Monday: 9 A.M.
SHIELD Hanger
La Guardia Airport (LGA)
Queens, NY

“We should hurry.”

Natasha Romanoff glanced at Special SHIELD Agent James Woo as he rose fluidly from his seat. Like most of Fury’s top agents, Woo was handsome, an Asian, Chinese most probably, fit and well trained in every aspect of his job. He was also steeped in myth and history within SHIELD. It was alleged that he was instrumental in countering the world terrorist, the Yellow Claw back in the Fifties. The fact that he still looked maybe forty, forty-five tops meant nothing. With the world full of Marvels, LMDs, Infinity Formulae, Healing Factors, Super Soldier Serums, etc. it was not a stretch of the imagination to imagine anyone alive and well in 1950 and still just as alive and well in 2007. Which allowed for all the talk of Jimmy Woo’s exploits in the 60’s when the Claw resurfaced, and again in the 70’s as one of SHIELD’s new special agents. Then in the 80’s and 90’s when the mysterious Council that allegedly backed SHIELD killed all the main operatives to replace them with Life Model Decoys…

It was far too confusing for Natasha to sort, and she had seen the ‘Eyes Only’ files. She was thankful that that was all past history now, water under the bridge. Forge was out and Nick Fury was back where he belonged, his best at his side. Or at least a phone call away.

“Why the rush, agent?” she asked. She saw no reason to linger herself. William Peak had no relatives that she knew of, at least none that he had ever mentioned to her, and she knew that as business partners in Widow’s Peak Enterprises, they had signed several papers in the process of incorporating that would give her power as executor of his estate, at least in some matters. His bank accounts, stocks and bonds, other financial and personal holdings had all named her as the person ‘In Trust For’, and would grant her access to his finances to pay whatever bills he had, along with whatever insurance he had purchased. She knew of course about bureaucracy, and knew that it would be years before all of his affairs were fully settled. There was his apartment to consider. Closing down the corporation that they had started together, as she did not have the heart to continue it without her friend. There were his final Income Taxes to be filed…

The list was endless.

But that did not have any bearing whatsoever on why Agent Woo was in a rush.

“Forgive me,” he said as he lit a cigarette, then shouldered his light carry-on bag, offering to carry hers as they headed towards the main hatch. “SHIELD is in a state of… flux at the moment. Colonel Fury has given me a long and detailed agenda, not the least of which begins with getting you to your next destination. I was thinking of myself, I’m afraid.” Natasha waved him off, shouldering her own bag. She had little by way of personal effects, a couple changes of clothes and toiletries, her uniform and arsenal of course, and a few things she had picked up on her trip west. Most of what she had accumulated had been destroyed when the Alfa Romeo Spider had taken its final dive.

“No problem, Agent Woo. I have a pretty long list of things to do waiting for me as well.” She thought for a moment as they awaited the stewardess to open the main hatch. The stunning blond was dressed in a semi-casual black business suit; jacket, skirt and heels, a white blouse beneath and the simplest functional jewelry in silver. She had the SHIELD ‘Eagle’ emblem over her left breast and a definite bulge on her hip beneath the tail of the jacket. She gave Woo a barely disguised frown at his cigarette as she opened the door with the help of a Maintenance Technician on the opposite side, waving away the smoke as she waved them both through the exit with a curt ‘buh-bye’.

As always it was an adventure stepping from a plane and suddenly to be enveloped in New York’s weather. It had been blazing hot in Vegas, in the nineties, and later pushing triple digits in the deserts surrounding the Worthington Chalet. It had been a dry heat, searing the skin if one was foolish enough to stay under the sun’s unblinking scrutiny unprotected. At night it had gotten cold and crisp, the chill air clear, the black night sky alight with millions of stars.

Here in New York the air was heavy with pollution and humidity, so thick that she felt she could cut it with a knife. It was cold, but wet, threatening a drizzle that she knew would never come. She shuddered as she stepped out onto the mobile stairs that had been rolled up to the plane’s hatch.

There had been some debate on just how the Widow was to return to Manhattan. At first Fury had offered her a ride on a SHIELD shuttle, however the recent turmoil in SHIELD, as well as in Las Vegas and Los Angeles, plus some blossoming crisis in Seattle had the bulk of SHIELD transports spoken for on the West Coast. Fury had still offered, but there would have been a wait of at least six hours before a transport could ferry in from Boulder, Colorado. She had at first declined, willing to take more standard airlines, but Fury would not hear it. He made some calls.

