Viktor Uvarov had killed a lot of people for his country, but he had never done anything like this.

He'd trusted Natasha. He'd thought she was wholeheartedly devoted to the cause.

He was wrong.

At first, the idea of eliminating her troubled him. Viktor had no trouble killing men, but he always felt a twinge of guilt when his target was a woman- even if she was as notorious and deadly as the Black Widow. But he soon got over his qualms, reminding himself that Natalia Romanova had betrayed her country for the ridiculous notion of freedom that ensnared so many blind followers in its alluring trap.

As Viktor looked out the window of his private jet, he vowed that he would kill Natasha. He knew he could, but he also knew it would be his most difficult assignment yet. If anyone could outrun Leviathan, it would be one of its own members.

Startled by a sudden feeling of sinking, Viktor realized that his plane was landing. He felt the jolt of the landing gear extending, and the runway of Des Moines International Airport grew closer and closer until the aircraft touched down with a familiar thump.

A minute later, Viktor was climbing down to the tarmac. He reached the ground, where a black Mercedes-Benz awaited him. Its driver opened the back door of the vehicle, and Viktor sat down on the luxury sedan's soft leather seat, relaxing. The driver returned to his seat and the car began its journey to the small town of Waverly, a hundred and forty miles away.

Russia's Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU, had traced Natasha Romanov to Waverly and called on Leviathan, their ultra-elite kill squad, to take care of the problem. So Leviathan's leader, Colonel Vasili Dassaiev, had chosen Viktor for the job, sending him on a flight from Moscow to New York, and from there to Des Moines. Now here Viktor was, headed to the tiny town that the Black Widow, for some reason, was in. He didn't really care why she was there; he just cared about making her pay for her treason.

And when Viktor Uvarov wanted to make someone pay, they would pay.

Hawkeye*Hawkeye*Hawkeye

Before I became a superhero and started battling villains obsessed with world domination, death and destruction, I had a stressful life.

I've always been a simple guy- laid-back, black and white- but what one goes through doesn't always reflect one's personality. For instance, when I decided to aid a defected Russian assassin in escaping another Russian assassin who was trying to kill her, things weren't always black and white- and certainly not laid-back.

Let me start at the beginning of this story. That's always a good idea, isn't it? Well, here it is:

My name is Clint Barton. I'm from Waverly, Iowa, and I grew up in a family that, at first, did pretty well financially. Just out of college, I still lived with my parents and older brothers, Barney and Max, on a good-sized estate. It was only when my father got arrested that we ended up in a shack in the worst neighborhood in Bremer County.

My dad, Christopher Barton, was a prominent chemist regarded by the Iowa medical community as one of the best in the state. But everything changed when he was implicated in the murder of a colleague. I knew he was innocent; my father was a man of high moral standing. People tried to tell me that you can never really know a person, and I guess there's some truth to that- that you can never pinpoint with one hundred percent accuracy what someone is really thinking.

But I knew my father. He was an honest, God-fearing, loving family man. He wasn't perfect; he was human; but he wouldn't commit murder. I knew that in my heart; I didn't doubt it.

But the judge and jury did.

So Dr. Christopher Barton was convicted of the first-degree murder of Dr. Myron MacLain and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Hawkeye*Hawkeye*Hawkeye

"Clint, get the door," my brother Barney yelled from the couch right next to the door. It had been about a year since Dad's trial, and things were a lot harder without him.

"You get it, lazy bum," I replied.

"Ugh." Barney got up with a melodramatic groan and opened the door.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"An IRS agent."

Great mounds of joy! I thought as I walked to the door. "You come to take away our house?" I asked the government weasel. He was short and scrawny, with oversized glasses.

"Long story short, yes," the IRS man replied.

"At least you're being honest," I said. "Better than most IRS agents."

I expected the man to get mad, but his face didn't change. That kind of made sense; I doubted the guy had a soul.

My mother ran to the door. "What's going on?" she asked frantically.

The IRS man handed her a piece of paper. Her already-tired-looking face went pale as she scanned the document.

It was then that the full force of the situation hit me: We're being evicted because we've been unable to pay taxes. We're going to lose this house that I grew up in.

No one said anything for a minute. Fire raged inside me. This is all because Dr. MacLain's killer framed Dad! This isn't right! He should still be here, not rotting in a prison cell he doesn't belong in!

I wanted to say all of those things, but I kept quiet. There was nothing I could do…or was there?