dizmo pointed out that he had a cane, and it was all downhill from there.
They must think he’s an easy target, leaning on his cane, safely away from the center of the fight.
They must think he’s also deaf, blind, unarmed, and stupid if they ever imagined they could get the drop on an agent of SHIELD.
Phil ducks neatly under the swinging pipe and drives the head of his cane back into the first attacker’s stomach. Gripping the end, he stands and brings the heavy handle around in a clean arc, straight into the second attacker’s jaw. The crunch it makes is deeply satisfying.
His third assailant is at least smart enough to draw her gun and just fast enough to avoid the cane as Phil swings it at her head. In side-stepping, though, her aim wavers, and Phil catches hold of her wrist. He traps her elbow between his cane and forearm and jerks hard. It gives way with a sickening snap, and the gun goes clattering to the ground.
He clocks the first attacker once across the head, just for good measure, and rubs at the little twinge of pain in his still-healing chest.
“I am so hot for you, right now.”
“Focus, Agent Barton.” On another comm line, he says, “I need clean-up at my location. And tighten the containment area. We have enough collateral damage as it is.”
The security team sounds off an affirmative just as another of the ubiquitous thugs rounds the corner, clearly spoiling for an easy fight. Wordlessly, Phil clicks the release on his cane and slides out a long, slim blade.
The young man takes one look at his fallen compatriots and the glinting steel in Phil’s hand and wisely runs in the opposite direction.
“So hot,” Clint says again.