“What’s going on?”
“We’ve got a location for Lykos. Luke and Peter ID’d him at the citadel, but the place is crawling with locals—mutant Savage Landers.”
Natasha frowned. “Interesting.”
“They want to rendezvous…I’ve got the new coordinates. Come on. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
He set off, trusting Natasha to follow him. She looked out at the leafy tangle of trees and vines, thinking how easy it would be to slip away. Clint didn’t turn around. A moment before he disappeared from view behind a thick bush, Natasha fell into step behind him.
• • •
THE strange, short night seemed to arrive suddenly, so Clint and Natasha stopped to eat and make a small fire. Clint estimated they were only five miles or so from the coordinates Cap had given him. Ordinarily, he would have pressed on, but traversing the jungle required a combination of intense physical effort and supreme vigilance. Fatigue could be as debilitating as alcohol when it came to judgment and reflexes, and he and Natasha were both wiped out enough to make mistakes. Clint noticed Natasha was barely touching the small bird he had caught for their dinner.
“You going to tell me what’s bugging you?”
“Your friend Jessica has her powers back.”
That would certainly explain how she had beaten Natasha so quickly in their fight. “You sure about that?”
“Positive. Why hasn’t she told anyone? Maybe she’s working for this rogue S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost. She could be setting us all up.”
“Not Jessica.”
Natasha pushed her hair back from her face. “Clint, she used to work for Hydra.”
“Past tense.”
“You really think you can trust her?”
“Funny, she asked the same thing about you.” Clint turned the small bird leg in his hands, trying to find a decent bite. “Whatever Jessica’s doing, I know she’d never betray her friends.” Looking up, he said, “You told Nekra that you were a monster.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I’ve done things I’m not proud of, too. That doesn’t make me a monster.”
“Clint, no offense, but whatever you’ve done? Compared to me, you’re a choirboy.”
Clint looked at her. Even with her face bare of makeup and her hair a tangled mess of waves, she looked sensual, exotic, dangerous. “We comparing how many commandments we’ve broken? I’ve taken the name of the Lord in vain about fifty times in the past twenty-four hours. I haven’t gone to church since my parents’ funeral, and since Dad was a stinking drunk and Mom didn’t have the guts to tell him he couldn’t drive, I don’t honor their memories too much. And just so you don’t think I’m handing you a sob story as an excuse, my older brother Barney lived the same life I did, and he joined the Army and then the FBI. As for me, I’ve lied, I’ve stolen, I’ve been coveting other peoples’ gear since I could talk.”
“Wow. You’ve convinced me. You’re badass.” Her voice was as flat as the Iowa plains.
Clint took a breath, and then thought, what the hell. “I’ve murdered.”
“You’ve killed. There’s a difference.”
“Nothing wrong with my English, Nat.”
They regarded each other through the deepening shadows. When Natasha finally responded, she didn’t ask the question he was expecting. Instead, with a voice as soft as a whisper, she said, “How did you lie, Clint?”
It took him a moment, and then he got it. I take it you have not been trained in the seduction arts. She had sounded so sophisticated about it, even a bit superior. He, of all people, should have known better than to buy the Mata Hari act. You could call it whatever you liked, but when you manipulated people with your body, there was a certain amount of wear and tear on your soul. “I’ve lied with my body, if that’s what you’re asking.”
She gave an unladylike snort of laughter. “Please. I’m not talking about some furtive teenage fumbling that you pretend is love for an hour or so.”
“Neither am I.”
She raised her eyebrows. “S.H.I.E.L.D. asks this of their agents?”
“No. At least, I don’t think so.” He thought about how much easier this conversation would be if he had a drink. Clint was used to walking into dangerous places, but this was emotional territory he’d sealed off years ago. He’d never talked about it with anybody, not the doctors, not the social workers—not even Jacques Duquesne, who had taken him off the streets and into Carson’s Carnival of Traveling Wonders.
