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The rooftop party was all bright lights and bright colors. A booming bass punctured everyone’s eardrums and made their drinks rattle. Dozens of well-dressed people milled around on the expansive roof, each shouting to be heard above the music. An oasis amidst glittery, looming skyscrapers, this was where people went to forget all their worries.
One man in particular came into focus against a black crosshatch.
“Target acquired,” whispered the sniper behind the scope into his earpiece. “Waiting for a shot.”
The sniper perched, removed from the party’s lights and sounds, on the edge of another roof far away. At this distance, the pounding music was little more than a whisper. His dark uniform blended into the night, rendering him invisible to the surrounding city. In his hands he held, not a sniper rifle, but a powerful compound bow. It rested on the raised concrete barrier at the edge of the roof, pointed down through a crack between two buildings.
He adjusted the scope attached to his bow and peered through it at his target. The man stood at the fringes of the crowd with a drink swilling in his hands. He wore a gray vest and used too much gel in his dark hair—both on his head and on the rest of his face.
A hundred yards away, the archer slid an arrow out of the quiver on his back and nocked it.
“Ten bucks says I can knock him off the building,” he said into his earpiece.
On the other end of the communicator, someone laughed. “Barton, I know better than to make bets with you on a mission. Just get the job done, and don’t make a scene.”
“Aw, you’re no fun,” Barton said, “Wait—crap, I lost him.”
As he had spoken, a violently redheaded woman moved between Barton’s target and his scope, blocking his view with her sparkly green dress.
“Shut up, Coulson. It’s not funny,” he whined as the man in his earpiece laughed again. “This chick just got in the way of my shot. Gimme a sec and I’ll have him again.”
At the far end of his scope, the red-haired lady bumped up against his target and giggled flirtatiously, clearly drunk.
“Prelim reports didn’t say anything about a woman,” Coulson said, “Did he pick her up at the party?”
“Must’ve,” said Barton, “Probably a hooker, if the dress is anything to go by.”
The suspected hooker slung an arm around the target’s shoulders and handed him another drink. She was obviously familiar with him; they laughed at something she said when he took the cup in his free hand.
“Move, lady,” Barton muttered, “Don’t you know your date’s an illegal arms dealer?”
Whether or not she did, she slid her unoccupied hand under his jacket and leaned forward to whisper something in his ear. Something flashed silver in the hand near his neck.
“Hold on… What’s she doing?”
Barton couldn’t see the lady’s face, but her date’s eyes shot wide open. Whatever was in her hand had disappeared, which made Barton no less suspicious. Her other hand slipped out of his jacket, clenched in a fist around something.
Suddenly, Barton realized his partner was shouting in his ear. “Sorry!” he said quickly, adjusting his earpiece with a finger, “Something’s going on. I think she just threatened him with a knife? She stole something from him. A flash drive, maybe? I don’t know.”
The woman whispered in her date’s ear again, and a subtle pressure on the back of his neck by the hidden knife sent him lurching forward. Barton scrambled to keep them in his sights.
“Clint, what are you talking about? The prostitute pulled a knife on him? What’s happening?” Coulson shouted.
“Yeah. I don’t think she’s a prostitute; she’s got the look of a trained killer to me. Should I take her out?”
“No. Can you see where they’re going?”
“Headed toward the stairs,” Clint answered, following the couple with his scope. He could no longer see either of their faces, but neither could the other the party-goers. No facial slip-ups on the man’s part could give her away.
She’s good, Clint thought.
“How did she get past us?” Coulson demanded, “We ran a thorough check on everyone at that party.”
“I don’t know,” Clint admitted, “Dammit, she’s going inside. Get a team down there, stat!”
“On it.”
The mystery lady had led Clint’s arms dealer to the stairwell, still effortlessly blending into the crowd. Clint was impressed; public kidnappings were much harder to execute than movies made them look. The one time Clint had tried it, he nearly gave himself away by looking “too serious,” (which Coulson still wouldn’t let him live down), but this woman seemed perfectly at ease holding a man at knifepoint in the middle of a throng of witnesses.
She opened the door to the stairwell with one hand still pressed to her victim’s neck. Someone must have spoken to her, because she turned her head back to the roof, flaming hair spinning around her shoulders, flirty laugh on her lips. She gave the arms dealer a gentle push into the stairwell, and normally Clint would call such actions carelessness, to take her eyes off her mark for so long, but something told him she had the reflexes to get away with it.
Then she disappeared into the stairwell.
“Coulson, she’s inside. Get ready,” Clint said into his earpiece.
“Got it,” he replied. Clint could hear him bark orders to his team, and then the line fell silent. A tense minute passed.
His earpiece burst into life. Thumps and cries came from the other end, with all the familiar sounds of a fight. Gunshots rang in his ear. Clint began humming the Jeopardy theme song, and Coulson spat at him to shut the hell up.
Then silence again, and the sound of running footsteps.
“Um…” Clint said, suddenly nervous, “Coulson?”
The earpiece crackled ominously. Something rustled on the other end...
“That sonofabitch!” Clint breathed a sigh of relief at Coulson’s outburst. “She took down my entire team and made off with the target! Dammit, Clint, who the hell is this lady?”
“I have no idea.”