Clint, very aware of the quiet Russian woman sitting by his side, considered which scars he felt like exposing. It was all well and good for folks to show off their little dings and marks, but Clint had suffered some injuries that had required surgery and physical therapy, and he didn’t want to reveal any potential weaknesses. “Well, for starters, I’ve got this.” He opened his leather vest, revealing the jagged, raised tangle of scar tissue over his heart.
“Jesus,” said Peter, “what caused that?”
“Broken glass,” said Natasha, her voice very quiet. With her bare hand, she traced the scar, and Clint gave an involuntary shiver before grabbing her wrist. “How did you get this?”
“Same as everyone else, I got it in a fight.”
Natasha’s gaze seemed far too knowing for Clint’s comfort. “And what was the name of your adversary?”
Clint hesitated, and then thought, what the hell? “I didn’t know his name. It wasn’t that kind of a fight.”
“Ah.” Her nod said she understood what he wasn’t saying: His scar hadn’t come from some super-powered adversary in a colorful costume. It had come from a much less glamorous, much darker kind of battle. And it had come from a time before Clint had the skills to protect himself.
“How about you, Ms. Romanova,” said Jessica. “Do you have any scars you’d like to show us?”
Natasha hesitated, and then unzipped the front of her black jumpsuit. Underneath, Clint saw, she wore a serviceable, modest black sports bra that couldn’t completely flatten the generous curve of her breasts. “I have this,” she said, pulling aside the strap to show the v-shaped scar just below her collarbone. She met his eyes, and he understood what she was revealing: a childhood not entirely unlike his own.
“Mine’s bigger,” he said.
Natasha pulled back the sleeves of her black jumpsuit. Clint took her arm in his hands and examined the tiny, almost invisible cuts on her palm and the soft inside of her forearm. She showed him the other arm; the marks were more visible there.
“Defensive cuts. How old were you?”
“They say I was seven,” said Natasha, with a shrug. “But that’s a guess. I was small for my age for a long time, so I might well have been older.”
There was a popping sound from the fire, but no one else spoke. Without thinking, Clint stroked his thumb across the marks on the tender skin of Natasha’s forearm. Then, realizing what he was doing, Clint dropped his hand, grabbed his bow and laid it across his lap so he could wipe it down.
“Didn’t you already clean that?”
Clint didn’t dare look at Jessica. “I don’t tell you how to care for your gun, do I?”
Jessica stood up from Clint’s side. “Tony,” she said, sitting back down next to him, “have you had any luck hacking into Lykos’s file?”
“Still locked, but I’ve got an automatic system going that keeps running through different combinations of passwords. The S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost is still offline, by the way.”
Jessica’s eyes cut to the Black Widow, and then away. “Yes, they’ll probably remain that way for another two to four hours, as part of the training exercise.”
Tony glanced up at Jessica, and then quickly over at Natasha. “Yeah, the training exercise. I forgot.”
Clint tried not to laugh. For a genius, Tony could sure be slow on the uptake. Clint didn’t think the Widow had been fooled by any of that for an instant. Jessica and Tony continued to discuss hacking strategies.
Clint knew by the set of Jessica’s jaw that she was pissed off at him. The next time they all sat down together, Jessica would not be at his side. I’m not some teenage jerk trying to get into the new girl’s pants, he wanted to say. I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. assassin trying to determine if I have to take her out. But that didn’t quite explain the hot rush that had swept through Clint at the touch of the Russian’s arm. Her arm, for crying out loud. If it hadn’t all been so deadly serious, it would have been hysterically funny.
All of a sudden, everyone seemed to fall silent, and Clint grew aware of the chorus of chirping frogs that filled the evening air, punctuated by something making a rhythmic percussive sound on a tree.
“All right,” said Tony. “Here’s what I think. At first light, I’ll make a quick aerial pass over the science compounds, the S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost and the citadel.”