Clint picked up a flat stone and passed it between his fingers, an old dexterity exercise he hadn’t done in years. “After my parents died, I went to a group home. Then, when I was thirteen, I ran away and spent about three months on the streets. It’s not in my file. The group home kept lousy records.” He took a drink of water from the canteen, because his mouth was suddenly bone dry. “It was a bad time. I made some bad decisions. Some of them led to bad situations.”
“You don’t have to say any more. I understand.” She stirred the ground with a twig. “Still, it’s not the same. You were a child, and desperate. The things I have done…I did as an adult, and nobody forced me.” She didn’t say anything else.
The silence stretched and became uncomfortable, weighted with unsaid things.
Jesus. Clint stood up to move around, tending the fire, checking the perimeter for predators, anything to keep from meeting her eyes. Of course it wasn’t the same. He was a guy, for crying out loud. He had to be out of his mind, admitting his secrets to a woman, to this woman. What had he expected her to do, burst into tears, rush over and embrace him, start planning a winter wedding with an archery theme? He was a street kid and she was some kind of master spy, and his sordid past had probably just made her regret ever letting him near her.
“Clint?” Her voice was gentle.
He kept feeding small twigs into the fire. “Yeah.”
“We should try to sleep. You want to go first?”
Clint laughed. “And wake up to find you storming the citadel without me? I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself.” She lay down, pillowing her head on her hands. So much for the easy camaraderie that had gripped them along with the passion. It was for the best, he supposed. Not exactly a great idea to stroll back into camp hand in hand with the notorious Black Widow. And when you came right down to it, he hadn’t lost a thing, except maybe one last chance to do the deed. Neither of them was the type for white lace and happily ever afters.
Within moments, Natasha’s breathing slowed and her eyelids began to flutter. Not that he was watching or anything. Wonder what she’s dreaming about, he thought, and then caught himself. Whatever it is, Barton, it ain’t you.
F O U R T E E N
THE moment Jessica saw Clint and Natasha, she knew something had happened. Her first clue was the obvious fact that Clint wasn’t dragging the Black Widow back in handcuffs. Instead, they walked in together, his longer legs keeping pace with her smaller strides. His body language was another tell: There was no wariness in the way Clint’s eyes followed the Russian agent, but still he kept glancing over at her as she greeted Peter and Luke.
Great. No use talking to him now. He’d just repeat every word to his new handler.
“Hey, Jessica.” Clint dropped his quiver and bow at the base of a tree, and crouched down by the first-aid kit. “Are we the last to arrive?” He tore open an alcohol wipe and applied it to a scratch on his face. The Black Widow, Jessica noted, did not appear to have sustained any injuries.
“Steve and Tony are due back anytime now. Everyone else is here.”
Clint unzipped his vest and swabbed a scratch on his chest. “What’s taking them so long?”
“The usual—bad luck and snafus.”
Clint looked up. “We talking snafus with teeth, or some other kind?”
“Steve’s had teeth. Tony said he was having some kind of armor glitch.” Jessica pointed at the scratches. “Did you get into a fight?” She regretted th
e question almost instantly. If those were marks of passion, she really didn’t want to know.
Clint zipped up his vest. “We ran into Nekra and Mandrill. Hey, is there anything to eat?”
“Luke’s making something out of the MRE pouches. I think he’s mixing macaroni and cheese with sweet-and-sour pork, so you might want one of these instead.” Jessica handed him an energy bar.
“Thanks.” He unwrapped the foil and took a bite, examining a topographical map displayed on Jessica’s laptop. Small dots indicated each team member’s location. Steve’s and Tony’s dots kept inching closer to the new camp.
“So, what’s the report on the S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost?”
“I got called back before I reached it.”
Clint looked over his shoulder. “Really? You didn’t try to fly there?”
Jessica blinked in surprise, and then recovered. “I think my powers might be coming back, but they’re not reliable yet. That’s why I haven’t said anything yet. How could you tell?”
“I couldn’t.”
