Day Six,

Countryside of Hargeisa, Somalia

The two, heavy-handed guards lifted Barton from the splintered wreckage with an ease that didn't surprise the agent. They carelessly tossed him upon a wooden chair, and made quick work of tying him down. The only part that did shock the agent was the fact that they didn't begin to mindlessly pound into his bruised and aching body. He had expected the stereotypical thugs one found in cheap action flicks, but it seemed they only followed the script when Heinrich was the one calling out the shots. It helped remind Barton that he wasn't in a film.

Before Heinrich had left, Barton had tried to eavesdrop on his conversation with the two goons. The broken-nosed Abasi, however, had chosen that moment to lean over and apply a little pressure to Barton's injured knee. The elicit roar of pain effectively masked the lowered conversation. The German simply cast him an easy smile, and exited the room.

Bright spots of light burst behind his closed eyelids at the excruciating pain, and made his already aching head swim with dizziness. He slowly lowered his chin to his chest, and attempted to steady his rapid breathing. After a few tries, and more than enough internal cussing, Barton felt the pain had subsided enough for him to lift his head. When he didn't immediately pass out or vomit, he produced a blood-smeared, toothy grin to his captives.

When they didn't respond to his expression, Clint looked askance to the trussed up young boy next to him. The boy's head was beginning to bob up and down as he slowly came into consciousness. After several aborted tries, his head lolled up, and his eyes fluttered open. He parted his bloodied lips and carefully turned his head to the side. His eyes, large and dark, and clearly full of pain, narrowed in hazy confusion at the sight of Barton's vacant face.

"Hi, kid."

The boy pulled his head back as a coughing fit overwhelmed him. He turned his head to the side, and spit out a wad of blood. He ran a tongue over his puffed, lower lip when he faced Barton again. His eyes appeared less dulled and more alert.

"English?" Clint's eyes focused on the boy's eyes. He studied the dark orbs for a hint of understanding. They lit up in recognition at the language.

The boy curtly.

"Good, good." Barton felt marginally better at the fact. It would be hard to aid the child if they had a language barrier to overcome as well. "What's your name, kid?"

"Ezekiel," he replied. His voice was heavily accented, and surprisingly low.

"My name's Barton." The tug on his arms, as he attempted to raise his hand for a shake, reminded the agent that he was currently bound. He felt a frown quirking his lips. "What'd you do to wind up in this hellhole?"

Ezekiel's eyes darted away. His eyes, puffy and swollen, looked even more horrific when the ceiling lights reflected off his sweat-slicked skin. A bead of perspiration trickled down his temple as his jaw shifted to adapt to the grim smile he adopted. "I did not follow orders," he stated solemnly. "Did not kill when told." He met Barton's eyes dead on, and didn't blink as he promised: "I will not make that mistake again."

"Right," Barton drawled as he turned his head away from the calculating stare. He settled his gaze on the guards, both of whom where leaning against a table and conversing.

The agent knew he needed to figure a way out, and quickly. There was no telling how long Heinrich and his guards planned to keep him there, or what they would do to extract whatever information they wanted from him. If they wanted any at all, that was. Barton knew he was able to withstand torture to an extent, as he was trained to, but he was also only human.

With that thought in the back of his mind, Barton cleared his throat to get the men's attention.

"You there," he called out. "No, not you," he clarified when one stepped forward. "The ugly one." He grinned despite the ache, and offered a dry chuckle. "Wait, I'm sorry. I guess you both get called that. I meant the one whose nose I broke."

Barton couldn't help but feel a little happy that the two guards were moronic enough to be baited by his catcalls. They simultaneously stalked over; annoyance in their expressions and anger in their similarly dark eyes.

Once they came within a yard of his position, they paused. Abasi folded his arms over his broad chest, while the other simply stood and glared down at him. He had half expected at least one of them to break character, and throw a punch, and was surprised when neither did.

He let loose a low, appreciative whistle. "Seems like the German has you boys trained like a good bunch of circus monkeys, huh?"

There was a deep sound, almost like a growl, but still neither man made a move.

Barton flitted his eyes between the two, and then gave a meager shrug. With that, he kicked out with his right leg and nailed Abasi in the shin as his left fist flew up and connected with Taban's jaw. "I guess you two need to work on your knot tying skills," he grunted as he bodily threw himself into Abasi's stomach. The taller man fell to his back, and was effectively taken out when Barton used the palm of his hand to crush the already broken appendage further into the man's skull. The agent knew, from experience, that a nose to the brain was a myth...but it made for a solid knockout maneuver.

Taban, having stumbled to the side from the stunning blow to his head, was already rounding on the injured agent. Barton, mindful of his possibly fractured knee, allowed the larger man to heft him up from the collar of his shirt. He made use of the man's exposed abdomen, and pummeled the muscled flesh with a closed fist. The man grunted, but didn't relinquish his grip.

Barton took Taban's split second break for breath to weave his left arm underneath the other's right, and brought it down against the inside of Taban's elbow. The man's grip loosened, and was released when Barton repeated the move. Taban made to grab at his arm, and moved his head to look down, which afforded the agent an expanse of neck that he utilized. He brought his right fist up, and delivered a blow to the man's meaty throat.

