Chapter Text
“Got a new job,” Grant Ward said, strolling into the back room of the garage. He tossed a folder down on the table; Brock reached for it first, flipping through the pages inside. “Three targets, none of them easy. I’ve got the thief; Brock, you want …”
“I know this guy. Thinks he’s tough. I’ll take him.” Brock slid a piece of paper out and passed the file to Jack. “You get the handsome one.”
“Thanks,” the man replied. “I get stuck with babysitting the newbie and the crappiest assignment? This is because of that latte in Berlin, isn’t it? Damn it, how was I to know the barista was her cousin?”
“Keep your pants zipped and we’ll all be better off,” Ward told him. “Boss wants these done quiet and simple. Make ‘em look natural and spread them out. It’ll take time to run my mark to ground, so we’ll start with Brock’s. Do your homework, get in and get out. Then we get paid.”
There was grumbling but they knew when to ask questions and when to shut up. With little discussion, they left to pursue their own agendas; only then did the man hiding in the rafters swing down, making his way into the office to peruse Ward’s copy of the original documents. Kill orders, just as his employer expected; the man was paying damn good money just for three names.
Snapping pictures with his cellphone, he started with the one on top.
James Buchanan Barnes, insurance investigator. Ex- military. A real hitter when it came to catching thieves. Yeah, he knew this guy and pretty much stayed out of his way.
The second made him catch his breath. Natasha Romanova, aka Natalie Rushman, aka Natalia Romanoff, aka Black Widow. Best cat burgerler in the business, neigh on impossible to find, much less kill. And best friend of …
He sighed at the third picture. Clint Francis Barton, aka Hawkeye. Current location: New York City. Con man and grifter. Known associate of Anthony Stark.
“Damn it, Clint,” Barney Barton said. “What have you gotten yourself into?”
“It’s a forgery,” Clint was saying, perched on the edge of Phil’s desk and leaning over, weight supported on one hand as he pointed with the other. “See the perfect distribution of color? The Italian government used a gradient in their bills; there would be slight changes in the border. Very subtle, but there. Gives it a three dimensional look when you hold it up to the sun.”
“So the whole haul of treasure is fake? One big scam?” Phil shook his head as he thumbed through the photographs. Paintings, sculptures, golden candelabras … crates and boxes half-opened littered the small room.
“Not necessarily.” Clint picked up the bill, flipped it over in his hands, brought to his nose and sniffed. “During the war, there was an ink shortage and a couple runs of twenty lira notes were made with a different kind.” Leaning over further, he grabbed Phil’s bottle of water and shook a couple drops of condensation onto the paper. Rubbing gently, he pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked the switch; holding the bill just above the flame, he watched as the ink shifted from blue to green. “This is one of those. Good thing it wasn’t exposed to water; they’d all be faded away by now. Each one is worth probably close to $20,000.”
“Imagine.” Phil ran a fingertip across another one. “Locked in a Uboat for over 40 years at the bottom of the sea. I’ll have the rest checked and verified. Boyd Shotwell is going to be famous for the find.”
“That looks like a Monet …”
“Hey, Philly Cheesesteak!” A man in a blue pinstripe suit, standard FBI wear, leaned against the jamb. A wide smile glowed on his face. “Got everyone’s tongues wagging down in D.C. with all these cases you’re solving. Gordo just about shit his pants when you arrested that Food Network Star for embezzlement.”
“John? What are you doing in town? Last I heard, you were headed for the field office in San Diego.” Phil stood and walked over, holding out a hand; the man shook his head and grabbed Phil instead, dragging him into a hug that lasted just a few seconds too long.
“I’m here on a case, thought I’d see if you could loan me some of your mojo to solve it.” John kept one arm loosely around Phil’s waist until Phil stepped away, tugging his suit jacket back into place. “Always did like sharing, didn’t we Phil?”
One thing Clint knew was how to read people, a necessary skill in his profession. Tiny tells, minute expression, Clint could read this guy like a book and he didn’t like what he saw. Fingers lingering on Phil’s sleeve, laying a claim to him. Smile a bit too wide, eyes focused on Clint as soon as Phil turned his back. His shirt sleeves were a touch too long, suit not tailored right, a small stain on his tie. Yeah, Clint knew this guy’s type; best to take the offense.
