Straight back. Feet planted. Elbows high. Don't forget to breathe.

He inhaled as his arm pulled the bowstring back until his fingers anchored at the corner of his mouth. The muscles in his arms and shoulders built up from years of honing his craft locked. Aiming, he began to exhale. Before all of his breath had left his lungs, he eased his fingers off the string. In a blur, the arrow left his bow and struck the bullseye of the target.

The archer lowered his arms and examined his shot with a practiced eye. If it had been real and not just an outline of a person, he would have pierced the heart in a kill shot. Satisfied, he walked up to the targets to retrieve his arrows.

  Time to raise the stakes, he thought to himself with a smirk as he pressed a button on the wall. Immediately, torrents emerged from the ground with blue targets glowing in their vulnerable spots. Without missing a beat, the guns sent volleys of stun shots his way.

The archer rolled out of danger. On his knees, he drew an arrow, placed it on the string, pulled back, and fired all in a blink of an eye. Before the telltale crackle of electricity shorted out the guns, he was already moving.

The archer broke into a run as a torrent peppered the floor a fraction after his foot left it. Barely even looking at it, he released another arrow as he ran and the rain of shots ceased. His reprieve only lasted a quarter of a second as the third and fourth torrent swiveled in his direction, attacking him from both sides.

Balancing on the balls of his feet, the agent bent his knees like a coiled spring and waited for the crossing fire to come to him. At the last second, he vaulted over the lasers, somersaulted in mid-air and landed; knees bent to cushion the impact, feet apart, free hand touching the floor for support. Then he was running for cover as the mindless torrents shifted direction to take him out.

The spy slid behind a deactivated torrent, effectively protecting himself as the two remaining torrents pinned him down from both sides. Slinging his bow across his chest, the archer climbed the tower silently so as not to alert the guns of his movement. Reaching the top, he crouched behind the cannon, unslung his bow and nocked an arrow.

He breathed in. As he exhaled, the archer sprang from his hiding spot and immediately shot one of the guns, then turned–an arrow set in a fraction of a second–and fired at the last cannon. Both targets fizzled and died and everything was still.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent leaped down as the torrents sank beneath the floor for the next training session. One lowered to reveal a higher ranked agent in a smart navy blue suit and black tie standing with his hands casually in his pockets.

  "Impressive, Agent Barton," the man praised. "Record time and you didn't even break a sweat. Though I'm surprised you chose training level five. We both know you can complete level twelve just as fast."

  "Didn't feel like fighting training robots today, sir," Clint replied as he collected his arrows, checking the arrowheads for damage. "And I wanted to practice keeping calm under heavy fire. It's important for an archer."

  "It's important for any agent," Phil Coulson pointed out. He took his hands out of his pockets and gestured for him to follow. "We have a new assignment for you."

Clint halted. He tilted his head and arched an eyebrow in confusion. Usually, he received his missions directly from his handler or, on rare occasion, from Deputy Director Maria Hill herself.

  "'We', sir?"

  Without breaking his stride, Coulson called over his shoulder, "Yes. Myself and Director Fury."

The director's office was located on one of the top floors of H.Q. The tall windows exhibited a stunning view of New York City as far as the eye could see. Clint found it a tempting distraction from Fury's piercing, one eyed stare. But Barton wasn't trained to back down nor was he the type. He stood before his boss in a relaxed posture–feet apart, chin up, left hand clasped over his right wrist in front of him–yet with a tone of respect.

  "I heard you have a mission for me, sir?" Barton began as Coulson moved to stand near Fury.

In answer, Fury picked up a file from his desk and handed it to the younger agent. Accepting it, Clint made some immediate assessments. The folder was light and paper thin. Whatever the subject was, S.H.I.E.L.D. had very little information on it.

He flipped it open to find a single sheet file. Attached to the file by a paperclip was a grainy photo of a woman with wavy, long red hair in a fitted dress and boots with a glock in her hand. Judging by the photograph, she was slim and about 5' 6", which was confirmed by her file.

He didn't need to read her file. Every member of S.H.I.E.L.D. had read about the deadly Russian assassin known as Natasha Romanoff, if that was even her real name. Her countless kills made her infamous at S.H.I.E.L.D.

  "Why now?" Clint asked, closing the folder. "Romanoff has been active for several years."

