Black Widow: Forever Red Page 2

  Natasha ignored him. She couldn’t take her eyes off the machine standing between him and the girl. It was marked “O.P.U.S.,” in Russian military tagging. It was also why she was here, that tech—though S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn’t filled her in on the details. She hadn’t been with the American agency long, and they didn’t tell her much. All she knew was that she was here to put three bullets into her old Yoda and bag the box.

  “What is this thing? It looks like it belongs in a museum. And word on the street is Ivan the Strange’s new gig is stranger than usual.”

  He waved one hand at the O.P.U.S. “Old Red Room tech. Something I’ve been playing with since our glorious union of the people collapsed. The Program has seen, you know, better days. But that doesn’t mean we can’t pick up a few of the pieces and make some money.”

  “Right. Last time I checked, you could barely hotwire a Yugo, Ivan.”

  “Who wants a Yugo? I drive a Prius now.” He shrugged. “I’ve picked up a rogue physicist here and there. Red Room remnants.” He grinned. “Dinosaurs like me, fighting extinction.”

  Natasha was unmoved, tilting her head toward the wide-eyed girl. “And the kid? Why is she here?”

  He shrugged. “Does it matter? Another poor little unwanted ptenets.” Now his smile was dark. “Sound familiar?”

  Natasha Romanoff tightened her hand on her gun. “Was that what I was? Unwanted?”

  “No. What you were was a pain in my zadnitse.”

  “Wrong answer.” She smashed him with both wrists, once again unleashing the sting of her Widow’s Bite cuffs. Ivan writhed under the surprise of the electric charge, his head snapping backward, smashing him into the chair.

  Ivan lifted his head. His were the eyes of a madman now. “Forever red. That’s what they call your kind. You may talk a big game, but you’re no more American than I am.”

  “I’m nothing like you, Ivan.” She leveled her gun at him. Her hand wavered.

  Just do it. He deserves it.

  You should have done it a long time ago.

  Ivan’s mouth curved into a twisted smile. “You’re a ticking time bomb.” His face was still pale from the shock. “Only a matter of time. You’re not going to be able to cut this wire, ptenets. Not from me and not from Mother Russia.” He spat blood from his mouth. “I just hope I’m there when you detonate.”

  But Natasha had stopped listening. This was all wrong. Something was off.

  What’s he waiting for? What’s his game?

  Natasha glanced at the soldiers blocking her exit, but as she did, Ivan reached out and grabbed the lever on the machine between the child and himself.

  It’s a signal. It’s starting. Something’s happening.

  Natasha heard the first rounds fire the moment he pulled the lever. She catapulted forward, and the line of fire moved with her, driving her toward Ivan the Strange and his even stranger steel metal box. They were all caught in the firestorm—Natasha and the kid and Ivan.

  Ivan shouted, but it was too late. A barrage of bullets riddled the machine. It exploded in a burst of fire and black smoke—and he went flying back from the impact.

  Natasha dodged the stray rounds, diving away from Ivan and toward the girl. “I’m getting you out of here!” she shouted, reaching to take her from the chair. The child screamed with every gunshot, her arms and legs instinctively kicking, her dark eyes wide with fright.

  Natasha yanked her free, and for a moment, the girl clung to her.

  Only for a moment.

  Before Natasha could set her down, a massive electrical pulse surged from the machine, flooding through the wiring to the electrodes, lifting the body of the girl almost into the air. Because she was still holding the girl, it lifted Natasha right along with her.

  For a split second, Natasha Romanoff and the nameless red-haired child were frozen in the same white-blue light.

  This is what he wanted. I walked right into it.

  I failed the battle math. Endgame: zero.

  Then it hurt too much to think about anything but the pain.

  Nails, Natasha thought. It feels like poison nails.

  Ripping through every part of my mind and body.

  She had never been so exposed. A rush of images surged into her mind too quickly to process. Her brain burned hot, and the pain was overwhelming. She writhed beneath it. But then the blue light was gone, if only because everything else was going up in flames around it. The entire warehouse was igniting.

  A second explosion hit—this one much bigger than the first. Then another. And another.

  Natasha realized now that the O.P.U.S. machine was no single piece of tech at all; rather, it was a collection of generators. By the ignition pattern, she figured almost every shipping container in the warehouse held one part or another, all wired together. Which meant the blast wave would be bigger than she was expecting.