“Phil’s very good at sharing.” Clint didn’t offer his hand, staying where he was, hip against Phil’s desk. “It’s what makes him a great agent.”
“John Garrett, Special Agent, Phil’s exe.” Eyes narrowed; John took in every inch of Clint who looked especially dapper today in his grey flannel double-breasted suit with a purple silk tie and bamboo mowbry pork pie hat.with the matching feather. “You must be Barton, Phil’s new pet. Why don’t you run get me a coffee while Phil and I catch up.”
“John,” Phil said in the same voice he used when he was disappointed in Clint. “Play nice. Clint’s a member of the team.”
“Your team, not mine.” John sauntered over to the window. “You may trust him, Phil, but I don’t. I haven’t forgotten he’s a criminal.”
“It’s called rehabilitation, John. We’ve had this argument before; let’s not get into it again.” An edge crept into Phil’s voice, his eyes flashing at the other agent. The slightest blush stained Phil’s cheeks, and Clint put the pieces together. Something had happened between them, and he was willing to bet Garrett had been the instigator. “Now, tell me what help you need. I’m always glad to lend a hand.”
The look Garrett shot Clint was brimming with dislike; Clint stayed where he was, forcing Garrett to go around him to get to a chair, putting him at a lower height than Clint. Pulling a folder out of his briefcase, he laid it open on Phil’s desk, covering the bills they’d been looking at.
“I’ve been on the trail of human traffickers working out of the port in San Diego; it’s part of an investigation into a Chinese group who call themselves The Hand. Drugs, slaves … these guys are into all sorts of dirty dealings.” He shuffled a picture to the top; the man was older, in his sixties at least, the image grainy and out-of-focus. “I’m following this guy; he’s of special interest to The Hand for some reason. They call him Stick.”
“Probably because of the bo staff,” Phil said, pointing to the walking stick the man was leaning on. “The Hand has any number of enemies; this guy could be working for another player in the city.”
“Could be a member of the Chaste,” Clint suggested. “Those two have been at war for decades.”
Garrett ignored Clint’s input. “This Stick character is staying at a hostel in Hell’s Kitchen; thought you might have a couple of agents to help with surveillance. See where he goes, who he meets.”
“I’ll see what we can do.” Phil glanced at Clint. “You got any connections we can tug?”
“I don’t need a con’s help,” Garrett sneered. “Phil and I have always done just fine.”
Phil’s face grew red and he sputtered; before he could launch a defense, Clint interrupted. “Hey, fine by me. I’ve still got paperwork to do from the Storm case. I could use the time.”
He winked at Phil, gathered up his hat and strolled past Garrett, giving the man a jaunty little nod. Steve and Maria pretended to look busy as he passed, heads down; they had to know Garrett and his past with Phil.
He slid behind his desk and got out his phone, tossing his hat on top of his inbox. Sending a quick text, he booted up his computer and started working on the report. His peripheral awareness sent tingles down his neck; Garrett kept an eye on him through the glass wall of Phil’s office. Whatever the agent might say, part of the reason he was here was Clint. So Clint kept his head down and focused on his screen, ignoring Phil’s office completely.
“Steve?” Phil stepped out of his office and called. “Got a second?”
As Steve jogged up the stairs, Garrett sauntered down, strolling over to Maria’s desk.
“How’s it hanging, Hill? Still content to follow in Phil’s footsteps?” Garrett didn’t bother to disguise his sarcasm. He leaned a hip against the metal edge and braced himself on his hands. “Heard you turned down the promotion to Chicago office.”
Of Maria’s stern looks, and Clint had catalogued forty-seven of them, the one she turned on Garrett was pure, unadulterated loathing. Not the disapproval she’d shown Clint when he’d first started working with the unit, or the exasperated eye roll that was her go-to favorite lately. Maria hated Garrett and didn’t care if he knew.
“Go away.” She glared at him. “And whatever trouble you’re stirring up, just know I’m watching and I will hurt you.”
