"Ah huh. It is, to be fair, hard to run a secret organization with a very high bus number."

"Bus number?"

"The bus number for a project is the number of people who have to get hit by a bus before you're fucked. So, if there's anyone with critical information they haven't shared, your bus number is one. If they've told one person, then it's two. If you have eight guards and -" he scrolls - "six backups, and you can afford to lose seven of them plus Fury but not eight of them plus Fury..."

"How many did we lose?"

"Ten."

"That's unlikely -"

"Like fifteen percent."

"Fifteen point one." 

"Which is a lot more like fifteen than most numbers are. Anyway, so you two hypothetically need to genius your way through a lot of locks... but I can teleport; Friday, will that do the trick?"

"There are no records here of any defense measures that could not be circumvented by a teleporter who knew the location."

"Have we got a picture or will I need to - are there surviving gatekeepers, do we know - I can also go by direction and distance, just might take me a little longer."

"There are five surviving gatekeepers. There are no pictures of the interior of the facilities. I can get you pictures of the approximate location from satellite imagery, one second."

The screen contains Montana. Montana is peaceful and quiet. 

"All right. Am I soloing this one, jumping there and then trying various amounts of down?"

"Do you want backup?"

"I want credibility; if I can get that while teleporting unauthorized into a secure facility alone somehow..."

"I mean, they'll know who I am, can't guess whether they're fans."

"If they think they know who I am that's plausibly worse. I'll go alone and come back for you if it seems like that'll help, how about."

"Sounds good."

So Loki pops into Montana and tries going various numbers of feet down.

And eventually she pops into (well, a few feet off the floor of) a silent underground bunker.

Alarms go off as soon as her feet touch the floor.

Those are annoying. She masks the noise. "Excuse me!" she calls. "Is there some sort of receptionist?"

There's no answer for a minute, and then several armed people open a door to one side of her and immediately step back behind it for cover. 

"Hello! I'm friendly."

"Put your hands on your head."

"I'm not that friendly."