The Nikki Wolf Chronicles || Avengers

CHAPTER (11) ELEVEN

Natalie Rushman looks up from her phone with a content sigh. Clint sits back in his leather chair and puts his fingertips together, in a mock show of evil anticipation.

"You alright?" I ask Natalie.

"There's a man, about 39, who's trying to make a getaway," she says to Clint. "I'm not sure what he's getting away from, but Fury seems to think it's very important we get to him. He was last seen by a local. They said he seems to be heading to the border of Vermont."

Clint and I lean forward, and I cross my legs with my elbows on my knee. All three of us have been talking sporadically, doing nothing but passing time together. It's humiliating to admit I'm not used to having friends, but years as a front desk secretary have helped me learn to talk to people.

He stands up and walks out, saying, "I'm going to grab my stuff." Natalie gets up, too, and I wonder out loud, "What do I get to do?"

"You get stay here. We can't let you go anywhere until the coast is clear."

"I want to go. When will this coast be clear? I can't sit here doing nothing. I'll end up ripping something apart. Let me go. What's the worse that could happen?" Natalie gives me a look that I decipher as, You could die, or you could be abducted. Pick your poison.

"You can stand here doing nothing, then."

With that, Natalie leaves. I slowly sit back in my original position. It's not vital that I go, of course. I just love the sense of adventure. Not in the adrenaline-fix junkie way. As a little girl, my father would take me fishing and show me how to catch frogs in hollow logs and snag the swimming critters with one hand. I would turn the little tasks into full-on "Mission: Impossible" tasks.

When I sense Clint walking back in with the gentle thud of his boots hitting the floor, that's when I see a soft glint of car keys in the crack of the chair Natalie had occupied. Clint and I stare at each other for a second-- then we both lurch forward. I'm closer, but he's faster. His hand hits empty couch cushion by a fraction of a second.

"Nikki..." he tests.

I ignore his pleas. "I'm going. I'll drive."

"Nikki!" Clint protests, and Natalie walks in. She's dressed in a sleek, tight-fitting, black apparatus, and her hair falls down past her shoulders. That's when I notice Barton.

He has a snug bullet-proof vest that fits all the way around. It has colors of black and dark-rose purple. With black pants and black combat boots, he looks good. The archery things--a thin arm guard, an excellent finger tab, and his quiver pulled tight to his back--make him look even stronger.

The arrows are in place, and the bow he's holding in his left hand really brings it all together. I deduct all of this in a second, turning my head back to Natalie so it doesn't seem like I'm checking him out.

"Why are you dressed like that? Do all agents wear that when they go out?"

Clint, or Hawkeye, intercedes. "Agent Rushman is a special case. Now give me the keys, Nikki."

"You really need to stay here. We can't have you running around fighting off crime. We have a protection detail for you that your mother has hired," Natalie says, crossing her arms.

A protection detail? "I'm going. If you guys feel like coming, that'll be great. If you don't, I guess I'll be riding around New York like a gaping fish until you tell me the location." I proceed to walk out. Neither one of them make a move to stop me, and I'm worried they're just going to use a different vehicle.

Reaching the parking lot, I understand why they would not be able to do that. When I hear the front door whoosh open, I continue staring at the one Dodge Avenger (how fitting) and say, "What happened to all the cars?"