2013-12-02 - SDR: Triple Trouble

The bar is on the bottom floor of an apartment building in Brooklyn. A half-burned out shamrock glows in the front window. A couple of beefy looking men in tracksuits are smoking out front, talking in Russian.

The back of the place is easy enough to get to, and only guarded by a single idiot in a tracksuit-- who takes a nice nap after being rapped in the head soundly. The door is unlocked, and leads into the bar's storeroom. THe storeroom has only the two exits, back out the door into the alley or into the bar proper.

Clint nods grimly as he zap-straps the goon by the door then goes and checks out the store room. Yep, this will work. He goes back to the car, pops the trunk, pulls out a roll of duct tape and some more zap straps and puts the zap straps in his pocket. Clint is dressed in his jeans, his leather jacket, a knit cap with an H on it and his shades. He wears a quiver on his back and his compact bow is folded down inside of it.

Armed with the duct tape he puts a strip across the goon's mouth and heads inside the store room. Inside he works quietly, pulling a pop can sized grenade from his pocket, he tapes it to the wall by the door, so the handle is pressed down, then zap straps the pin to the door. Set to spew knockout gas if someone opens the door.

Provided he's not interrupted he heads out the back door, drags the goon in front of the door to block it shut. Looking at his handy work he mutters "I really hope Ivan's actually here. I should have asked that guy." He shrugs then and grabbing his bow he moves around to the front of the bar whistling to the bouncers.

"Hey, bro!" one of the two bouncers says menacingly. "You can't go in there, bro." The other, recognizing Clint (or maybe just the bow), begins drawing a piece. "We keel you, bro!"

The bouncer reaches for a piece and Clint draws an arrow and snaps off a shot. Aimed for the hand. The second guy gets a Taser arrow to take him out of the game early while Clint rushes gun guy and pounds on him personally.

Tasered Tracksuit hits the ground, twitching. The guy with the gun lets out a sharp yell as the arrow cracks into his hand, his finger already on the trigger, so he squeezes and unaimed round off before taking a hit to the face and going down ike a champ... uh, chump.

Loud voices in Russian can be heard inside the pub.

Clint puts a boot heel into the gun-guy's face just for good measure before he responds to the voice inside. He calmly walks up to the door drawing a suction cup arrow from his quiver and drawing a second knockout gas grenade from his other pocket. The arrow goes into his mouth, then and the grenade goes in his left hand as he yanks open the door with his right. "Mrrmhgfghgers," he shouts around the arrow and then tosses the grenade into the bar, pin pulled and handle squeezed then slams the door shut again ducking down, do both avoid the storm of bullets and also to slam the suction cup arrow down at the base of the door to keep it shut.

Five seconds...And the bulletstorm begins scant seconds after the shouting starts, along with coughing and cursing.

Ten seconds... The door is kicked and slammed at, a chunk of it even breaking with a boot coming through.

Fifteen seconds... A second pow! of a grenade going off and more coughing can be heard.

Twenty seconds... the shooting stops.

Clint gets up, checking to make sure he didn't catch any lead or splinters from the door then reaches into his pocket for one of those SHIELD issue breather things which he sticks in his nose. Then, he hits the release on the suction cup arrow, stands, puts it in his quiver and then bow in hand pulls open the door to look around at the carnage inside.

Luckily most of the carnage is just on the tables and bottles-- though a couple of the bottles seem to have survived unscathed-- a bottle of vodka and a bottle of whiskey. Around a dozen Russian mob underlings lay slumped and asleep around the room, including two in a pile in the back doorway.

He walks into the room and scans around for Ivan. Even in this neighbourhood that much gunfire is going to draw the cops, so it's time to grab the bullet head and get out of here before the place fills with blue.

Ivan is one of the two by the back door-- figures. Trying to escape, eh?

Clint nods down at Ivan. "That works," he says to himself before he heads out the front door, sans Ivan for the moment. He grabs the arrow out of gun guy's hand, grabs the Taser arrow from the second guy then heads to the back door. The arrows are tossed in the car and he pushes the goon by the back door aside and goes inside. Once there Ivan is zap strapped, his hands are duct taped together, his mouth is covered then he's deposited in Clint's trunk. There also might be a crate of good vodka missing from the store room but Clint doesn't know anything about that.

