than he'd expected to. And without a second of hesitation he aimed it at the guy's head-

-and was promptly hit by a lorry.

Clint went flying to the side; slammed into a solid brick wall by a force more powerful than anything he'd ever experienced before. He ducked when a fist came swinging at his head, a plume of dust and plaster raining down on him when it punched a hole in the stone.

Clint swore and fired at the bastard's head, still trying to comprehend what in the fuck was attacking him. It was too fast, too dark to see clearly. The crack of gunfire bounced off the walls, Clint's ears aching when his hearing aids amplified the sound, but his target was gone, disappeared like smoke. Clint stayed where he knelt, tense and wary.

The room was dark. No sunlight on the horizon to shine through the window and offer Clint a hint of a shadow or a glint of metal. That was a shame, because he'd heard the metal. The hollow clang and hair-raising screech of metal grinding against stone. It didn't make any sense, but he knew he'd heard it.