A Mini might not have been the General's spy style, but his was a unique style that mere mortals could not account for. Even if Mockingbird had anticipated this particular partnership, there was no way she could have prepared the unprecedented blend of depravity and moral judgement General Fury preferred to work with. She just didn't have the stomach or flare for driving a Humvee with two prostitutes and a dead priest. She could, though, bite her lip and keep that smirk to herself.
"You were going to kill him," she accused, her wild tear through narrow alleys not threatened by the pressing argument. She could multitask, one hand even up to wag a finger while the other jerked sharply on the steering wheel. "In my experience, dead people are really bad conversationalists. Case in point, I don't even want to know how you're doing, and if you want to talk to me it better start with 'sorry for shooting at you, Agent Morse.'" And thinking she was French, but she could let that slide for now. It was a reasonable mistake to make in an outfit this devil-may-care fashionable.