Natasha had thought again of contacting the West Coast Avengers, but Fury had nixed that idea. They were in the midst of some new case – as always – and though they might have a spare Quinjet lying around, they might need it themselves. In the end Fury had wrangled a Lear Jet, part of evidence bounty grabbed in a raid in conjunction with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. A South American Drug Lord’s plane Woo had said, stripped and searched and then refurbished and scheduled for public auction soon. It had been sitting in SHIELD’S holding facility in the desert midway between Los Angeles and Vegas and had been on the tarmac and ready to fly within an hour.

A Flight Crew had been selected, all trustworthy agents, so Natasha had been surprised when Fury had assigned Woo as her escort. The man had checked the plane and found it to his approval, then settled into the seats across the aisle for the flight back east. He had said little, preferring to read instead, a rat-eared pocketbook by a man named Wilson. That was fine by Natasha. It gave her time to think, and sleep.

And now, standing on the stairs, despite feeling the bite of winter encroaching, the humid wind weighing her down and threatening rain at least, the bitter taste of exhaust winding through the air, she was glad to be home.

In her time she had been a spy, a hero, a model, a jet setter and more. She had traveled the world and beyond. She had been to the Moon and outer space and other dimensions, but there was nowhere that felt more like home than New York City. She could just see the tops of the tallest spires in the city a few miles to the north and west; the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, others she knew by sight but not by name. There was a surreal look to the skyline as it shifted in the growing clouds, the misty air swirling and making the great towers seem ghosts, spirits of memories half forgotten and trying to hold their place in her reality and mind. Natasha sighed and smiled. It was good to be home.

As she followed Woo down the metal stairs she saw that La Guardia was its usual frenzy of activity. SHIELD had an area set aside for their activities, hangars and a stretch of smaller runway that they shared with other government agencies situated well away from the hub of commercial activity. In the distance she could see jets taxi-ing for take off representing the various airlines like United, Jet Blue, American and several others that she had never heard of. Even further she could see planes landing, others circling in the cloudy sky waiting for their turn. The tarmac itself was abuzz with smaller vehicles, most pulling freight cars behind, some loaded to their limits, others empty. She saw emergency vehicles lining the fringes, and an airport security car speeding along the edge of the runways, its red lights flashing. There were people about too, loading and unloading the closest planes at the nearest terminals, others running fuel, directing jets into their allotted stalls for debarking. Even just a few feet away, technicians ran forward to stand the Lear Jet down and prepare it for its eventual return flight west, presumably.

Agent Woo was fast-stepping across the tarmac towards a mundane, gray Buick Century that proffered a standard man of middle age and indeterminate features dressed in mechanic’s coveralls at the open driver’s side door. Their ride she assumed.

Natasha reached the bottom of the steps, prepared to pick up the pace to accommodate Woo’s urgency when she felt the hackles on the back of her neck stir. She looked about, uneasily, squinting in the early morning glare reflecting off the damp blacktop. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary from any other time she had been in any other airport…

She saw the security vehicle had pulled to a stop near the United Terminal, several dark forms moving about in the shadows of morning light, too far away to discern…

A fuel truck was rumbling past towards the area designated for United flights…

A luggage conveyance of two linked boxcars and an engine was returning to its housing for another pickup…

A small two man cart sputtered and spit fire, stopping not so far away as it made its way towards the Marine Terminal. She saw two men get out, obviously distressed and cursing as they moved to check the motor –

“Down!”

She heard Woo’s sharp command even as she felt his hand in the small of her back, his heel sweeping her legs out from under her. A fraction of a second later she saw the spray of burning lead tracing red in the air where she had been standing. She heard the thunder of gunfire as she slapped the ground in her fall, absorbing the unexpected impact, mostly. Her arm was still just a bit stiff and sore from its break in Vegas.

“Someone wants one of us dead,” Woo said as he scrambled about, drawing his Walther P-38 9mm; a nasty weapon that had a good aim in the right hands. Natasha figured Woo knew how to fire a gun.

She heard a thump and saw the SHIELD mechanic fall to the ground, his chest ripped open with a horizontal slash of dark red. She started towards him, but Woo grabbed her arm and shook his head with a frown before pointing to the luggage train.

