“Seemed like a thing to me.”
“Well, it’s not.”
“What about Jessica?”
“There’s nothing going on, okay?”
“Don’t need to be so grouchy about it,” said Peter, falling back to walk next to Luke. Clint overheard Peter saying, “I got nothing.”
Clint stopped and checked his compass. They should be within a mile of the mines, now, but the trees were so thick here it was impossible to see what lay ahead. “You’d think the ground would have cleared out a bit by now, if there’d been mining here.”
“Yeah, and if there’s activity, we should hear something,” said Steve.
Clint held out the compass. “Hold up, let me check our bearings. The needle’s acting up.”
“Vibranium messes up compasses,” said Peter. “At least, large amounts of it do. So if the compass is wonky, it’s probably a clue there’s a mine-load of the stuff up ahead.”
Luke wiped the sweat off his forehead. “That’s a relief.”
Steve used the side of his shield to hack off a vine as thick as a man’s thigh. “Come on, we need to keep pressing on.”
They moved with agonizing slowness through the heavy undergrowth. The musky smell of damp vegetation and overripe fruit mingled with the odor of profusely sweating men. The trees had just begun to thin, revealing a patch of blue sky, when Steve stopped abruptly. “Wait. Do you hear that?”
The faint sound of rotors beating the air grew louder as they listened.
“Helicopters,” said Clint. “Get down.”
Clint and the others grabbed dirt as what sounded like three choppers passed overhead. When he looked up, he whistled softly. “Those big birds are military issue. Where do you suppose they’re headed?”
“Let’s find out.” Peter launched himself into the treetops, moving swiftly from limb to limb. He disappeared from view within moments, and then quickly returned. “All right,” he said, sounding tense and strained, not at all like his usual wisecracking self. “This is the deal: The reason we can’t see the mines is because we’re at the edge of a cliff here. The mines are directly below. You’re only about thirty feet away.”
Luke shaded his eyes, peering up at the acrobatic figure in the red-and-blue Spider-Man suit perched in the treetops. “What aren’t you telling us?”
“You’d better see for yourselves.”
STANDING near the edge of a sharp drop-off, the four Avengers watched as the large military cargo helicopters landed on the ground some one hundred and fifty feet below, their propellers blowing up a thick cloud of powdery dirt.
When the dust cleared, Clint saw three large trucks loaded with crates. Roughly two dozen mutates, mostly men, were unloading the trucks and transferring the crates to the choppers.
Six S.H.I.E.L.D. agents guarded the mutates, their submachine guns held loosely in their hands. As Clint and the others watched, a heavily furred cat-man stumbled and nearly dropped one of the boxes on the ground. A guard stepped forward and zapped him with a Taser. The cat-man grunted and convulsed on the ground.
“I don’t believe it,” said Luke, his voice so gruff it almost sounded like a growl. “Tell me that’s not our people playing slavemasters down there.”
There was a high, whining noise, and Clint shouted, “Sniper!” just as a piece of bark exploded near his head. “They’re shooting at us. I can’t believe it. Even if they don’t know that we work for S.H.I.E.L.D., they have to be able to see Cap’s uniform.”
Clint expected shock from Cap, or a moment of denial. Maybe even an attempt to hail the shooter: Can’t you see we’re one of you? Instead, Steve said, “Barton! Can you tell where the sniper’s located?”
“He hasn’t hit us yet, so I’m guessing he’s shooting from an inclined angle.”
“Thanks.” Steve sent his shield flying—but the attacker was elusive. In the moment before the shield returned to Steve’s hand, a bullet whizzed past.
“We’ve got to regroup! Take cover!”
They turned and ran.
Peter was closest to the safety of the trees when the huge pteranodon swooped down. He flicked his wrist, sending a jet of web-fluid into the creature’s face. It did no good; the creature had Peter in its claws, and its great wings were already beating, lifting them higher into the air.
Steve threw his shield again; it spun out, hitting the pteranodon in the side before returning to Steve’s hand. The flying reptile roared, but didn’t release Spider-Man.
