WHO:Agent Barnes and Clint Barton, and later Natasha Romanoff. Oh, and Jefferson's body. WHERE: Near the playground and then in search of an industrial freezer WHEN: After this conversation WHAT: Guarding some remains, nbd WARNINGS: Likely a lot of hostility and almost guaranteed to contain some violence
The message on the boards had not been comforting. He'd been tracking another objective, content to leave his handler and the red target alone. If his handler was with her, that negated the need for Agent Barnes to follow and freed him up to follow his other assignments. But learning that Jefferson might be dead convinced him of two things: first, he would never leave his handler's side again, and second, he would never again assume that he wasn't needed.
He took note of where the red target had last seen his handler, and after assuring her that he would not fall victim to whatever had killed his handler, Agent Barnes had checked his grenades, his knives, and his guns. And then he set out in search of a body.
Agent Barnes was no stranger to death or corpses. He'd caused enough of both, and watched over the latter more than he cared to admit. He knew what to do with a corpse, how to handle death. He also knew that Jefferson would not be gone for long. So he'd prepared for the worst and was actively looking for a corpse. His failures could be addressed when Agent Jefferson returned.
He found the corpse near the playground and residential areas. After checking that the body was not alive, he settled himself down in a crouch beside it. He removed the clip from his Skorpion submachine, checked that it was field-ready, checked the bullet count. Full, because he hadn't fired it yet here. He'd need to bring up ammo with Jefferson when he revived.
Forcing the clip back home, he rested the gun barrel-down against his knee. He had a holster for it but he'd kept it out more often than not since arriving here. He did the same check on the Glock he'd stolen from a SHIELD agent before reholstering it on his right side. He'd have to fix that holster; it had been designed for two guns. Not one.
He was lifting the SIG-Sauer from its holster when he became aware of two presences: the incompetent agent and, further away, the red-haired Russian bitch. Straightening up, he popped the clip out of his SIG-Sauer and gave the incompetent agent a cool look. "Clint," he said. He didn't say a word about the escort; she must have been the incompetent agent's assignment. He'd deal with her later if she didn't leave when the agent did. "Why are you here?"