They were half-concealed behind the Century, so Natasha chanced a quick glance over the car’s rear end. It was a fleeting look, before another burst of gunfire erupted, scarring the trunk and shooting sparks skywards. The conveyance carried three men; the driver and another in each car. Each carried an SMG, though they were too far away for Natasha to make the model, not that it mattered. A bullet was a bullet, more or less. The driver was in standard red coveralls, but he had donned a black ski mask that covered his face but for his eyes. His two companions were dressed in what appeared to be black fatigues from the snatch of a glance she got. They wore masks as well.

Natasha saw a flicker of light, then heard the rapport of return fire up and at the edge of her sight. She looked and saw the stewardess firing with an AK 47, a flak vest draped loosely over her well-sculptured shoulders. The Widow looked at the target only to see the two men in the boxcars pop up and retaliate. The stewardess danced a bit under the onslaught, finally tumbling over the rail of the stairs to land on the tarmac just a few feet away with a sickening wet thud.

The Buick exploded in sparks again as Woo ducked back down beside her. He popped the clip from his gun by rote, slipping another into place with a soft snap as he looked at her. She had not even heard his exchange of fire.

“You armed?” he asked, looking hopeful but trying not to.

“No,” Natasha said. Her Widow’s weaponry was in her bag, but the firearms that she had purchased in Vegas had stayed in Vegas. Who knew? In truth she was not even dressed for this, in faded, worn denims, a black tight tunic with three-quarter sleeves and (thankfully she had changed from her flip-flops), a pair of black leather Avias. Again – who knew?

Woo nodded and slipped his free hand to his pant’s leg. Jerking his trouser up, Natasha saw a small, tight holster, from which Woo withdrew a small revolver. He clicked open the cylinder, glanced at it and slapped it closed again with a flip of his wrist before handing it to her.

“Nam Mimi Revolver: Five shots and not unimpressive in impact. Close range as it pulls right with distance. I’d like it back when we’re through.” He almost grinned.

Natasha was liking this man.

Monday: 9:15 A.M.
Trans Air Terminal
La Guardia Airport (LGA)
Queens, NY

Yelena Belova stood watching from the relative safety of distance as the short drama that she had orchestrated finally began. She stood impassively, her piercing blue eyes frigid and fixed, her gaze unwavering from the battle. She could hear the controlled bursts of gunfire even through the thick glass of the Trans Air Terminal’s second floor way station despite the perpetual din of the airport; the chatter of the inane milling about her, roar of jet engines and the constant blare of the Public Announcement audio system, be it a staticky voice or mindless Muzak. She ignored the distractions, even as the sheep saw the flare of gunfire and drew to her side to gawk.

She had dressed plainly, to blend with the New York crowds. Just another traveler in her long black woolen coat and thick Ugg boots. Just another pretty face, showing for the security cameras. She had her shoulder length blonde hair tied back into a ponytail and wore a wire-rimmed pair of spectacles, the glass lenses being simply that. Underneath she wore her uniform of course, though she had to leave her arsenal back at the room she had rented at the Travel Lodge as they would not have passed through the metal detectors and close scrutiny by a curious guard might have forced an issue, if not a scene.

She felt a bit naked without her weapons, though she did not expect to have to come into play. She was in the airport simply to watch and learn. She knew that the men that Yuri Petrovich had provided had no hope of besting Romanoff, especially with SHIELD on hand. That was not their true mission. At least as far as they knew. They were fodder for distraction.

Yelena Belova wanted – needed to see Natasha Romanoff in action, live and unhindered by grainy static of ancient video recordings. Like any other Marvel in America, Natasha appeared in hundreds of snippets of news footage, many solo, but also with the various groups and partners that she had worked with over the years. Too, there had been films from her training days, but those had been old, many filmed on 8mm and grainy despite efforts to restore them. They had been informative, and in truth helpful in Belova’s own training in the then KGB’s Red Room, but there was nothing compared to seeing the prey in the flesh.

She had learned that Romanoff had been injured in Las Vegas and though she had spent time mending, Belova needed to know if her predecessor was back in peek fitness. She needed to see Romanoff fight and move. She needed to see how the woman thought, and the best way to do that was to stage an attack. Let others draw Romanoff out while Belova would watch and learn what she needed to know.