“Sauron,” Luke bellowed. “Let him go!” A bullet pinged off Luke’s back, and then another bullet flew past Clint’s cheek, barely missing him. He sent three more of his precious remaining arrows winging in the sniper’s direction.
Dangling in the air twenty feet above the ground, Peter tried to wrest himself loose of Sauron’s grip. “Lykos, I don’t want to fight you!”
“Brainchild thought I could feed off you,” said Lykos, his claws cutting into Spider-Man’s shoulders. “Let’s see if he was right.” As Clint and the others watched, Sauron opened a beak that looked sharp enough to cut through mastodon bones.
Steve threw his shield again. This time, he hit his target squarely on the right wing, and Sauron dropped to the ground. Peter broke loose, rolling as he hit the dirt.
The Avengers approached Sauron, who was flapping his wings, attempting to fly.
“Stop,” said the creature that had been Lykos. “Do not attack.” His voice had a raspy, avian quality, like a raven’s. The moment he issued the command, Clint found himself unable to move. It’s his eyes, thought Clint. They were huge; the pupils had turned into spirals, mesmerizing him with their constant, whirling motion.
Sauron shook his long, beaked head—an oddly human gesture from such an inhuman creature. “It’s funny. In my village, we all grew up wanting Coca-Cola and Levi’s jeans and a hero like Captain America to protect us. It’s one of the reasons I first agreed to work with—”
Sauron’s last word ended in a strangled croak as the back of his crested skull exploded. Clint felt the spatter of blood and bone and brains on his face as the pteranodon toppled over. “Jesus,” said Clint, realizing he could move again. “That shot came from behind us.” Either the soldiers from the bottom of the cliff had managed to scale the rock face and maneuver silently around them, or, more likely, they had radioed for reinforcements. As Clint drew his bow, Luke, Peter and Steve moved forward to confront whoever had taken Sauron down.
From the trees opposite them, a dozen tactical S.H.I.E.L.D. guards closed in, their weapons aimed at the Avengers
Steve stepped forward as if the guns were unworthy of his notice. “Soldiers,” he said, clipping the end of the word, “this is Captain America. I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. and have a level-eight security clearance.” Clint had never heard Cap so furious. “You are acting in direct defiance of S.H.I.E.L.D. protocols. I order you to stand down!”
One of the soldiers, a sunburnt redhead, opened up a sat phone. Clint couldn’t make out what he was saying, but assumed he was requesting instructions from a senior officer.
The redheaded soldier seemed to have trouble understanding what the officer on the other end was saying. As Clint watched, he spoke into the phone again, and then listened to the response. When he turned to his fellow soldiers, his face was grim.
Peter looked at Luke. “Did he just say what I think he said?”
Luke cursed eloquently. “Get behind me.”
It was the expression on Steve’s unmasked face that made Clint finally understand what the others had heard: The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had been ordered to kill them.
E I G H T E E N
AT first glance, the S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost didn’t look like much, just a group of small whitewashed buildings arranged around two rows of palm trees. A hundred feet from the closest building, Natasha, Tony and Jessica waited in the shelter of a makeshift hide composed of dirt, bushes and a few saplings pulled down to form a screen. So far, no one had emerged from any of the buildings.
“Finally,” said Tony, as two agents dressed in black bodysuits exited one of the outbuildings and walked toward the largest structure, presumably the location HQ. The two appeared to be chatting companionably. One even laughed.
“No crisis situation here,” said Natasha, taking her turn with the binoculars. “In fact, if you block out the jeeps and the military helicopters and the ugly metal Quonset hut, it could be a budget vacation destination.”
“You mean the kind where a manic depressive runs exercises in group humiliation around the swimming pool?” Jessica held out her hand for the binoculars. “Sounds good to me. Throw in a tennis court and a hammock, and I wouldn’t mind being stationed here.”
Tony lifted the faceplate of his helmet. “You have extremely low standards. Armor, any progress on the Raft file analysis?”
“Negative.”