Without another word, Clint walked over to offer some of his energy bar to Natasha. It seemed like the kind of gesture you saw in high-school romances, at least in the movies. Jessica had never been to high school and had accidentally killed her first teenage crush with a power blast.
She had lived with the guilt of that action for years. And that’s the big difference between me and a certain Russian, she thought. Jessica would bet her life savings that when the Black Widow used her powers to destroy a man, there was nothing accidental about it.
Jessica crossed the camp to where the Russian woman was accepting a cup of Luke’s foul-smelling concoction. “Ms. Romanova,” she said. “I wonder if we could have a word in private?”
The other woman paused, spoon in hand. “Why in private?”
“It’s about shark week.”
“All right,” she said, putting down her cup. “You lead the way.”
Peter paused in the act of pulling off his mask. “I’ve barely recovered from the monster chickens. Please don’t tell me there’s some kind of prehistoric land shark about to attack?”
“No, Peter, it’s nothing for you to worry about,” said Jessica. As she and Natasha moved away from the camp, she could hear Luke chuckling.
“‘Shark week’ is girl code,” he was telling Peter.
“Girl code?”
“Think about it for a sec.”
“I still don’t…oh. Ugh. Ew. Jeez, Luke, how do you know about it?”
“Pregnancy, man. I know more about women’s cycles than I ever dreamed of knowing. You ever hear of a mucus plug?”
Jessica didn’t catch Peter’s response, but she kept walking until she reached a small copse of trees to be certain she and Natasha would have privacy.
“Okay,” said Natasha, “I’m assuming you didn’t really drag me out here to ask if I have a box of tampons stashed in my boot. But before you start grilling me, I’d like to know one thing: Are you loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D., or to your friends here?”
“I’m loyal to both. What about you? Are you loyal to anyone besides yourself?”
To Jessica’s surprise, Natasha did not respond immediately. Instead, she appeared to consider the question. “Yes,” she said, sounding slightly surprised.
Oh, thought Jessica, nice acting. “Go on,” she prompted. “Don’t stop there. Isn’t this where you confess that yeah, you’ve been seducing men for information since you were thirteen, but this thing with Clint is different?” Jessica brought her hands to her chest and batted her eyelashes.
Natasha nodded, as if acknowledging a point. “And is this where you finally come clean about your feelings for Clint?”
Should have seen that one coming. “Clint and I are partners. You think lust is a big indicator of intimacy? I say friendship counts for more than some temporary hormonal high.”
“Speaking of hormones, your file mentioned that you have some kind of genetically altered pheromones that attract most men and some women. Kind of like Mandrill. Wonder why they haven’t worked on Clint. Could it be that he genuinely likes me?”
“I’m sure he thinks he does.”
“I also recall that your scent seems to repel other heterosexual women. Must make it difficult to get along with people at work—half of them want to jump your bones, and the other half want to break them. Guess that’s why you’re so upset about Clint.” Natasha walked a slow circle around Jessica. “He is your only real friend, isn’t he?”
“Your information’s out of date,” said Jessica, refusing to turn her head to follow Natasha’s progress. “I have a perfume that neutralizes the effect of my pheromones. Unlike some people, I don’t intentionally use sex to manipulate my friends.”
“Ah, another secret emerges. I am so enjoying our little girl talk.”
Damn it. The perfume was new, another gift from Hydra’s research-and-development team. This woman was dangerously good at getting information, and Jessica felt the prickle of alarm turn into a shiver of electricity moving down her arms. Without her Spider-Woman powers, she wasn’t sure which of them would emerge victorious from a fight. With them, Jessica knew, she could blast the other woman off her feet and out of the game. And, oh, man, did she ever want to zap this manky skank.
Natasha suddenly looked wary, as if she could sense the shift in Jessica. “I know you won’t believe me, but I’m not manipulating Clint.”
“Please. It may not even be deliberate, but all you’ve ever done is manipulate people. You wouldn’t know how to be any other way.”
Natasha stopped in her tracks. “All right, then, as long as we’re digging around in each other’s psyches, why don’t we talk about how you got your powers back?”