As expected, the three younger Mafiya were brash and arrogant. They thought themselves invulnerable and probably immortal as most thugs did, no matter their local or heritage. Give a young bully a gun and he will turn into a gangster guaranteed. Still, they were not untrained, nor apparently so stupid as to go charging forward in blind assault. Thus far they remained true to the plan. All three used snap tactics in a staccato rhythm that kept an almost steady steam of bullets sweeping over Romanoff’s cover. Their Tec-nines were popular micro SMGs and could fire hundreds of rounds per minute with the proper clip, though Belova had ordered the standard 40 round shooting 9mm in short bursts. She did not want the young fools simply shooting their – what was the word – wad in a lustful frenzy, perhaps causing the car to explode or ripping Romanoff apart in a hailstorm of bullets.

The three had been ordered to kill Natasha Romanoff of course – a known traitor to the Mother Russia of old – and anyone who stood beside her. The two more seasoned Mafiya that Petrovich had provided knew the fuller scope of the agenda. If the three survived the obligatory retaliation, they were to provide 'clean up'. Where the youths carried generic and untraceable weaponry, the veterans were armed with more deadly Makarov PMs, the automatic handguns loaded with 9mm hollow tipped shells that would contain cyanide if Petrovich had not lied, and she had no reason to believe otherwise. The three thugs would be killed, not trusted to withstand SHIELD interrogation. Belova knew that with Romanoff as the suspected target, SHIELD’s ESPer Unit could easily be called into play. Both she and Yuri Petrovich wished to remain anonymous at this juncture, and though the youths would eventually be traced back to Brighton Beach and the Russian Mafia, the logical conclusion was a ‘hit’ on a traitor and celebrity for their own notoriety. The veterans knew that if they were caught, they were to slay themselves, no doubt with their own cyanide stored within a hollow tooth or a convenient hypodermic of some sort. Whatever…

Belova had seen the driver of the luggage train take a hit from the female SHIELD agent that had been on the stairway. She had been eliminated, as had the agent that had delivered the car. Belova was somewhat surprised that the car had not exploded yet, it had been hit so many times. Bullet resistant, apparently, including the glass and tires. It was SHIELD issue after all, and should have been expected.

Despite his injury, the driver continued his assault along with his comrades. It had not even been a minute yet and already the ground was littered with shell casings, sparkling and steaming in the cold, morning’s light. On the opposing side, the remaining agent of SHIELD, Woo she thought though it was hard to tell accurately with the distance, was far more conservative. After his initial burst that had emptied the clip in his gun, he had taken to firing single shots, trying to find the rhythm of his attackers. He had given Romanoff a small handgun, but she had yet to fire a single shot, remaining hidden behind the car.

Belova doubted that Romanoff was afraid. Prudent more likely, as the handgun was probably a hold out weapon with limited rounds. She was airing on the side of caution, and perhaps not fully recovered from her injuries. Exactly the things that Yelena Belova wished to know.

Someone screamed within the crowd that was gathering at the windows. Belova was starting to feel the press, smelling the unwashed or over perfumed travelers as more and more saw the gunfight. She sneered at their gasps and babble, bleating like the sheep they were. They thought themselves safe here within the confines of the terminal, little knowing who was amongst them. She could kill them all so easily…

But of course that would be detrimental to her mission.

A new flare of gunfire drew her attention back to the stairs where she saw another SHIELD agent, presumably the jet’s pilot wielding what appeared to be a Bushmaster SMG. A nasty piece of weaponry that fired .223 caliber shells at a better than decent kick with a nice range. Belova saw the agent’s first burst sweep through the third Mafiya thug, actually spinning him 360 degrees as the bullets riddled his body. Bloody and suddenly ragged he sprawled half out of the luggage cart, unmoving after the final twitches of life deserted him.

Casually Yelena Belova glanced at her watch. Barely ninety seconds had passed with one casualty in her team, and one injury. She looked back to the battle as the remaining Mafiya turned their attention on the elevated attacker. Belova smirked, sensing their mistake.

As expected and as one both Woo and Romanoff dashed from behind the security of the reinforced SHIELD car. They ran quickly, weaving in a serpentine pattern to make themselves harder targets, rapidly closing the distance. Too late the Mafiya gunmen saw the new attack and began to redirect their fire. She saw Woo skid to a quick halt, his arm out and stiff. One rapid shot and the driver of the train fell backwards, hitting the tarmac unmoving.

