it's been a long, long time

one-way ticket (a)

A single gunshot tears through the damp evening air.

---

Natasha Romanoff has killed many people in her life.

It's not something she's proud of, exactly, but she isn't ashamed of it either. She's grown up doing it, has always done it. She's a master assassin, after all. It's part of her job description. A gun is as familiar to her hand as a pencil, maybe even more so. Before, she'd mowed down rows of people with little consideration for who or what they were. Later, after she'd joined SHIELD, she'd become a little more cautious, had started dedicating some thought to keeping innocent people out of harms way. But she'd still put plenty of bullets in bad people's heads without a second thought. Killing people used to be what she did, and now it's part of what she does. She's fine with that. And she's good at it, too; her bullets come quickly and accurately, as sure as the hand that fired them. She's never come away with any remorse, any reservations.

Until now.

She's standing in the dimly lit warehouse she's learned serves as a local headquarters for Ammo's operations (the real headquarters are in some faraway, secret location she has yet to find), surrounded by the mob bosses and gang members she's gotten to know far too well the past seven months. Her arm is extended, and her hand is holding a gun she has fired more times than she can count. It's a familiar position, and were it any other day she would pull the trigger with no hesitation.

Except three feet away, staring down the barrel of her handgun, is Charlie.

And for all the intelligence she is supposed to have, she can't seem to think of a way out of this one.

"Come on," Damien growls from somewhere behind her, "Do it already."

She flicks her head as if trying to get rid of a fly, eyes never leaving Charlie's pale, terrified face. "He was a good part of my crew."

"Anna, honey," Aaron drawls, stepping forward from his place among the circle of men, "I know he was useful. But he tried to nark. If we hadn't caught him, the Feds would be all over us right now. You'd be in prison. We don't take pity on rats, Miss Vanko. You of all people should know that."

"Enough," Damien snarls. "He knew what he was getting into when he joined us. He snitches, he dies. And since you're his supervisor, you get to do the honors. Those are the rules, and he knew them coming in. There are consequences for your actions. You don't get to just wake up one day and decide you don't want to be a criminal anymore. That's not how this shirt works."

Out of the corner of her eye, Natasha sees Matthew makes a sudden, violent movement, and she thanks every god she can think of that Loki has the reflexes and presence of mind to slide subtly in front of him, hiding him from view.

"I know the rules," she says, as evenly as possible, eyes still locked onto Charlie's. "But it's unfortunate. He's a good guy, resourceful, funny, kind, and his heart was in the right place. It was nice having him in my crew. In another life we might've been close friends."

Understanding flashes across Charlie's face, followed by a gratitude Natasha knows she does not deserve.

"What are you, giving a forking eulogy?" Damien sneers, and it takes everything Natasha has not to turn around and shoot him instead. "Just do the damn thing, or I'll do it for you."

It's the truth she knows is in his words that makes Natasha take a deep breath and steady the gun in her hand.

She thinks briefly of missing on purpose, of placing the bullet so that it misses all his essential organs and then rushing him to the hospital as soon as everyone else clears out, but then she glances at the rock-filled duffel bag in the corner and she knows it is futile.