“I have to disagree,” said Steve. “If Lykos and whoever is with him spot you overhead, we lose the element of surprise. And there must be a million ways to lose yourself in the jungle. We need to be stealthy.” He took a stick and scratched a crude map of the area. “There are three big science compounds—two of them located on remote islands, one on the top of a mountain. In addition, we need to do a recon of the citadel and the S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost. So that’s five potential targets and six of us.”
“Seven,” said Natasha.
“You’re not one of us,” said Jessica. “Captain, I think either Clint or I should check out the S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost.”
“Both of you go together. Luke, I think you and Peter should head toward the ruined citadel. I’ll investigate the southern science compound.”
Tony closed the panel on his gauntlet. “I take it you want me to handle the two island locations?”
“Since you can travel underwater, yes, I think that makes the most sense.”
Tony pointed at the dirt map. “You do know we have laptops?”
“Force of habit.” Steve used the stick to wipe away the markings. “Now, we should try to get some rest. We’re going to have a long day tomorrow.”
Clint nodded. “Who’s going to take first watch?”
“My armor has a built-in intruder alert,” said Tony, setting his helmet on a rock. “Keep an eye open, armor.”
The helmet’s eyes lit up. “Affirmative, Mr. Stark.”
“Wake us if we have any uninvited guests.” Tony handed out thin sleeping bag rolls made of a Stark-designed technical material. One by one, the new Avengers spread out their sleeping bags on the ground, settled in around the campfire and closed their eyes, trying to take advantage of what remained of the night. For some, sleep came more easily than others. For Clint, it never came at all—which turned out to be a very good thing.
T W E L V E
UNDER the cover of darkness, while Captain America kept watch for external threats, Natasha slipped out of the Avengers’ camp. She moved with exquisite caution, transferring her weight with a dancer’s lightness, timing her steps to coincide with the calls of distant animals or the rustling of wind through the trees. As she reached a safe distance from the others, she was surprised by the pang of regret she felt as she left the warmth and relative safety of the fire behind. Of course, she mocked herself, it’s the fire you’ll miss, and not a certain sharp-eyed archer who saw far too much for your comfort. What was even more unsettling, he seemed to understand what he saw. As Natasha had learned back in her applied-psychology practicum, the sense of being understood is extremely seductive. Beauty may attract, eroticism may ensnare, but it is the conviction that one is truly and intimately comprehended by another that creates a sense of trust.
And without trust, there can be no betrayal—a spy’s real purpose.
His thumb brushing over her old scars. So clever, to act as though it had been an inadvertent touch, to drop his hand so abruptly, as if he hadn’t known what he was doing. It had been so very effective that Natasha knew she must try it herself. And the look in his eyes—how had he managed that perfect balance between wariness and warmth? Most convincing. It had almost gotten to her. No. It had gotten to her—just a little, just for a moment—before she remembered her training.
Natasha tripped over a tree root, and then froze, listening intently. Nothing. She was alone. And that was as it should be. The Black Widow did not go around missing fires and companionship and petty thieves turned sharpshooters who were not even the strongest in the group, who were not even the cleverest or the most handsome. He wasn’t even particularly tall, for cryi
ng out loud.
She could just imagine what Yelena would have said: “He looks like a construction worker who expects some little woman to serve him steaming plates of Pelmeni while he gets drunk on cheap street vodka.” If only she could talk to Yelena, Natasha knew she could shake this absurd attraction. But Yelena was still in the program, and Natasha couldn’t think of any safe way to contact her best friend.
Distracted, Natasha suddenly found herself caught in a tangle of vines; she had to take a few moments to extricate herself. The tropical night was still almost pitch black, and Natasha could barely make out the little glow-in-the-dark compass she had lifted from Hawkeye’s gear while he slept. No matter. The main thing was to get back to Lykos’s camp and establish some sort of cover before dawn.
Natasha tripped again, this time over something that hissed. She paused, her heart pounding, wondering whether she should wait till there was more light.
