Upper West Side
Manhattan, New York:
2:29 AM

James Woo felt the world shift as soon as he opened his eyes. The glare of arc-sodium from the street light situated over his sedan was overwhelming, if not overbearing. His stomach was churning; the coffee and donuts struggling to climb back up into his throat on a geyser of bile. Vomit surged into his mouth and he clenched his jaw, holding his lips tightly pressed as he groped for the passenger door handle. He flung the door open with some great effort and hung out, spewing his dinner into the gutter…

He had barely finished heaving when he heard the distinctive clack of a gun’s slide pulling back, then snapping into place, and felt the cold hard metal at the back of his skull. The air smelled sour beyond the car and light flared briefly, a deafening roar right on the heels of illumination. It was raining, hard and refreshing.

“Please, Agent Woo,” a scratchy voice with a thick, Eastern Block accent rasped. “It would cause me grievous pain to have you… erased. Rest, recover, and listen.”

Special SHIELD Agent James Woo thought briefly of going for his gun but swiftly realized that he could barely move. His arms felt like metal I-Beams attached to his shoulders with Silly Putty. His vision was blurred with tears, his head spinning madly and his stomach was still roiling with nausea. In truth, he could barely hear the grating voice, but all that he could manage was to listen, so he sagged across the front seat of his car, trying to recover.

“First, you have been subjected to a sufficient amount of T-72 to render you unconscious for a few hours, and then rather sickly and lethargic upon waking. It’s a colorless, odorless liquid that was first introduced to the US Military in the Korean Police Action, though only members of your CIA had access to it then. Not unlike chloroform in its results and after effects, though as I said, completely undetectable by normal means. Your nausea should lessen to a point that you can function well enough after I have said my piece.

“Second, allow me to say that I am honored. Your name is almost legendary in those circles in which I once moved. The man who once held the Yellow Claw at bay… You cannot imagine the debt that my country owes you and your efforts. A debt that shall unfortunately never be paid, I’m afraid, at least beyond this gesture of mutual support.”

Woo breathed deeply, clenching his eyelids shut as he tried to focus. He could see three sets of feet before him, standing on the sidewalk beyond the car; the speaker, the gunman and another. Somehow he suspected that there were others not so far away. He struggled, first to his elbows, then to his hands as he pushed off of the vinyl seating, craning his neck to see who was talking to him.

An old man, shocks of gray hair poking from beneath his fedora, his lined face almost hidden in the shadows of the umbrella that the third man held over him. Lightning flared again, but offered little to the view.

“Who – (gag) – are you?”

“We’ve never met.” Woo saw a flash in the shadows; dull yellow teeth. “I’m certain that you have read my files, however, if not in SHIELD, then in the FBI. I am Yuri Petrovich.”

“Crimson… Dynamo… “ Woo spat, struggling even harder to rise, to focus. He felt the muzzle of the gun press harder against his skull.

Laughter. “It does an old man’s heart good to know that he is remembered. Yes, I was Russia’s greatest weapon, once upon a time. One of many to bear the name, I am afraid. Not unlike poor Natasha.

At the mention of the Black Widow, Woo’s attention seemed to sharpen. He forced himself up and saw the old man wave back the gunman who complied, stepping away just a bit but keeping the Glock 9mm pointed at Woo’s head. Lightning flared again, followed almost immediately by a long, rolling thunder that seemed to drive the rain down to earth with a hammering force.

“What about… Natasha… “ Woo gagged, spitting into the gutter.

The man seemed to consider for a moment. He reached into his long, woolen overcoat and withdrew a dark cigarette. The dark and burly man holding the umbrella produced a Zippo and sparked a flame in the wind, holding it to the tip of the man’s butt as he inhaled.

“The Red Room has been reopened,” he said, wispy blue smoke escaping his lips as he spoke, dispersing on the wind. “The old guard that was once the military and the KGB in the old Union are understandably disgruntled at the current state of Soviet affairs. The once greatest Super Power on the planet now fractured, depressed, and at a perpetual brink of civil war … “ The man inhaled again and shook his head as he blew out a long stream of smoke. “Even one such as I, an Ex-Patriot exiled to the decadent West can see their dilemma. There is a great desire to return to the old ways.

“One step in that direction is to reinstitute the old programs; the quest for the Super Soldier and the Red Guardian, the armored defenders of the State, the Black Widow … “

James Woo sprawled onto the rain swept pavement, falling from the car. He sensed Petrovich take a step back, his men stepping forward to protect. Woo was in no position to attack and truly did not have the desire. He turned his face skyward, letting the chill rain pummel his senses back towards normal. He continued to listen, his breathing deep and regular.

“The Black Widow has been targeted in a vendetta, I’m afraid. The SVR – Russian Intelligence – at the bequest of certain, prominent officials in the New Federation have decided to wipe the slate clean of old failures. As such, they have chosen to reinstate the Black Widow Protocols and have culled their legions, extracting the best from their sleeper agents; one Yelena Belova. A rather unfortunate one that, but no more so than Natasha Romanoff; orphan, child of war, victim of poverty. She underwent the same strenuous training as Romanoff and her comrades in the Red Room. She was Second Generation however, and lacking in most of the more humanitarian aspects that some of Natasha’s tutors instilled. Belova is vindictive and sociopathic I would say, if not down right psychopathic in far too many ways. She wants Natasha dead, feels it is her right and duty to slay her.”

James Woo rose on unsteady legs, one hand touching the sedan as he fought to regain his strength and balance. He could feel the effects of the T-72 finally fading, but he was still far from 100%. “Why are you telling me this?”