Belova saw Romanoff leap high, flipping gracefully in midair to gain altitude and momentum. She achieved position for a high kick, her right leg extended, the left cocked and ready to snap if needed to kick away or spiral. Her left arm was out for balance while the right, her gun hand wavered only slightly, drawing bead on her target. Like Woo, she fired only once. Her aim was true, the bullet slamming into the gunman’s trigger hand, making his own gun jerk away. Romanoff’s heel slammed into his chin, and even from the distance Belova saw the youth’s head spin too far. He twisted and flipped out of the cart, sprawling onto the blacktop like a broken action figure, discarded and forgotten. Romanoff landed gracefully, spinning swiftly and lithely like a ballerina, her gun trained on the obviously dead body.

Without even looking, Belova shook her head. She knew that the veterans were looking to her for orders. Their expertise was not needed, nor were their senseless deaths. The three Mafiya were dead. The two veterans would be put to better use another day. They stayed in character, pretending to cower behind their stalled vehicle as Woo and Romanoff surveyed the damage of the battlefield.

Yelena Belova smiled a cool, thin-lipped smile. She had seen what she had wanted to see; Natasha Romanoff in action. When she had finally entered the fray she had been quick and concise, striking more like a snake than a spider, but just as deadly and efficient. Perhaps a bit slow, still aching slightly from her ordeals in Nevada maybe, but not enough to delay the inevitable.

“Soon, little snowflake,” she whispered, finally turning from the window. The airport security would be rushing to the scene shortly, after realizing that the abandoned backpack she had left in the United Terminal under a bench was filled with nothing more than dirty clothes. ‘SEE SOMETHING – SAY SOMETHING’. The Americans were such fools.

The sheep in the Trans Air Terminal would be held for statements for hours no doubt, as various government agencies became involved. Everyone from La Guardia Security to Homeland Security would want to know what had happened. Of course SHIELD would whisk Romanoff away, and Belova wanted to be away as well.

She would leave the airport on foot. She would walk for a time, eventually boarding the Q33 bus that would take her back to the ‘F’ Train at 74th Street and Broadway. That train would take her back to Manhattan and Hell’s Kitchen where her ‘safe house’ was. Where she would rest and think on all that she had seen…

And plot.

And plan…

Monday: 12:23 P.M.
NYC Morgue
520 1st Avenue
Manhattan, NY

They had taken a cab obviously.

The Buick Century was far too damaged to drive. Though it was bullet resistant, the car was still riddled with dents and the glass in most of the windows was spider-webbed, though not shattered, too badly to see through however.

There had been questions of course. One dead body caused innumerable problems, but there were five, and La Guardia Security, NYPD, BATF, DEA, FBI, Homeland Security and even SHIELD itself wanted answers. The word on the tip of everyone’s tongue was 'terrorist' of course. Manhattan, as well as most every other large metropolis in the United States was in a state of near panic perpetually at Code: Orange. Always expecting the worst.

Agent Woo had flashed his SHIELD I.D., and being one of Fury’s elite had spirited Natasha away after a brief statement was given. Of that, she was glad.

She had no idea who the gunmen were, or who they had been trying to kill. White, young Americans carrying no I.D., they could have been gunning for her or just as easily Woo. They could have been HYDRA or AIM or even KKK for that matter. Everyone was on a mission it seemed, these days.

Woo had used his influence to get them past the various levels of police, then commandeered a Yellow Cab, giving them the address of her Manhattan apartment on the Upper West Side. She was amazed that he knew it at all, let alone had it memorized. It had been so long since she had been there that she barely recalled it herself.

The trip from the airport was not too bad. It was after Rush Hour, and the usual bumper to bumper traffic had thinned to a steady stream that actually kept moving until they crossed the 59th Street Bridge and entered the city proper. It was a slow crawl then across Manhattan Island to 11th Avenue, which eventually became West End Avenue. She felt a bit of relief as the cab turned onto Riverside Drive at 86th Street, then finally slowed to a stop before her building.

She was digging through her bag when she looked up and realized that Woo had opened the outer door.

“You have the keys to my apartment?” she asked incredulously. Woo almost looked as though he were blushing.