No, she thought, best to keep pressing onward. She wondered how many nocturnal predators there were in this place. She had never felt so unprepared for an assignment. She was usually thoroughly briefed by her bosses, but here she was on her own, with limited resources. From what she had pieced together, the Savage Land contained an odd assortment of dinosaurs from several different prehistoric periods, along with saber-tooths and other mammals from the Ice Age. The big birds that had attacked the others were actually from an earlier period—after the great extinction event that had ended the age of giant reptiles, but before the change in climate that had brought the giant mammals to the very top of the food chain.
All in all, the Savage Land might look like a wild jungle, but it was a thoroughly artificial construct, created by some alien who had gone about collecting life-forms with more enthusiasm than discipline—like a child capriciously choosing incompatible fish to fill his tank. What did the child care if one fish began to decimate all his companions? He was off to play with other toys.
There was a snuffling sound from the bushes, and Natasha fingered the gun she had managed to steal from Jessica’s pack. It was only a little Glock 26, but it was better than relying entirely on the prison-made throwing star she had swiped from a Raft inmate. The snuffling animal emerged, revealing itself as a little porcine creature, rooting through the soil and leaves for insects and grubs.
Natasha berated herself for her nerves, but her heart was still beating faster than usual. She knew how many men she could take on and win, but she had no illusions about how she might fare in a head-to-head battle with a Tyrannosaurus rex.
Maybe you should just go back and try your luck with Hawkeye and the rest. It was such a tempting option, Natasha knew instantly she must resist it. They did not trust her, and Jessica knew Natasha was on to her—which made Jessica particularly dangerous. I shouldn’t have said what I did about her powers—that was stupid of me. A misstep. It would be very easy for Jessica to use some battle as an excuse to attempt to rid herself of Natasha.
And then there was the question of Clint himself. He was the hardest of the group to read. Her instinct was that Clint was dangerous to her now in a way he had not been before. Back at the Raft, he had kept her in his line of vision, and he had done the same thing around the campfire. But now Natasha sensed a guardedness in him, and a resolve, that seemed different. He wanted her, that had not changed, but desire had never stopped her from ruthlessly executing a target. There was no reason to think the bowman would hesitate to dispatch her when he deemed the time was right.
Again, the memory of Clint’s thumb brushing over the old scars on her arm made Natasha pause. What had that meant, that touch? She could have sworn she felt tenderness, or something like it, in his caress. It must have been another strategy, a method for getting under her defenses. She had used such ploys herself, too many times to count. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder—was there a chance it had been genuine?
You would be the last woman in the world to recognize an honest emotion. That was the bottom line, really. In the simple calculus of spycraft, she could not afford to let her guard down with this man, or she could wind up with something far worse than a broken heart. Expert marksman he might be, but Clint was perfectly capable of killing at close range.
Natasha stopped and checked her compass. Chort poderi. She had wandered off course again. Natasha turned to head in the correct direction when she saw a light, like a firefly’s glow, flying toward her. She started running, but it was too dark to see clearly, and she slammed into a tree. Moving more cautiously, she saw another glowing light heading her way, and this time she could hear the distinctive whistle of an arrow arcing through the air.
Hawkeye! Natasha thought quickly about concealing herself, but she felt the impact of the archer’s body slamming her down onto the ground before she could move.
“What’s wrong, Nat?” he said, pinning her wrists with his hands and immobilizing her legs between the iron clamp of his thighs. “Couldn’t sleep?”
The man either had Stark-designed contact lenses to help him navigate the darkness, or else he had the best natural night vision in the world. Natasha struggled for a moment, and then let her muscles go slack, as though realizing she could not match his greater strength. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you when I got up.”
“You’re too kind.”
Natasha reared up, slamming her head into his, and then the two were rolling on the ground, each grappling furiously for the advantage. When they stopped, Natasha had her Glock pressed to Clint’s temple, and he had his knife at her throat.
“Stalemate,” he said. “I feel you tense, I open your jugular.”
