So I have decided to rewrite the linear quality of my Hawkeye series so the stories flow more along the timeline I have created. Therefore: this is the official FIRST book of my massive 18+ book epic. It has been reworked to a degree that I am quite proud of, therefore it has been re-posted. Enjoy!

Moment in Mexico

By, PeechTao

Prologue

The sun was hot on his back. His body sweated for so long he doubted he had anything left to evaporate from his pores. Heat could break men. Even the strongest agents could only stare into the surface of the sun for so long before succumbing to exhaustion or at the least severe dehydration. He hadn't thought about peeing on one of his captor's legs in nearly six hours. Most men would crumble under such circumstances. But most men were not Clint Barton. Stationed in Afghanistan during the biggest heat wave in history, today became little more than a prolonged attempt at a Mexican sun tan. This was a winter walk. This was the coolest he'd ever felt. This torture was nothing.

His eyes stayed clouded under his eyelids. They were like thick dark shades keeping the red light from piercing his very brain. He had only to disappear into his thoughts and leave his shattered body behind in order to maintain his sanity. He read a book he once memorized. It wasn't a very good book, but it had been Coulson's only offering of the sort during their prolong mission in Norway. The Frigid North, the title read. He began with chapter one and continued all the way through the final page in which the author introduced himself as a Hawaiian native with a home in Baltimore. After reading through the mental book, he searched his memory for other things to occupy him. Inevitably Russia came up again, despite how he tried to repel it.

He accepted an assignment there as an analyst to the chief operations manager of IMF; just an analyst, not an operations specialist, or even a stand in recruit. SHIELD wanted to make sure IMF followed the same international rules and were not attempting to tiptoe around the code of international espionage. Then Clint's primary directive wound up with a slug through the back of his head. He needed an extraction, which turned out to be his particular specialty. How many times he wanted to come clean and get out? How many times did he want to take over as primary and banish the ragtag team to some backwoods Bulgarian prison? How had he survived without blowing his cover?

The intricacies of that mission dwelled in his mind, presenting a considerable escape from all that happened in the present. The chains pressing into his arms, the skin-baking heat cooking him from the outside in, the men with their questions . . . all of them faded into the background of his mental castle. Here in the safety of his walled up memories he could never be reached. He could never be broken. He learned this technique over years of intense training.

"Stark! I said the name! Tell us where—"

Hearing Tony's name cut him deeply enough to pass the mortar he erected over his aural senses. He pressed the voices of his captors away, but it didn't prevent his dwelling on their demands. Why wasn't Stark here? Why had the agent called him, expecting Tony to come along? Clint mentally beat himself back to his focus. He couldn't think of that. He couldn't worry about Stark and how Clint would never be in this situation in the first place if Tony had just come when he asked. It was supposed to be a simple mission. In and out. Four targets, three days.

Of course that lie he repeated enough times to begin to believe it's validity. When his SHIELD contact mentioned that four of the men connected to the IMF mission took residence in a bunker decked out like Guantanamo bay, nothing SHIELD could say convinced him out of going in. It was slated as a suicide mission and stuck on the back burner until Clint, Romanov, and a team of handpicked men were ready to storm in with guns drawn. If that option didn't seem worth the loss in man power, SHIELD planned to pass the information along to IMF and make their team handle it.

What did Clint do? He took the file, booked a flight, and arrived outside the bunker with exactly zero back up the next day.

He first admitted to this colossal mistake when the crow's nest of the compound spotted him. Men armed with more than berrettas and dogs chased him through half the Mexican desert. Clint caught on quickly that he took on more than he could handle on his own. In a flight of fancy he used his cell to put in a call with Natasha. No answer. He knew she had returned to Russia. The name "Nit Wit" sat beneath hers in his contact list. Tony. It wouldn't hurt to call an Avenger who could arrive in a blaze of glory within ten minutes, if he was in Malibu. The conversation did not go as planned.

