Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan, New York.
Inside the biker gang's headquarters, Clint lay on the bed in his small dorm room, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.
He had passed the intel to HQ via the bartender that afternoon, but he had no idea if Fury had come up with a plan to take Jason down yet. Being stuck with this gang of morons day in and day out was getting old. He was sick of being undercover and couldn't wait to get back to S.H.I.E.L.D.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. Clint paused for a few seconds before calling out in a groggy, just-woken-up voice, "Who is it?"
"It's me." Billy's voice came from outside.
Clint relaxed. "It's late. What's up?"
"Slept all afternoon," Billy's voice replied. "Now I'm wide awake. Let's go find a club, grab another drink."
"Hang on a sec."
Suspecting nothing, Clint quickly threw on some clothes and opened the door. The instant he did, he saw a flicker of fear and caution in Billy's eyes. Billy wouldn't meet his gaze, turning to walk away. "Let's go. The car's outside."
Clint frowned. He didn't follow, instead calling out to Billy's back, "You go on ahead. I can't go to a club without some decent clothes. I'm gonna change."
"Alright, but hurry it up. I'll wait in the car."
Clint nodded, went back into his room, and locked the door.
Billy's strange behavior told him everything he needed to know: his cover was blown. His only option now was to get to the bar, and from there, to the New York field office to call for backup.
Clint ripped the sheet off his bed, tied one end securely to the leg of his desk, and climbed out the window. Gripping the sheet, he slid down the three stories to the ground.
The moment his feet hit the ground, he drew his pistol and scanned the area. Confirming there was no ambush, he melted into the darkness and ran toward the bar.
Billy got downstairs and pulled out his radio. "Clint sensed something was off. He must've bolted. He's all yours."
On a nearby rooftop, David stood at the edge, admiring the New York nightscape. He keyed his radio. "Don't worry," He said confidently. "He's not getting away."
With that, David opened his mouth and let out a soft cry. An invisible, ultrasonic wave pulsed outwards from him, spreading rapidly. Seconds later, a perfect three-dimensional image of everything within a several-hundred-meter radius formed in his mind.
He closed his mouth. "Found you," He smiled.
.........
Ten minutes later, Clint reached the bar and knocked on the door.
The bartender, no longer in her disguise, was wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. She looked surprised to see him. "What are you doing here?"
Clint slipped inside and shut the door. "My cover's blown. The Joker's people will be here any minute. I need to get to the field office and call for support."
The bartender nodded and went to get a set of car keys. "I just got a call from Agent Coulson," She said. "The assassination attempt on Jason failed. Again."
"Failed again?" Clint was incredulous. How could S.H.I.E.L.D. fail, time and time again, against a single man? Did that mean the hell he'd been through for the past month and a half had all been for nothing?
"Not only that, the fallout from this is huge. Director Fury is likely facing an inquiry from the World Security Council. The Director needs you back at HQ immediately to deliver whatever intel you've gathered. He's hoping it can turn the tide."
"Alright, I'll leave now." Clint reached for the keys.
"Wait!" The bartender tossed a black carry-case onto the floor. "You forgot your gear."
Clint was a master of combat and firearms, but his true expertise was archery. He was a former Olympic gold medalist. S.H.I.E.L.D. had spent a fortune creating a weapon system tailored to his unique skills: a multi-functional, collapsible, high-tensile compound bow, and a quiver of modular arrows with interchangeable heads.
With a gun or a knife, Clint was a formidable opponent, on par with an ace special forces operator. But with his bow and arrows, he transformed from a soldier into a superhero: Hawkeye.
A minute later, Clint was fully kitted out. With the bow in one hand and the quiver on his back, he looked every bit the superhero.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!
The sound came from the front door again.
They exchanged a look. The bartender raised her pistol and crept to the door to peer outside. A man with a lean face, medium-length black hair, and a beard stood there, dressed in a black suit.
The bartender's face fell. She hurried back over. "John Wick."
Hearing it wasn't Jason, Clint looked dismissive. He nocked an arrow. "I'll take care of him."
"No!" The bartender stopped him. "Before he was imprisoned, John Wick was the most feared assassin in New York. Fighting him will just waste time and draw more of them here. Your priority is getting back to S.H.I.E.L.D. You take the back door. I'll hold him off."
Clint frowned, doubting her chances.
