Clocks installed in interview rooms were a special sort of loud.
Clint wasn’t sure if it was the acoustics of the fake mirror wall, or the lack of anything other than a table and two chairs to absorb the sound, or maybe if the people who bolted clocks to the wall in police interrogation rooms just flipped the switch from ‘normal’ to ‘goddamn that’s annoying,’ but the ticking of an interrogation room clock could drive a man insane.
Of course, he’d been pretty nuts before he’d walked in.
The door opened and he didn’t bother to look in that direction. He just kept staring straight ahead, watching his own reflection in the mirror. The sound of the door shutting again somehow slipped in between the tick-tick-tick of the seconds marching past, a strange interruption in the steady march of time.
The world skipping a literal beat, before falling back into place.
He didn’t bother to respond. Not that the cop was waiting for one.
The man dropped into the seat on the other side of the table, the legs scraping against the floor as he shifted forward. He dropped a folder on the tabletop. “George Roberts?”
Clint looked at him. The cop squinted at him, his eyes disappearing under the heavy ridge of his eyebrows. “You look familiar.”
Clint didn’t bother to respond. His IDs would hold up to far greater scrutiny than a third rate police force in a fourth rate city could muster. SHIELD didn’t do things halfway, but their work had its downside. The fake documents in Clint’s wallet would never be detected as fakes, but the moment they’d been scanned, somewhere in the depths of SHIELD’s systems, an alarm had gone off.
Just a warning at first. Notifying the right people in the chain of command that he’d been compromised. That the op was in danger.
The real problem would be when the right people in the wrong places took a good hard look at where Clint was supposed to be and what he was supposed to be doing. That’s when all hell was absolutely ging to break loose.
And the sound of the ticking clock was really getting on his nerves for some reason.
The cop was still talking, and Clint absolutely wasn’t listening. Probably not good. He probably should be paying attention. He shifted in his seat, and the handcuffs clattered against the edge of the table. I”d like to make a phone call.”
The cop stopped, clearly mid-word, his expression going sour. Clint got the impression that he wasn’t used to being ignored, and he didn’t like it much. For a moment, his face flexed, and Clint could almost see the thoughts going through his head. The urge to put Clint in his place fought against his desire to evesdrop on the call.
The need for information won out.
Five minutes later, a battered phone straight out of the nineties was dropped onto the table in front of him, and the cop dropped back into his seat. Clint didn’t bother asking for privacy.
He knew the number by heart, thankfully. As it rang, he let his eyes close, not sure if he wanted it to be picked up or not.
“Hi,” he said. “It’s me.” He took a deep breath, and then another. “Know that dinosaur problem I was having?”
“Right.” Clint licked his lips. “It’s a bigger problem than we thought.” He shifted in his seat. “And I’ve been arrested.”
“What do you need?” Steady. Calm. Unshakeable. He’d always loved that.
God, he was going to miss it.
He inhaled. “I need you to outsmart your son.”
There was a moment of silence. “I’m on my way,” Shirley Coulson said.
Clint stared at his face in the mirror. “You don’t have much time.”
“Trust me. I know. Where are you?”
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