Clint felt the first thwack of a baseball bat connect with the middle of his back. It caused a knee jerk recoil and a grunt he felt awful for letting out. He'd be prepared for the next. As he remembered the hurried conversation between Stark and himself, someone grabbed the back of his chair and threw him to the ground. His head rebounded off the hard packed earth.

Tony's voice held little patience. Clint had little to give himself. Even as he spoke, he tried to keep himself from being killed by four men tucked behind a rock cropping in front of him.

"Not happening." Were Tony's exact words.

"Stark, you don't understand. This isn't like Russia! I need you or else I'm going to die out here!"

"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?"

"Dramatic? Do you hear this gunfire?" Clint thrust the phone over his head to pick up the automatic rifle fire.

"Yes, dramatic. If you wanted a partner, you had it two weeks ago. Now all of a sudden I'm needed? I'm not a dog. I don't sit, stay, and fetch."

"Are you honestly having this conversation with me right now? Stark, I need you. If I didn't, I wouldn't have called at all."

"That's the problem then isn't it?"

The phone hung up.

Clint knew his shell was cracking. He knew that these men, these terrorist bent on world destruction, wanted to use him to get to Tony. They weren't breaking him. If they waited long enough, Clint would break himself. He only had to live through those thoughts again. Those memories of that last conversation. The last talk he and Tony would ever have.

Clint's eyes opened. He looked up into the oppressive sunlight and the sweating, swollen face of the man berating him in Spanglish. They'd recognized him from the IMF operation. They knew he had information and after tracing his phone signal to Tony Stark, they found a connection deeper than any they could have imagined. Clint was a bargaining chip that could get them not only money but a contact. Iron Man in their back pocket? Who wouldn't want that?

Broken. Was this what being broken felt like? After Loki played patty cake with his brain, he knew what it meant to hit rock bottom. This didn't compare.

The red faced man glanced beyond Clint's chained body to another man who strode forward. The bat Clint felt beat his back, this new man held. The guy wound up, spinning in one, two, three wide circles as he tried to gauge the proper placement of a home run into Clint's temple. The first man shook his hand incessantly. Instead he indicated lower to Clint's leg.

"We want to enjoy this. What good to bash in brains on first try?"

Sound logic, Clint thought despondently. What could he do besides just sit there and accept his fate? He wasn't getting out. He wasn't getting rescued, Stark made sure to make that point clear. What use did he have as an agent who couldn't even secure his own escape route?

A wind up, a swing, and Clint felt his leg explode in a mind blowing pain. He screamed. He beat his hands against the dirt where they were trapped. The men laughed as they watched him writhe. They would move on to his other leg. They would tear his arms out of their sockets and enjoy every moment of his struggle. Clint would die here alone.

What clicked in his mind and forced him to move he would never exactly pin down. He could say it was his preservation to live. He could say it was his innate agent training working in the background of his mind. Whatever flipped the switch, Clint owed his life to it.

The men wanted to work his arm loose next. They tossed the chair he was chained to onto its side, dropping all of Clint's weight onto his now broken leg. The chains were yanked off. The man with the bat grabbed Clint by the wrist and began to twist and pull.

Clint used the man's hold on him to stand. He swung his fist, connecting with the guy's jaw. The guy staggered back, allowing Clint to get his good leg under himself. The archer threw his fist again and the man went down. The red-faced guy came next. Clint grabbed him by the shirt and threw him to the ground. A gun went flying out of his holster and Clint stumbled after it.

The guard towers lit up the grounds with automatic fire. The world rushed by as Clint hustled, broken leg dragging behind, to find himself cover. There was a Gran Torino parked at the far gate. If he could make it there, he might be able to get out. He just had to make it. The pain of his leg held him back. He had to block it out. Keep moving. Keep shooting and keep moving. The pain was so intense. He felt like it was killing him. How could anyone stand this?

enjoy!