“Colonel Fury thought it prudent.” Agent Woo held out the key ring in his hand for her to take, which she did. She gave him an icy stare as she opened the inner door, shoving into the air-conditioned lobby. She saw the concierge sitting at his station near the elevators.

“Hello, Wayne,” she said, forcing a pleasant smile. The older man behind the small desk smiled in return.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he said. “Been awhile. “On vacation?”

“Sort of,” Natasha had said as she led Woo up the stairs to her second floor apartment.

It was small, but comfortable. Sparsely furnished with little in the way of decoration, the one bedroom Co-op was simply a place that she had purchased a few years prior to sleep and relax when in Manhattan. It served her purposes, giving her an address outside Avenger’s Mansion. It made her feel like a person, rather than a statistic.

“I want to clean up a bit before we head downtown. There’s probably nothing in the fridge, but if there is, help yourself.”

When she had returned from the bathroom, showered and feeling somewhat better she found James Woo sitting before the television watching Speed Racer on the Cartoon Network. He was drinking a beer; an OLDE ENGLISH 800, which Natasha had taken a liking to after Matt.

“You’re kidding, right? Cartoons?” Woo looked up.

“What? I love Speed Racer.”

Natasha had laughed.

She was not laughing now as she stared at the pictures of her friend.

Her deceased friend.

Her dead friend.

They had traveled downtown via cab again, to the City Morgue where she had to view her friend’s body for official identification. The hospital knew who he was, but there was red tape to satisfy and they needed someone to actually put a name to the face as it were. That was she.

She had talked with an attendant for a bit; a pleasant Jamaican woman that made her feel at ease in her time of grief. She had filled out a few forms, and the woman had left for a time leaving her alone in a small, bare room with Agent Woo, both sitting in uncomfortable chairs at a small round table.

“I hate this,” she said wringing her hands. She glanced at Woo. He was smoking, chaining another cigarette to life. He looked nonplussed and unaffected after all they had been through, his black suit sharp and immaculate.

“Death is a part of life,” he said. “One should expect it and be happy for those who move on, no longer burdened by the turmoil that is life.”

“You’re Buddhist?”

He smirked. “I’m Agnostic.”

“There’s no smoking in this building, sir.’

Both Natasha and Woo looked up as the attendant came back into the small sterile room. She was staring daggers at Woo as she dropped a file folder on the tabletop and sat her large frame into the empty chair.

“I’m SHIELD,” he said, pulling out his I.D. holder and flipping it open. The woman glanced at it and scowled.

“I don’t care if you’re TOILET, Mon. No Smoking!”

Woo almost smiled again. He stood and turned to Natasha.

“I’ll wait outside.” He left.

The attendant opened the folder and slid it across the table towards Natasha. She saw more forms to be filled out and signed, along with three pictures that seemed to be Polaroids. Pictures of William…

She bit her lower lip as tears welled up in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, and she seemed genuinely so. “You can view the body if you like. You’ll be in one room, and the body will be in another, raised on an elevator from the morgue. For health reasons you’ll be separated, viewing through a window… ”

“No,” Natasha said as she looked at the images of her friend. His hair was matted, his face pale. His eyes were half-open, making him look drunk. She started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” the attendant said again. “For the record… “

“It’s him. William Peak.”

Natasha signed the forms, filled out the paperwork. She would receive Death Certificates from the Funeral Home she had indicated, one provided by the Avengers. They would pay the cost of the burial, the funeral, the casket as part of their insurance provided for all members. Though William was not a blood relative, Tony Stark would provide.

Once the cutting of the Red Tape was over, Natasha thanked the attendant and took her copies of the signed documents. She stepped back out into the sunlight and saw James Woo waiting as promised.

“Everything’s in order?” he asked, flicking his cigarette into the street. Natasha nodded.

“Here at least. There’s still a lot to do.”

“I received a call from Colonel Fury. He wishes me to remain with you for the duration.” Woo frowned. “He was not pleased with the events at La Guardia. He was not convinced that the gunmen were simple terrorists. Frankly, neither am I.”

“It’s not necessary,” Natasha said. “You said you had an agenda… “

“No longer. You are priority now. I am at your disposal.”

That oddly made Natasha smile…

To Be Continued…

Next Issue: The funeral and what follows as The Merry Widows continues in Part 3: Life After Death!