“I feel you start to move, I blow your brains out.”
It was a perfect stand-off—except they were lying down, pressed up against each other so intimately that Natasha could feel every hard muscle in the bowman’s sinewy body. “You feel like telling me why you snuck out of camp, Nat? Or should I spare you the trouble of lying about going to rejoin Lykos’s people?”
“I’m not on Lykos’s side—not yet. But joining up with him is looking more attractive by the minute.”
“I suppose that’s my cue to try to convince you that we’re a better bet?” Clint smiled, but his eyes were cold and hard. “Lady, you’ve got to the count to three to convince me I shouldn’t just remove you from the equation before you betray our group to Lykos.”
“What’s the point? You’ve made up your mind, and there’s nothing I can say that will change it.”
“One.”
Natasha’s mind raced, thinking of stratagems, wrestling holds, ruses.
“Two.”
She wished she were not so aware of his body on a purely animal level. She wished he hadn’t touched her arm so softly back by the campfire.
“Three.”
She felt his muscles tense at the same time hers did, and then it happened so quickly that even Natasha wasn’t entirely sure who initiated the kiss. All she knew was that his hands were now tangled in her hair, and her nails were digging into his shoulders, and he was kissing her so fiercely it sent sparks down her spine, electrifying every last inch of her. They were grappling again, but this time, anger had been transmuted into something else. Or perhaps it had been something else all along, and the anger had been the disguise. They were not gentle with each other. They were not even gentle with themselves as they rolled on the rough ground, yanking back the clothing that was a barrier to closer contact.
At the last possible moment, Clint hesitated, searching her face. “Natasha. Is this what you want?”
“No,” she said, wanting him to understand that she hadn’t chosen this, it had chosen her. But as he began to withdraw, she grabbed him and said fiercely, “yes,” repeating the word over and over until he took her, returning her ferocity with equal force. He tried to kiss her, and Natasha bit him on the shoulder, hard. This was the furthest thing in the world from the carefully choreographed seduction scenes she had used to manipulate men in the past. It was nothing like what she h
ad shared with Alexei, either. This was something new, as primal and dangerous as their surroundings. With the tiny part of her brain that was still functioning, Natasha knew it would serve her right if she were to be eaten by some stupid reptile.
Then, just as the sensation threatened to overwhelm her, Clint cupped the back of her head, protecting her from the hard ground, and kissed her again, and Natasha stopped thinking altogether.
CLINT tried to recall when he had done anything this stupid. As a kid in the Iowa Lutheran Foundation Group Home, sick of having his meager belongings swiped, when he had dug up a nest of fire ants and dumped them in Erik Gregerson’s bed? As a teenager in the circus, when he had gone on stage so drunk he couldn’t walk straight, and then attempted a tumbling run? Or perhaps it had been during the start of his brilliant criminal career, when he had tried to shut up a family’s golden retriever without hurting it, and had wound up with thirty stitches in his hand and a prison record.
No, thought Clint, as the first rays of dawn filtered down through the leaves, revealing the elegant curve of Natasha’s back as she straightened her clothing. None of that compared in sheer, reckless, damn-the-consequences stupidity to this. He took a deep breath, trying to think what to say, and then realized Natasha had her back to him. Christ. She looked over her shoulder, and they both rolled for their weapons at the same moment.
“I feel like we’ve done this before,” he said, his grip steady on his bowstring as he tried not to think what the arrow would do to that pretty face.
“There’s a slight variation in position.” Natasha indicated the Glock, aimed at his heart instead of his head.
Clint didn’t make any wisecracks. It seemed a bit ridiculous to go back to flirty banter when his knees were still weak from their last encounter. “Nat,” he said, and then, surprising even himself, continued, “I’m putting down the bow.” She simply stared at him, unblinking, as he placed his recurve gently on the ground, and then held up his hands, palms out. “If what just happened here was you playing me, then go ahead and shoot.”