He relished the choked gurgling sound the man emitted as he fell back. With a severe limp, Barton turned on his heel and looked for any weapons in the immediate vicinity. A jagged piece of metal from the broken ventilation system glinted against the ground. He stooped to swipe it up with a groan. He wielded it like a dagger as he took a quick step forward, his left knee nearly giving out from underneath him.

The man's eyes widened, and he uselessly raised the hand that wasn't wrapped around his throat. Barton easily pushed aside the lifted appendage, and thrust the makeshift blade into the man's stomach. He angled the blade upward, ignored the well of warm blood coating his fingers, and thrust twice more before allowing Taban to slump forward.

Barton staggered backward; he almost his grip on the blood-slicked metal as he defensively turned. When no other threat emerged from the shadows, he allowed himself a minute's reprieve by slumping against the table. Ezekiel's stuttered breathing mingled with his own, heavy pants.

The adrenaline gradually lessened enough for him to steady his heart rate, so he pushed himself away from the table and toward the bound boy. He was unable to mask the grunts he emitted with every move he made, but the boy made no comment, and he had nothing to say. Instead, he sawed the ropes off of Ezekiel, and placed a hand upon his shoulder when he was freed.

With what he knew so far, Barton was aware that he didn't have time to stage a rescue mission. It wasn't his duty, nor his primary objective. Although a part of him was conflicted, his S.H.I.E.L.D. training kicked in and put him back on track. With a final pat on the semiconscious teen's shoulder, he grumbled an offhanded "Good luck," and then limped back to the table.

He gathered up the quiver they had removed from him, and placed it on his back. The weight of it was comforting, and he felt a renewed vigor in his blood. With a parting look to Ezekiel, Barton stumbled forward and toward a closed door on the opposite side of the room.

Opening it slowly, Barton peeked down each side of the hall that the door led to, before stepping out and closing it behind him. Unfamiliar with the layout of the building, Barton decided to go left. He stuck close to the wall, his uneven steps as quiet as he could possibly make them on concrete flooring. After a few yards, there was another hall that allowed for a left turn. He continued straight, with a self assured shrug.

"Wake up!" The sharp bark was accompanied by an equally stinging slap. Heinrich glowered at the teenage boy in front of him. He cast a dark look over his shoulder, where two of his best guards lie dead. When Ezekiel offered nothing more than a pained moan, Heinrich grabbed him by the back of his short hair and pulled. "Wake up, now! That's an order!"

Ezekiel's eyes fluttered open, and his mouth parted slightly. "Sir?"

"Where did he go, boy?"

"I don't know," he choked, blood trickling down his chin. He could tell that his arms and legs were no longer tied, but the urge to fight had left his body. He struggled to sit up. "What can I do?"

Heinrich pulled back, but a slow smirk crossed his features. "You wish to make up for your mistake?"

Ezekiel nodded.

The German reached behind his back, and withdrew a weapon from his waistband. "I will give this weapon to you, boy, but don't you dare do anything stupid." He thrust the loaded gun into the young man's shaking hands. "Don't make the same mistake again. Find Barton. Kill him. As ordered."

Looking down at the heavy weight in his torn hands, Ezekiel looked up and nodded curtly. This was his last chance to prove himself worthy. He would not disappoint. He would follow orders.

"Yes, sir."

Day Six,

The Helicarrier

"Fury!" The discordant shout was shortly followed by the entrance of the fiery redhead.

The conference room was empty aside from two fellow agents, and the director himself. The trio turned to face the angered woman, and opted to wrap their meeting early when Fury conceded to her arrival with a dip of his head. As the agents gathered their folders and sheaths of paper in silence, Fury leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers.

The moment the others had stepped into the corridor, Natasha placed her hands atop her hips, and snapped, "Barton isn't answering my calls. What's going on?"

"Agent Romanoff," Fury began in his deceptively calm voice, "Please have a seat."

It took all of her effort to wrangle down a disgusted sound as she made to do as he asked. Seated, she clasped her hands atop the table, and demanded, "What's going on?"

"Agent Romanoff," he began, "You're a valuable asset to S.H.I.E.L.D., and any agent worth his salt knows it. But make no mistake," his face hardened in time with his tone, "That doesn't entitle you to every facet of information. Do I make myself clear?"

Ignoring the clear warning, she growled, "Something is wrong. I know it, and I know you know it. He's my partner, Fury, and I want to know what is going on."

Fury's sole eye studied her for a moment, before the senior agent surprisingly relented with a gruff sigh. "Agent Barton missed his check in."

"And you're just telling me this now?"

"It didn't concern you, Agent Romanoff," Fury retorted. "It still doesn't." He leaned forward. "And I don't appreciate you interrupting my meeting so that you can wax poetic about your boyfriend."

Ignoring the jibe, Natasha wrinkled her nose in anger. "If you didn't send a retrieval team out, which you already should have, then I demand to be a part of it."

Fury's frown deepened. "And why should I let you? You don't dictate the commands, Agent Romanoff."

"Because I'm the best, sir."

TBC...

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