  Much, much bigger.

  The kill zone will be too.

  Ivan cried out, slumping to the floor, holding his head. Black smoke poured from the fried electrodes on his forehead.

  Dead?

  The little girl screamed. Natasha didn’t hesitate.

  She grabbed the kid and rolled beneath a weapons locker, the last of the electrodes snapping free. She held her hands over the child’s ears as the locker and the warehouse and the world rolled around them.

  RUINS OF SHIPYARD WAREHOUSE,

  UKRAINE

  NEAR THE BLACK SEA

  When it was over, Natasha kicked off the locker. She rolled to her side, still holding the girl. Her own ears were ringing. Her vision cleared, and she took in the remains of the scene. Flames were spreading from shipping container to container. Soldiers were downed. Shrapnel had taken out the ones she hadn’t.

  Either way, it didn’t matter now.

  Natasha looked at the girl, who lay motionless on the concrete floor. Sirens blared from every direction as she lifted the child out of the rubble.

  The girl’s eyes fluttered open.

  “You’re okay,” Natasha said, hoisting the girl into her arms and staggering toward the warehouse door. She shifted the child over her shoulder, ignoring the flames that now surrounded them. The flames and the ash and the bodies.

  “Don’t look.” Once again, Natasha cursed Coulson for involving her in a mission with children.

  The child’s eyes reflected only loss and fear. She clutched her now blackened ballerina doll by the neck. “Sestra,” she said. Sister. She reached to touch a lock of Black Widow’s hair. Red, just like her own.

  “Not exactly.” Natasha almost dropped her. Because she felt something awkward, a certain kind of uncomfortable warmth, as it uncoiled inside her chest. Sympathy. Familiarity. Some kind of connection. It wasn’t something she had experienced often, and it wasn’t something she knew how to feel, or even understand. And Natasha Romanoff didn’t like feelings she didn’t understand. She didn’t like feelings, period.

  But she knew what it meant to be a child with those eyes.

  Natasha lowered her voice, speaking Russian directly into the child’s ear. “You’ll be safe now. I don’t know who your family is, but I promise I’ll find you some nice people who will get you back to wherever you belong.” Hesitating, she smoothed the little girl’s hair as she carried her.

  “Mamotchka,” the girl said sadly.

  “Your mother? Did he take you from her?” Natasha was grim. She didn’t know if the child had any family or if there was even anything left for her to go home to. Knowing Ivan Somodorov as she did, the odds of either were slim to none.

  But the little girl nodded, closing her eyes against Black Widow’s shoulder. She let the doll drop to the floor as she collapsed, exhausted. Natasha could feel her other small hand still wrapped around her hair.

  As Natasha carried her away from the burning warehouse, S.H.I.E.L.D. support patrols swarmed the place. Natasha knew the drill. Within minutes, Ivan, or what was left of him, would belong to S.H.I.E.L.D. Same for his tech, the O.P.U.S. w
hatever. The rest was just cleanup, not her problem. Even the agents had agents for this crap.

  Thank God. She had had enough of Ivan Somodorov. She never wanted to see his face again. Natasha Romanoff had spent a lifetime putting a lifetime between the two of them. And with that, she dumped the kid into the waiting arms of a medical officer, who wrapped her in a blanket. Natasha was done.

  The girl began to cry, reaching her arms out for her redheaded rescuer again. Natasha looked at her. The girl didn’t stop. Natasha turned away. The girl kept crying. Natasha turned back, frustrated. She squatted in front of the child, speaking in Russian.

  “Kak tebya zovut, devochka?” What’s your name, kid?

  “Ava,” the girl said, sniffling. Her breath was ragged as she spoke.

  Natasha nodded. “Slushay, Ava. Perestan’ plakat,’ kak mladenets. Ty uzhe bol’shaya devochka.” Roughly translated, it meant something like, Listen, Ava. Don’t be a crybaby. You’re a big girl now.

  She tried not to feel bad for saying it. They had said the same thing to Natasha herself, hadn’t they? On that day in Stalingrad so many years ago? When her own parents had died, and she had been taken by the KGB, and then to the Red Room.

  And then to Ivan.

  The girl stared at her, tears silently rolling down her face.