“Brrrrr. Still Major Iceborg, I see.” Garrett pushed away. “No wonder you …”
“You’re going to want to stop right there.” Maria said, cutting him off, “if you don’t want a few teeth knocked out and a sexual harassment complaint.”
“Whatever.” Garrett shrugged, turning his attention to Clint. “So, Barton, what’s the scam? Using cases to pick your marks? Is Tony Stark the big play?”
“I like sunshine and a good cup of coffee enough to actually do the job Phil got me out of prison for.” Clint finished the sentence he was typing before he looked up. Garrett loomed above him, intentionally putting himself at an advantage. Kicking his feet out, Clint leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck, body a long line from head to toe, practically exposing his belly. “Jail or helping the FBI? Not really a choice there.”
“You ever think of the irony of your situation?” Garrett shifted, half-sitting on one hip; he picked up Clint’s hat and spun it in his hand. “Phil put you in jail, and Phil got you out. Says something, don’t you think?”
“That Phil’s a lot better at letting bygones be bygones?” Clint chuckled, every so slightly swinging his chair back and forth. “He caught me fair and square; I can respect that.”
“Oh, you’re good.” Garrett shared a grin that didn’t reach his eyes, dropping the hat back on the papers.. “You’re going to be a problem, aren’t you?”
“Phil gave me a second chance.” Clint didn’t tense up, kept his relaxed pose. “I’d hate to see anyone mess with him.”
“I’m going to have to keep my eye on you.” As Phil emerged from his office, Garrett stood and took a step back. “I imagine Phil does the same, keeps you on a tight rein.”
“Monitoring anklet.” Clint pulled up his pants leg to show the device. “The Bureau knows where I am at all time.”
Blue eyes narrowed, suspicion flaring, then they brightened back to the good old boy Garrett was pretending to be. “Well, Phil, your boy here is actually doing paperwork,” he said as Phil came to a stop. “Had to see it with my own eyes.”
“He’s better at getting his reports in than you were,” Phil replied, his quick glance taking in Clint and Maria both. “You ready to roll? Steve’s going to take care of hotels and bars so we can focus on your lead.”
“Sorry about the pavement pounding, Rogers.” Garrett didn’t punch Steve in the shoulder, but he did thicken his accent. “But it’s character building, right?’
“Not a problem.” Steve’s jawline strengthened, cheekbones more prominent. “I’ve got it covered.”
“Shall we than?” Phil moved around the other man, holding open the door to the elevator lobby. “We can take your car and I’m driving.”
Through the glass, Clint watched them, Garrett leaning towards Phil, hands moving as he spoke. Phil stood with hands at his side, nodding occasionally, eyes trained on the little black square as it counted out floors. Then they were gone, doors closing behind them on their way down to the garage.
“I …” Steve opened his mouth, but Maria stopped him with a wave of her hand, a signal for silence. Running a hand under the edge of her desk, she came up with a bug, a small black digital microphone. She nodded to Clint; catching the brim of his hat, he found a microdot inside, a listening device that wasn’t standard FBI issue.
Maria held out her hand; Clint gave it over. Closing her fist around them, Maria spoke directly to Garrett. “Old dog, John. You need to learn new tricks.” She dropped the bugs into her coffee cup. “That’s how the bastard got his promotion; man brags to whoever will listen after half a bottle of Jack.”
“Phil know?” Steve asked.
“I didn’t see the point in telling him and I didn’t have any proof.” Maria shrugged. “But damned if I’m going to let him waltz in here and pull that shit again. Watch you back, Steve, and Barton … yeah, you can handle him. Do your worst, and watch out for Phil.”
“Pretty sure Phil’s onto him.” Steve grabbed his jacket off his chair. “He wants me to help Clint follow up on his contacts and keep it quiet.”
“Phil knows John, but he doesn’t see just how deep the rot goes.” Maria picked up her cup and headed for the coffee pot. “I’ll check Phil’s office; Garrett knows you two are going out. Be careful.”
“That coffee shop with the maple bacon donuts still around.” Garrett stretched his legs and laid an arm across the back of the front seat. “I’ve missed those.”
“Health Department closed it down last year.” Phil turned the corner and started looking for parking. “And that burger joint you liked so much went out of business, but Chang’s is still open.”