A short time later Clint is splashing Ivan with a bucket of cold water. The Russian is unarmed and on the floor of the warehouse the party was at the other night. The bullet holes are still visible in the walls and the floor is a mess of empty cups, spent shells, drug vials and chalk outlines. Ivan is also untapped and un-zap strapped. Clint rolls a bottle of the good Vodka over to him "Prasnees tovarich," he says, his accent sucks but he learned the words for wake up and comrade from Nat. Just don't ask him to spell it.

Ivan blinks awake slowly. He catches the bottle reflexively. "...You make beeg mistake, bro." He opens the bottle and drinks anyway... he is Russian. "You has building, I no give you other, bro. It is all good in my hood until you show up."

Clint crouches down in front of the guy. "What other building?" he asks in English. "This piece of crap?" he growls waving at the warehouse. "'Cause bro, you made a beeger mistake if you shot those kids over this place."

"Thees building, bro?" Ivan snorts, drinking his vodka. "You keel my boys, bro?"

"Nah, I haven't killed any of your boys," Clint says keeping his face hard and he looks Ivan in the eyes and adds "Yet."

"So what buildings are you talking about?"

"Last time you get in my face like thees, you want building." Ivan shrugs. "As for kids, they have party on my property. Loud music, loud noise, cops may come, bro. They not even let my boys come and watch." By watch, he probably means deal. "They no do that again. Kids learn lesson. But someone keel my boys, bro. Thees make me unhappy. Things are not good in my hood."

Clint reaches into his pocket and pulls out a nickel. He plays with it, working it across his knuckles while he glares daggers at Ivan. "Your boys shot some kids for having a party bro, things are going to be very bad in your hood unless someone goes to jail for it Ivan, and right now I'm thinking that guy is going to be you."

Ivan laughs, taking another drink of vodka. "I theenk not. Now kids know how to have party where all is good. I theenk I no do time for this, bro. I theenk I have friends who will make sure of thees, bro." He smirks. "So, , bro."

Clint flicks the hard at the bottle so it shatters. He's good at stupid tricks like that, and has the free drinks at bars to prove it. Then he's up on his feet and driving a foot into Ivan's jaw while the big Russian is hopefully surprised. "You or the boys who pulled the triggers are doing time for this bro, deal with it. If they don't you're things are going to be really bad in your hood bro, 24-7."

Ivan is surprised, and knocked down. He rubs his jaw ruefully, looking up at Hawkeye with hate in his eyes. "I don't theek so, bro." Ivan smiles. "I have, how you say, ace in hole."

"Oh yeah?" Clint says reaching down to grab the Russian by the front of his track suit. "And what's that? Gotta be a helluva an ace if you think you're getting off for killing kids."

Ivan grins. "Tik me into police, bro. I confess everything. Then I see you later."

See this is more like one of his plans. Clint frowns down at Ivan fully aware he's lost the advantage. His mind turns while he tries to think of how best to play this how to smoke out the ace in the hole before that ace gets played-

"Screw it," Clint says. He grabs a Taser arrow and sticks it into Ivan's lack of neck.

Ivan twitches, flopping on the floor wildly as he is tazed. When the shock is done, he lays there, a bit of blood trickling from his mouth where he bit his tongue. "That ees... mistake, bro... .... ..."

Clint tosses the arrow aside. "So much for technology," he says before decking Ivan in the face to try and put him out. So much for taking Ivan to the cops too, he did sort of well legally speaking assault a whole bar with knockout gas and kidnap someone, Avenger or no Avenger he'd be doing time for that. Now he just needed Ivan to pass out so he could be sneaky. "Should have brought a third grenade," he mutters and punches Ivan a second time to be sure.

The unconscious Russian flops uselessly to the ground.

"Finally," Clint says and then it's time for sneaky. Thanks to a disassembled tracer arrow he digs out a hole in the inside of Ivan's shoe under the insole and places the tiny Stark tech tracker inside before he puts the shoe back together and back on Ivan's foot. Then on goes the duct tape and zap straps again, looser this time so Ivan can escape in an hour or so if he works at it. Clint steals Ivan's phone too, then he's gone, driving for a spot out of sight where he can pull up the tracker on his Avengers ID and wait for Ivan to go on the move.