  "Because we finally have a lead." Fury clicked a button on a remote. The black screen behind him switched on to present the profile of a Russian man next to a gruesome image of a matching corpse. "This was her last known target. His body was found in an alleyway in Moscow, Russia. Forensic deduced that he had been killed only a few hours ago."

  "How do we know he was the Black Widow's target?"

  "An anonymous  witness reported seeing her escort him out of a club. They didn't know who she was, but the description matches what little information we have on her."

  "Would you like me to take her out on a date, sir?"

  "Barton," Coulson cut in seriously, "she's not to be underestimated. She was trained in the Red Room program at a young age. She's a highly skilled assassin and impossible to track. We've sent agents after her before and she's killed some of our best. This has been our first lead on her location in over a year. We may never get another chance like this, so you'll have to act fast."

  Clint crossed his arms. "So why me?"

  "Your above average sight and marksmanship makes you our finest assassin. If anyone is going to succeed, it's you."

  "Barton."

Clint's blue eyes shifted from Coulson to Director Fury. That single eye bored into his own and pierced his brain like he could extract what he was thinking. Clint dropped his arms to his sides as he resisted the urge to look away.

  "Take her out."

  Clint Barton stiffened, seriousness overtaking his wit. "Yes, sir."

  "Be careful," Coulson added. "She's the KGB's best assassin. You don't want to get on their radar." Barton nodded in acknowledgment.

  "A Quinjet is being prepped as we speak," Fury informed him.

  "Then I guess I better go pack warm."

* * *

Heels in hand, her stocking feet brushed against the carpet floor. Since she graduated from the Red Room and pledged service to the KGB, the Russian government had provided her with an apartment to stay between missions. 

Upon finding her door, Natalia dropped her shoes and pulled out a set of keys from her clutch to unlock the three locks she had installed. The locks appeared untampered and the short, white string she tucked between the door and the doorframe was still in place. 

Nevertheless, when Natalia cracked open her door, she did so slowly and quietly with a glock in her left hand. She squinted in the inky darkness. Her free hand found a light switch and the large apartment flooded with light. She blinked several times to adjust. Once her eyes re-focused, she scanned the area. Satisfied, her cautious stance relaxed and she placed her gun on the kitchenette countertop. 

Retrieving her heels, Natalia closed the door behind her and secured the three locks. Moving casually into her bedroom, she tossed the shoes haphazardly into her closet and dumped the handbag onto her vanity. 

A wide yawn made her jaw pop as she changed out of her black dress into a comfortable black tank-top and leggings. She lowered her exhausted body onto the mattress and pulled the covers up to her waist. Routine demanded she'd reach under her pillow to feel for the gun she kept there as a security measure.

Finally, she dangled one hand over the side of the bed and used the other to loosely lock the cuff around her wrist. She yanked it gently and the other cuff attached to the bed frame protested the movement. It was a habit she picked up from the Red Room, unable to break. Feeling the restricting metal helped her sleep better, she supposed. 

Tucking her free hand under her pillow, Natalia checked the safety was on, curled her fingers around the grip, and fell into a light assassin's sleep–facing the door with one ear listening. Sleep was dreamless, no thoughts spared for the cold corpse waiting to be found in a dirty alley.

* * *

On the other side of the world, there was no rest for Clint Barton. After ending a call with his wife, he packed warm civilian clothes as well as his winter S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. He didn't expect to be in Russia long, so he kept his backpack light.

Shifting to his stash of weapons, he picked out an assortment of knives. He checked each one for damage or if they needed sharpening. Each of his well-kept blades flashed in the sunlight that streamed in from his one window.

He selected a sniper rifle. Guns were not his weapon of choice, but he was damn near as good with them as with a bow. He examined each separate piece before snapping them together. He turned the completed weapon over in his hands, skilled eyes running down the barrel. He tuked it against his shoulder and checked the scope. Satisfied, he detached the pieces and returned each of them to their respective place carved into the foam.

Finally, his bow, which rested on his bed after training. Taking his beloved weapon into his hands, the archer examined the string for fraying and the bow itself for cracks or flaws. Finding none, Barton pushed a button that collapsed the bow. He placed it in another case next to his supply of arrows, sharp and freshly crafted.

The comm in his ear crackled with Coulson's voice, notifying him that the Quinjet was ready. Hawkeye slipped his backpack over his shoulders, grabbed his weapon cases and, with the silence of a killer, slipped out of his room and shut the door behind him.