  Natasha took another breath and tried again. “Amerikantsy otvezu tebya domoy. Oni naydut tvoyumamu. Ya obeshchayu.” She had no idea if what she was saying was true, but she said it. They’ll take you home. They’ll find your mother. I promise. It was what the little girl needed to hear, she reasoned.

  “Obeshaesh?” Promise?

  “You can believe me, Ava. I’m just like you. See?” Natasha pulled on a curl of her own red hair. “Ya kak i ty,” she repeated. I’m just like you.

  The girl tried to catch her breath, but she couldn’t. The tears kept coming.

  Natasha exhaled, standing up to grab a wallet off a passing soldier without him noticing. She pulled a five-euro note out of it as she let the rest fall to the ground. Then she yanked a pen off a senior officer passing by, who turned to look at her, confused.

  Agent Coulson sighed. “Can I help you, Romanoff?”

  She didn’t look up as she ripped the euro in half and scribbled something on it. “No, Coulson, I can help you. I made sure to leave the security cameras running.” She looked up at him. “You should have good tape, whatever that thing was.”

  Coulson held out his hand. “Great. But I want my pen back. That’s a limited edition 1935 Montblanc tiger eye….”

  Natasha rolled her eyes and slapped the pen into his hand. “It’s called a Sharpie. You might want to look into it.”

  “You do things your way; I’ll do them mine.” He took the pen. “Speaking of which, good job in there. Your file says you were Red Room too. This must have been personal for you. Emotionally complex.”

  “It wasn’t,” she said, trying to push past him.

  Coulson smiled. “Well, that’s probably for the best, seeing as most of a building just dropped on your friend Ivan.”

  “He’s not my friend,” Natasha said automatically. “I don’t have friends.”

  “There’s a shocker,” said Coulson as he turned away. “And, for the record, not having friends? Very emotionally complex.”

  Natasha glared after him. “For the record, stay out of my file.”

  He didn’t answer.

  She moved past two S.H.I.E.L.D. medical officers, until she was once again kneeling in front of the little girl. She switched back to rapid Russian, pushing the ripped euro note into her hand.

  “See this? If you need me, go to your embassy. Give them this. I’ll keep the other half to remember you.”

  Ava nodded. Natasha whispered into her ear, still in Russian. “If you ask, I’ll come, sestrenka. I promise, little sister.” She pulled away. “But if I can do it, Ava, you can do it.” She pointed to her red hair again. “Right? We’re the same.” Tot zhe samoye. The same.

  With that, she was gone.

  Ava looked down at the paper in her hand. On it there were two words and a crude drawing of an hourglass inside a circle.

  BLACK WIDOW.

  Her sign.

  “I will remember, moya starshaya sestra,” the little girl said, slowly. Big sister.

  Then her eyes closed, and the fire and the chaos and the death and the noise disappeared.

  Just like the red-haired woman.

  S.H.I.E.L.D. - CASE 121A415

  REF: LINE-OF-DUTY DEATH [LODD] INVESTIGATION

  FROM: AGENT PHILLIP COULSON

  TO: S.H.I.E.L.D. DIRECTOR EX OFFICIO NICK FURY

  SUBJ: SPECIAL INQUIRY

  RE: AGENT NATASHA ROMANOFF A.K.A. BLACK WIDOW, A.K.A. NATASHA ROMANOFFA

  AGENT IN COMMAND [AIC]: PHILLIP COULSON

  S.H.I.E.L.D. CASE CODE NAMES: RED LEDGER, OPUS, SCHRODINGER, ODESSA, RED WIDOW, WINTERSTORM

  AUTHORIZATION: Inquiry follows Executive Order OVAL14AEE32 POTUS Eyes Only / Congressional Access Denied / Note: The following summary includes excerpts from files, logs, correspondence, transcripts, hearings, and findings resulting from NSA Special Inquiry S231X3P.

  Autopsy results on remains of deceased [per S.H.I.E.L.D. Medical Examiner] have been sealed. Designation for Presidential Medal of Freedom [classified citation] is pending.

  DANTE CRUZ’S HOUSE

  MONTCLAIR, NEW JERSEY

  “San-ta Claus! San-ta Claus!” A group of middle school kids screamed for jolly old Saint Nick as if he were a boy band. The Jolly Old Saint Nicks, Alex Manor thought. “I Beliebe in Christmas.” “One Direction to the North Pole.” His drugstore Santa hat slipped down over one eye.