But she just smiled calmly. "Every agent who joins S.H.I.E.L.D. is prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice. Now go. Director Fury needs you."
Her words earned his respect. "Be careful," He said seriously. With that, he ran out the back and got into a Ford sedan.
As soon as Clint was gone, the knocking started again. The bartender aimed at the sound and fired three shots through the glass door.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The glass shattered and fell to the floor. Knowing Wick's reputation, she kept her gun trained on the doorway.
A few seconds later, a uniquely gravelly voice spoke. "Ma'am. I'm looking for someone. I mean you no harm."
She fired another three shots toward the voice.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
At the same instant, a bullet shot through the window and struck her pistol, blowing it out of her hand.
Damn it! The bartender's expression hardened. She dropped the useless weapon and drew a combat knife from her belt.
Creeak. The glass door was pushed open. John walked in, gun in one hand. "I don't want to kill a woman," He said again, his voice calm and even. "Drop the knife."
"In your dreams!" She yelled, charging at him with the knife.
"Sigh." John sighed, holstered his pistol, and met her charge unarmed. He ducked under her slash, his body low, and in a blur of motion, grabbed her knife hand.
Hssssss!
A white vapor rose from her wrist. An intense, piercing cold shot up her arm, and in the next instant, her hand went numb. John twisted the knife from her nerveless fingers and stepped back.
The bartender looked down. A thin layer of ice coated her wrist, the muscle underneath frozen solid, completely powerless.
"You're powered, too?" She asked in shock.
John tossed her knife aside and nodded. "Ice. That's my power."
Her face was a mask of despair. She never would have imagined that these kinds of powers, the stuff of movies and comic books, were appearing in such numbers within the Joker Organization. Does this mean they've found a way to grant people superpowers? If that's true, there's no hope for S.H.I.E.L.D.... no hope for the world.
"What is the Joker Organization's goal?" She demanded, on the other hand, secretly trying to send a message to her communicator. "You kill innocent people indiscriminately. Is it just for kicks?"
John spotted her subtle movements. "Ma'am," He said loudly, "Let go of the device."
Her expression changed. She turned to run. She knew she was going to die, but she wanted to convey this vital intelligence before the end, to give her sacrifice meaning.
But as she turned, John was right behind her, his palm pressed against her back. An intense, bone-deep cold instantly spread through her body, followed by a searing pain across her skin. Her legs grew slower, and her fingers, frantically typing the message, became stiff and clumsy.
Seconds later, she was frozen in place, unable to move. A thin layer of frost covered her entire body, turning her into a bizarre, hyper-modern ice sculpture.
"Sigh." John sighed again, pulled the communicator from her frozen hand, and crushed it under his heel.
.........
Clint sped out of the alley behind the bar.
The moment he hit the main road, the car went haywire. The steering wheel jerked violently to the left, and though Clint fought it with all his strength, he couldn't turn it back. At the same time, the accelerator slammed to the floor, as if an invisible foot was pressing it down.
SCREEECH!!!
The tires shrieked against the asphalt as the car began to spin wildly in place, faster and faster.
Clint was nearly thrown from his seat. He grabbed the handle to steady himself and stomped on the brake.
"Shit! The brakes are out!"
Clint yanked the key from the ignition, but the engine kept revving. "What the hell is going on?!" A sense of dread washed over him.
Fighting off a wave of vertigo, Clint smashed the side window with his elbow and dove out of the car.
The instant he hit the pavement, the car stopped spinning. It reversed a few meters, then accelerated, charging straight for him.
Clint lunged to the side, narrowly avoiding the impact. But the car, as if locked onto him, corrected its course and charged again.
This time, Clint didn't dodge. He drew an arrow, pulled the string taut, and sent it straight into the car's engine block. As the car bore down on him, Clint pressed a button on his bow. The arrowhead's charge instantly detonated.
BOOM!
A massive explosion engulfed the car in flames, launching it several meters into the air before it crashed back to the ground, a burning wreck.
The car was destroyed, immobile.
Clint nocked another arrow, drawing the bowstring, his eyes scanning the darkness around him. Cars didn't just lose control on their own. And they certainly didn't try to run people down.
There was only one explanation.
The Joker Organization was here.
.
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You can read advance chapters and view R-18 images of the characters on pat reon page.
pat reon.com/GreenBlue17
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