It takes a couple of hours, but the tracker starts moving. Strangely, it doesn't leave the building-- Ivan seems to go into the corner of the building-- perhaps an office? And wait.

Clint frowns at the screen of his ID. He gets out of his car and moves to a rooftop across from the warehouse to watch and wait.

An hour later, a van with three mafia goons pulls in, picking Ivan up. They drive into Manhattan, over the bridge, and Ivan gets out, bloodied and beaten, at an apartment building uptown. He is escorted in by the doorman.

Clint shows up late at the apartment building. Traffic, plus he had to get to the car. Next time he's bringing the sky-cycle. He gets out and heads through an alley to the back of the building then it's up the fire escape or if it's too classy for something like that, he goes up the building with a cable arrow. Even though the tracker isn't great for altitude, Clint goes for the penthouse. The big shadowy bad buy is always in the penthouse.

The penthouse is fairly quiet. And dark, save for the main room, where three men sit drinking. Ivan, an Italian-looking guy, and a guy with bright red hair.

Now where was that app on his ID card oh right. It's pretty neat, it uses the holo-scanner to interpret the vibrations on glass into sounds, like words, he sets it to record too, because if they're speaking in some language other than English he's going to need it translated later. Of course he needs to be right near the window to use it, he crouches low and hopefully out of sight and listens.

"--I am not for dealing with dees guy no more. He hit me too much."

"This is because you do not insist upon Respect, Ivan." A sniff. "You should be here, uptown, letting your soldiers and street thugs handle the shithole that is Brooklyn. No wonder you Russians never get anywhere."

A low angry growl. "What you mean, never get anywhere?"

A thick Irish accent answers him. "Eh, ye cain't be bothered ta get yerself all hoity-toity like the bastard wops, an' ya don't actually let yer bollocks drop and do te damage we Irishmen 'ill do. Yer in the middle, boyo. An' that means never gettin' anywhere."

"Gentlemen. Why fight? We all have our lucrative business opprotunities, hmm?" the second voice says smoothly. There is a general grunt of agreement.

Clint shifts and stretches out his legs before he moves to have a better look at the last guy who spoke.

Italian in features, in a suit and tie, clean-cut and handsome. Oh, and one of the local Italian mafia dons. Clint will have to look him up later, but he certainly looks familiar. Probably been in the papers.

"Lucrative my arse. The fuggin' clinics keep undercuttin' us," the Irishman says. "Handin' it out like candy. Free to the muties, even. I say we bomb a few and call it a day."

Ivan sounds irritated. "No, no no. What ees with you and always the bombing? We bomb clinics, suddenly more cops. More cops means more prublems for us all."

"I agree with our vodka-swilling friend here. We need to keep the cops out of it... or perhaps just busy. Ivan, that attack on your own warehouse was sloppy."

"What else I am supposed to do? Damn keeds want own dealers for coke and newt, go back on deal to hiv my guys there. How do I make money on this? So lesson must be learned."

"Too right," the Irishman says. "Fuggin' kids. The rest o' them will know better than ta back outta deals."

"That's all well and good, but--"

Clint's phone rings.

"--what is that?"

Clint flinches and loses the audio in the room as he curses and reaches for his phone "Crap, crap, crap futzing phone!" he silences the ringer and then figures screw it. He pulls out the phone and snaps a picture of all three guys before he makes a run to a spot where he can shoot a cable arrow to another building then make like Spider-Man and get out of here.

Bullets fly at Clint's form as he runs across the balcony. Cursing in Russian... and plenty in English comes from within the penthouse.

Well they probably know who he is right now so no time to really worry about being subtle he grabs a smoke arrow and bangs it against the wall to set it off and drops it behind him for cover then, well, then it's time get going. He draws a suction cup arrow from his quiver fires it across to another building and then grabbing the cable, swings, aiming feet first for a window in the other building.

As he crashes through the glass into the window of the hotel next door, Clint hears a pair of feminine screams.

Two very attractive, very very naked women suddenly reach for the blanket of their hotel bed, interrupted.

From above, there is more gunfire for a moment, then it stops.

Clint lands in a crouch and stares at the two women. He gets to his feet flashing them a thumbs up, before he bolts for the door calling out "As you were!" before he is out in the hallway and heading for the stairs. Time to become scarce.