  “What is this garbage? Can I get a Ru-dolph? Ru-dolph? Nose so bright? Anyone?” Dante Cruz, Alex’s best friend, wheezed out the words from beneath his fake reindeer antlers. “Jeez. Tough crowd.”

  Alex, a sweating, red-faced seventeen-year-old, looked like he was about to pass out. Dante—equally sweaty and equally seventeen—looked like he was enjoying it. The two friends faced off over a swaying Ping-Pong table in what appeared to be the arm-wrestling match of the century, or at least of the week, or at the very least of Dante’s little sister’s holiday party. The contest had started out as everything between them always did—first as a joke, then a dare, then a bet—and had quickly escalated into a fight to the death—the death of the ancient Ping-Pong table.

  Alex Manor didn’t have an off switch, not once his adrenaline was pumping. Dante Cruz was more in control, but equally competitive. Together they were the equivalent of a lit match and a stick of dynamite that had decided to become friends—or brothers.

  “Had enough?” Alex looked at Dante over his fist.

  “Why, can’t take the pressure, Santa?” Dante smiled. His ruddy, brown-skinned face glowed with effort, and his laugh was contagious. Raised in a close-knit Puerto Rican family, Dante had adopted Alex the first day he’d shown up at their fencing club two years ago. Maybe because his dad was a cop, Dante knew a good partner when he saw one. And definitely because his dad was a police captain, there were never any parties at the Cruz house—not even the middle school variety—unless both parents were out of town.

  “Pressure? What pressure?” Alex said, gritting his teeth. Alex was as good-looking as Dante, even if his long dark hair did hang halfway over his even darker eyes. A good two heads taller than his compact friend, the lanky Alex didn’t look like a choirboy, but he wasn’t a thug, either. And if there was something about him that seemed unsettled, a roughness or a restlessness that seemed to haunt from inside—something that left him with shadows under his eyes and the startle reflex of a trapped wolf cub—Alex himself would have been the last to know why it was or how to stop it. Alex Manor was just this side of the edge, at least for now.

  This side of the edge, both in life and in this wrestling match.

  Alex’s arm bulged beneath his faded T-shirt, and the harder he shoved against Dante’s arm, the more his ta
ttoo slid beneath the edge of the material. It was red and black and circular. The pattern inside was shaped like an hourglass. There wasn’t anyone in school who didn’t know what that tattoo meant; it belonged to the Black Widow, who had become a hero to teens around the world, along with Iron Man, the Hulk, and Captain America. Plus, it was a cool tattoo. Everyone said it and Alex knew it, even if his mother didn’t think so. That’s how he played it off, anyway. But what Alex never told anyone was that he had no idea where he’d gotten it. He was so freaked out when he’d woken up with it that he’d had a full-blown panic attack and hadn’t been able to sleep for a week. Just another reason to stay sober and stay in school, he thought. But you would think I would remember something like that.

  Alex frowned and pushed harder.

  “Dude, I’m Blitzened,” Dante said.

  “On energy drinks? At a middle school kickback?” Alex gritted his teeth, pressing down on Dante’s arm. “That’s your combat strategy? More caffeine?” He leaned in.

  “Better than more Pringles,” Dante said as his face turned even redder. Alex did have a bottomless appetite for junk food, and he couldn’t help but laugh when Dante called him on it—which was apparently the opportunity Dante had been waiting for. He sprang forward, forcing Alex’s arm almost down to the table.

  The moment he did, Alex countered. He ran through the options in his head as he leveraged more and more of his weight against his target. Dante’s like a broken record. And now he’s off balance. Which means it’s almost time. Wait for it…not yet…et him get a little farther. Getting there. Almost. Three—two—one—

  Alex smashed Dante’s arm down to the table, and it collapsed beneath them. Dante flopped onto his back into a tangle of net and painted plywood, and Alex went bounding up, arms over his head. “Victory goes to Santa! Christmas has been saved again! The crowd goes wild!” On his cue, the crew of wildly caffeinated, energy-drink-drunk, sugar-stoned eighth and ninth graders went even wilder.