“Not good enough. We need to know more about our friends out there and what they’ve been hiding. And I mean friends in the ironic, invisible-quotation-marks sense.”
“I know what you meant,” snapped the armor. “I’m programmed with advanced language-inference capabilities. Utilizing them, however, slows the rate at which I crunch numbers.”
“Guess he told you,” said Jessica.
“Well, even without the computer, we know one thing for sure,” said Natasha. “Whatever made them go offline, it wasn’t because they were in distress.”
“I disagree. We can’t be one hundred percent certain yet.” Jessica paused to slap at a mosquito. “Maybe there was an attack, and people are injured inside. Or maybe they’re sick.” The mosquito’s whine returned, and Jessica turned and zapped it with an electrical blast from her fingertips. Catching Tony’s look, she said, “What? Since you know I’ve got them, might as well use them.”
“I’m assuming we’re talking about your powers,” said Tony.
“Zap him next,” said Natasha.
“Grah.” Jessica made a threatening claw shape with her fingers, and Tony countered with his metal-sheathed hand.
“Okay, that lookout’s body language.” Natasha pointed to a guard tower that gave its occupant a bird’s-eye view of the outpost’s perimeter. “He’s relaxed, maybe even bored. And look at the bicycle propped there, by that building. Everything is neat and orderly. This place is temporarily short-staffed, but they’re not worried.” Natasha sat back against the base of a tree and uncapped the canteen. “My guess is that a large number of people have temporarily gone somewhere else for a few hours.” She offered the canteen to Tony.
“Hang on a moment.” Tony took the canteen. “The mines?” He handed Jessica the water.
“That makes sense,” said Jessica. “But we need to take a closer look.” She brought the canteen to her lips and tipped her head back. “Tony. You didn’t leave me any.”
“That would be me,” said Natasha.
“You finished all the water?”
“No, I’m the one who should go into the compound. I’m the only one not wearing scarlet and gold. My black jumpsuit will blend in, like on the Helicarrier.” Natasha pulled her hair back with one hand. “Can I borrow a ponytail holder? I’ve noticed most of the female S.H.I.E.L.D. officers wear their hair back.”
“This is the only one I’ve got,” said Jessica, removing the elastic from her own hair. “But hang on a moment. How do we know you’re not going to stroll in there and tell them where we are?”
“You don’t,” said Natasha.
She stood up and strode out into the open as if she had every right to do so. She passed a young woman in combat gear and nodded to her, thinking, I outrank you. The soldier saluted, and Natasha returned the salute before continuing on to the compound’s main structure.
Aware that she was being watched through Jessica’s binoculars, Natasha imagined Jessica’s frustration when she entered the building. Guess you’ll have to give me the benefit of the doubt, after all.
The temperature was noticeably cooler inside the main hall, and Natasha enjoyed the blast of air conditioning on the back of her neck. She walked past a taxidermic Tyrannosaurus rex that appeared to have lost a few teeth and a few rows of folding chairs arranged around a small podium. Small flags from all the United Nations’ member countries hung at intervals around the room, and the agents Natasha had seen from outside were walking to the back of the room, near the stairs and elevator, where a guard was seated behind a large oak desk. They nodded at him and walked into the elevator.
All right, then, thought Natasha. My turn. She approached the guard, thinking, We’ve passed each other a dozen times, we barely know each other, but we recognize each other’s faces. It seemed to be working. On the wall behind the guard, there was a framed image of the S.H.I.E.L.D. eagle emblem. Below this was a faded black-and-white picture of Captain America in a World War II-era leather jacket, standing beside a dapper, suited President Roosevelt; a stout, glum-faced Prime Minister Churchill; and a cheery Stalin, wearing a military cap and greatcoat to go with his stage-villain moustache. Underneath the photograph there was a brass plate engraved with the words of a poem by the Persian poet Saadi that Natasha recognized from the United Nations building in New York City:
The sons of Adam are limbs of each other
Having been created of one essence.
When the calamity of time affects one limb
The other limbs cannot remain at rest.
If thou hast no sympathy for the troubles of others
Thou art unworthy to be called by the name of a human.