This time, Jessica had anticipated Natasha’s next move. “They just came back. I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up until I was certain.”
“So you won’t care if I just announce your happy recovery to everyone?”
The power was thrumming inside Jessica now. “Be my guest.”
“I could also suggest to Tony that he scan you for any sign of surgery or enhancements.”
Jessica grabbed Natasha and flipped her, then straddled the smaller woman. “What’s your game now? Is this some kind of ploy to get Clint to rush in to save you?”
“You know, Clint told me to start treating you like a teammate, but you’re making it awfully difficult.” Natasha kicked out; before Jessica could react, she found their positions reversed. Now she was on her back, a Glock pointed at her heart.
“I have no idea whether or not I can trust you, Jessica, and I don’t have a lot of time to decide. I’m going to take a chance and tell you there are things going on that you don’t understand. So before you make your next move, consider this.” Natasha leaned in so her mouth was right next to Jessica’s ear. “Look up. We’re surrounded.”
For a moment, Jessica didn’t understand. Natasha moved back to allow Jessica to get up. Jessica stared at the Black Widow for a moment, trying to decide whether this was yet another trick. Then she caught a flicker of movement out of her peripheral vision and saw what the other woman had already noticed: shadowy figures crouched in the trees around them—at least a dozen, maybe more.
If there had been time, Jessica would have been furious at herself for letting down her guard. She tried not to worry about Clint and the others back at the camp. She had to keep herself grounded in the here and now. If I survive this, I’m going to owe Natasha.
“So,” she said to Natasha, “are we going to yammer on about it all day, or get down to it?”
“Let’s do it.” Natasha pulled Jessica up.
The two women stood back to back, facing their misshapen attackers. God, they were huge—densely muscled, and armed with claws and fangs. From the looks of their blunt faces, three of the mutates had been gorillas in a former life. The other two looked like they had been some kind of felines: lions, perhaps, or tigers.
“Oh, great, cats,” Nat
asha said, not looking away from the mutates.
“You don’t like cats?”
“I’m allergic, so they always go for me.”
The cat-mutates pounced, all three coming at Natasha at once. “What did I tell you?” Natasha pushed at the shortest one’s chin—giving it a hard, lateral shove—and then she darted sideways, causing the three mutates to crash into one another. They recovered almost instantly, but Natasha was already delivering a roundhouse kick that toppled her attackers like bowling pins.
Jessica didn’t see what happened next because she was busy with the two ape-mutates. They hauled their fists back to deliver twin knockout punches to her jaw, then hollered in pain as Jessica ducked under their arms, causing them to punch each other. Jessica delivered a sharp double-handed blow to her attackers’ unprotected groins, and the two grunted in unison.
“You guys aren’t much for the fighty conversation, are you?” Out of the corner of her eye, Jessica saw a cat-mutate flip Natasha onto her back. Natasha grabbed a fistful of her opponent’s fur and gave it a ferocious yank. The cat-mutate let out a yowl of pain. He stumbled back, staggering into the other two, dazed mutates. They exchanged a quick glance and fled, back into the trees.
“I’m going to pay for this with a wicked rash,” said Natasha, blowing the fur from her palms.
“Come on, let’s get back to the others.” Jessica raced ahead—and then stopped, stunned. Clint, Luke and Peter lay sprawled on the ground.
“Clint!” She crouched down beside him, trying to find a pulse. His bow was still in his hand. Whatever had taken him down must have hit him fast. There was no mark on him.
“Is he dead?”
“No, there’s a pulse. It’s weak, but it’s there. And he’s breathing.” She checked Peter while Natasha pressed two fingers to the radial artery in Luke’s wrist, and then the larger carotid artery at his neck.
“Unconscious, but breathing,” said Natasha.
“Same with Peter.” Jessica lifted one of his eyelids, then slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Well, his pupils are responding, but he’s not.”
New Avengers: Breakout Prose Novel Page 13