“We should get takeout for dinner. On me,” Garrett grinned as Phil cut off a mini-van to grab a parallel spot just a few doors down from where they were headed. “Still the best driver I know.”
“You’re full of shit.” Phil didn’t know what John was up to, but he was laying it on way too thick. “Let’s go see this informant of yours.”
“Come on, man.” Garrett caught up with him as Phil pushed the door to the gym open. “Been a long time; sue me for enjoying getting the gang back together.”
Phil took the stairs up two flights. “Worked with you for seven years, John. I know when you’re buttering me up before the bad news. Just spit it out; I’m not walking in the gym until you spill whatever you’re hiding.”
“Aw, now, Phil, you take all the fun out of it.” John paused on the landing. “I wanted to see your face when you recognized her.”
Crossing his arms, Phil waited. Arguing would only draw out Garrett’s confession. Silence was the best weapon against John’s antics.
“Fine. The gym owner’s an old friend of yours; after she quit the bureau, she wound up here.” Garrett grinned.
“Melinda?” PHil rocked back on his heels; he’d thought she was out west, she and her husband settled in the L.A. area. “She’s in town?”
“And she didn’t tell you.” Continuing up the stairs, Garrett got to the double doors; Fogwell’s Gym was printed in red letters, black edging faded and chips missing. “You should ask her why.”
The room inside smelled of sweat and oil, leather and cigar smoke. A sparring ring dominated the space, punching bags hanging on one side. Posters covered the walls, matchups from old fights and ones to come. In the far corner, red mats spread across the floor; in the middle stood a petite woman, her plait of dark hair swinging as she demonstrated a punch for the young men standing along the edge.
Eyes tracked their movement as they made their way across the space, their suits making them stand out among the shorts and t-shirts. She knew the minute they walked in but kept talking even as the boys glanced curiously over their shoulders. “... to shift your weight onto the balls of your feet instead of sitting back on your heel. Isn’t that right, Phil?”
“Balance is half the battle; can’t get as many hits when you’re laid out on the ground.” Phil didn’t know what they were learning, but he knew Melinda. At least, he used to.
“Exactly. Phil, come help me demonstrate.” As always, Melinda’s suggestions brooked no argument. “Okay, gang, Phil’s going to be the attacker. Remember, shins and forearms are protection, elbow is a mace, the hands sword and dagger.”
Shrugging out of his jacket, Phil loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. The suit wasn’t ideal, but Mel was going to hand him his ass no matter what he had on. He hoped she let him get a a couple hits in before she took him down. Toeing out of his shoes, he stepped onto the mat. Up close, Phil could read the histories in the class, the pinched faces of those who knew hunger and fear. Wiry guys, the kind who’d be perfect targets for bullies, they pretended to be disinterested but didn’t miss a single word Melinda said.
“Now, watch and learn,” she said.
Phil shifted his weight to the left then reached to the right; at the last second, he turned to the side, avoiding Melinda’s elbow swing. He knocked her off-balance with a kick to the knee, blocked a strike with his forearm, and punched back with his open palm. Moving to the left -- Phil knew he favored his right side -- he got a hand around her braid and yanked. She rolled with it and came up with a punch that caught Phil in the gut followed quickly by another that knocked him on his ass.
“Okay, tell me what you learned.” Melinda looked over the students. “Ralph?”
“He got a hit in because he went left?” No more than fourteen, the boy was lost inside an oversized Nets t-shirt and baggy sweatpants.
“Very good. He predicted my actions. Study. Know your opponent.” Melinda glanced up at the clock. “That’s it for the day. Do your stretches and practice before Tuesday.”
The students headed to the locker room and Melinda raised that one eyebrow at Phil. “You’re getting slow in your old age.”
“Nice to see you too,” he replied. Whatever her reason for being in town without telling him, Melinda would share in her own good time … or not if she didn’t want to.
“Mel!” Garrett went to slap her on the shoulder; she sidestepped him.
“You don’t know the meaning of the word subtle, do you?” She took off her gloves and tossed them on a bench. “Fine. Give me five, and you’re buying me a latte.”