It was all terribly high-minded and inspirational, but Natasha guessed that the young guard sitting in front of the display hadn’t bothered to read the poem recently. He had a snub nose and appeared too young to shave, but his small, deep-set blue eyes held a thuggish, stubborn look.
“Wait a moment,” he said, just as Natasha was about to walk past him. “Please show your identification.”
“I haven’t been issued my card yet,” said Natasha. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Where’s your temporary card? You can use that until you get properly processed.” There was a touch of irritation in his voice.
This one is just looking for an excuse, thought Natasha.
“Soldier, do you see any insignia on my uniform?”
The guard frowned. “No…”
“That’s right. Now, what does that signify?”
Surprised by her belligerent attitude, the guard shook his head. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Natasha sighed. “It signifies that I was brought in at level five or higher.”
“Oh, right.” The guard’s face cleared. “You’re from the Black Widow program, then? I know your people come in with automatic level five.”
“That’s right,” said Natasha, hoping he hadn’t caught the flicker of surprise she had been unable to suppress.
He hadn’t. “I’ll tell the Lieutenant Commander that you’re here.” The guard pressed a button on his phone. Looking back at Natasha, he said, “What’s the name?”
Chort poderi. She hadn’t had time to prepare for this. There would be a list, and her own name would not be on it. Neither would some made-up name. Natasha had to pick someone who had been through the Black Widow program, but was not already known to the guard. “Yelena Belova.” It was a gamble, but a small one: Her old friend was not the sort of agent who got sent on the more exotic assignments. “Hang on just a moment, ma’am.”
As the guard waited for the person on the other end to pick up the phone, his nostrils flared. Something had given her away. Natasha said, “Thanks,” and then moved swiftly toward the exit, as if this were the logical thing to do while waiting to be buzzed upstairs.
“Hey,” said the guard. “Where are you going?”
Natasha did not look around. “I forgot something in my room. I’ll be right back.”
She opened the door and walked calmly outside. The sun was in her eyes as she moved purposefully toward Tony and Jessica. Come on, she thought
, tell me you’re paying attention.
Natasha heard the door open behind her, the click of a gun being cocked.
“Halt!”
Natasha stopped and turned slowly. The guard’s boyish face was flushed with twitchy excitement. Wonderful. Clearly he had been sitting at his desk, bored out of his mind, hoping to shoot someone all day, possibly all week, and now he was finally getting his chance. Assuming Captain America’s air of calm authority, Natasha looked back at the guard as if he had temporarily lost his mind.
“Excuse me? Is there a reason you’re pointing your gun at a superior officer?”
“I’m pointing my gun at an imposter.”
There was a blast of static from the walkie-talkie at the guard’s waist, and he picked it up. “Yes, that’s right, I’m holding her.” He gripped his pistol in two hands, and Natasha could almost hear him praying for her to give him an excuse to shoot.
Then the door opened. A slender blonde woman in a black jumpsuit emerged, and Natasha’s heart gave an odd little lurch in her chest as she watched her oldest friend approach as if she were a stranger. Yelena’s small gray eyes and long, sharp features gave her a haughty, unfriendly look, and she was usually given cover identities as stern mid-level bureaucrats or austere academics. She was one of those women whose faces were utterly transformed by smiling, but she was not smiling now.
“Yelena,” Natasha said. “You’re in charge here.” It wasn’t a question: Part of her had known from the instant the guard had reacted.
“I wondered if you would make it this far,” said Yelena. Her face was set and hard. “But of course, you were always exceptional.” She said the last word as though it were a particularly vicious slur.
Natasha flipped through her mental playbook of strategies. “If you wanted to lead an operation, you could have just said so.” She lifted her eyebrows, inviting a riposte—as if this were a game between friendly rivals, not enemies.
But she had miscalculated. “Do you really think you can hand me an assignment like some cast-off dress?” Yelena’s mouth twisted. “You’re not the star pupil anymore, Natalia. You betrayed the organization and your government. Exceptional doesn’t count if you cannot be trusted.”