Petrovich took a long final drag from the butt of his cigarillo and flicked the remains into the rain swept street beyond. He shrugged his shoulders, his hands scrounging in the deep pockets of his overcoat. “Because we are old school, Agent Woo. We are Old Guard. Like Fury and Dugan, Rogers and Romanoff, we remember a time when the enemy was to be hated, but respected. Natasha Romanoff does not deserve to be slaughtered because someone in the New Kremlin seeks glory, or some upstart wishes to make a name for herself.

“Our Black Widow has fought long and hard to achieve her status and reputation. I cannot stand idly by and see her efforts destroyed.” Woo started as Petrovich withdrew his hand from his pocket, holding it out, a crumpled, beige business card between his nicotine-stained fingers. Woo reached up, took it, straining to keep his hand from shaking as he read:

VASKOV SHIPPING Ltd.
121 Van Brundt Street
Brooklyn, NY 11210
(718) 555-2525

“A minor holding,” Petrovich supplied, “A tax shelter far removed from my organization, and scheduled for demolition soon I might add. A Jew bought the property. Wants to put up a supermarket. Red Hook is the latest sparkling prize in the gentrification lottery. Regardless, the warehouse is old and fortified, off the beaten path and guarded at the moment.” The old man shrugged. “Belova paid for services, which I rendered. Should someone present my card however, one might gain egress,” Petrovich pulled an ornate golden watch from his pocket and clicked open the metal cover, “after Four. One hour, ten minutes, roughly.

“A long time to die.”

Vaskov Shipping Warehouse:
Red Hook, Brooklyn, New York:
2:57 AM

She shook her head.

She stretched, fingers clawing at the cold stone then curling tightly into fists. She breathed deeply, long heady breaths as she opened her eyes again, staring into the dark, trying to focus…

Almost utterly black save for snatches of pale moonlight piercing the molded yellowed panes that she had spied high above. There was a mustiness in the air, cloying her sense of smell; rot and decay seeping in from the edges of oblivion; fish, brine and vermin overwhelming. She gagged as she struggled to rise, getting first to her elbows, then her hands and knees. The darkness kept swirling and spinning, though not as badly as before.

She squatted back on her heels trying to even her breathing, slow her pulse and heart rate. She started counting, quickly reaching one hundred as she scanned the darkness, trying to make sense of her situation, or at least determine where she might be. She remembered that she had been in her apartment, feeling warm and safe, relaxed. She had just looked out the windows and saw that James Woo was still on hand, still standing guard on the street outside her building…

Where was he now? What had happened?

Snatches of memory returned: the sudden weight on her back, the pain as she had slammed her foot into something, falling to the floor. She recalled gasping for breath as the weight centered in the small of her back. Sucking in something sour and sterile; chloroform. She knew it well enough, having been on the receiving end, as well as the passing end many times before. She had been drugged then, kidnapped and moved. But to where?

A shiver ran down her spine as she stared into the gloomy darkness. She crossed her arms across her breasts hugging herself for warmth and realized that she was dressed in her black leathers, her uniform. She had been naked when she had been attacked, fresh from the warmth of her bath. Why?

Rectangles of light blazed high and away as lightning flared outside. Hurriedly she glanced about and saw crates stacked about, rafters high overhead, reflections off metal doors and corrugated gates. A warehouse?

Thunder shook the building as she tried to stand. Her arm went out for balance against her unsteady legs, the spinning darkness again. She felt her stomach roil but held the bile down. She had to get out, she knew. She had to get away, find Woo, and find answers –

“Confused, Natalia?”

Natalia again?

The Black Widow froze, her gaze sweeping the warehouse. There were few that would call her Natalia; Ivan, Sergei, Piotr. This was a woman’s voice though, and not a friend by her tone. There!

High above, standing blatantly before one of the windows, silhouetted and wanting to be seen. A woman dressed in a skintight uniform that left little to the imagination, a halo of blond hair about her shadowed face. Who…

“Who are you?” Natasha asked, buying for time. The pain in her joints and limbs had receded, though not fully vanished. Her head was clearing, but her stomach still felt queasy. She felt tired and sluggish. The fact that she had not awakened bound meant that this woman wanted something, and most likely a fight. Why, Natasha did not know, though she was wracking her memory for old foes that might be seeking some form of retribution. Not Viper, thankfully…

“It saddens me that you do not know me, Natalia, or at least know of me.”

A Russian accent, and thick. An operative then? SVR? Perhaps a victim; a relative of a ‘hit’ from her past.

“Should I?” Natasha asked, flexing her muscles, making fists, and willing her body back to life. She needed more time. She saw the woman shrug.

“I suppose not. Not personally.” The voice sounded almost sad. “You were long since defected when I came under scrutiny. You were dancing with your devil when I first entered the Red Room.”

The Black Widow gasped…

The Red Room!

She had heard rumors from too many sources, whispers that the old Union was still rattling around in the shadowy corners. Colonels and generals who should have long since retired, Statesmen with too much money and time wistful of days gone by, trying to piece together the past. She had heard of the resurgence in funding towards the Super Soldier Program, the SRV’s interest in new technologies and the reopening of the Widow Protocols. She had hoped that they would remain rumors, but apparently she was wrong.

“Still, one would think you might care enough. One would think that you would still hold some respect. Or at least fondness for the country that spawned you, created you.”

“The country that ‘created’ me has long since passed, and I left it behind long ago, for good reasons, none of which should be your business, or concern. The country that rose from the ashes, your Federation is little more than a fragmented shadow of what was once a great land, despite its leaders and their lust for power. The people of the old Republic were good and strong and true to the Union. It was those that ruled that made the Soviet Socialist Republic a threat to the world, and it was them that I left behind. Do not speak to me of loyalty or respect. You were not there.”

“True,” the woman said as lightning crackled, brightening the rectangle of tainted glass behind her. She raised her voice to a shout, to be heard over the thunder. "But I am here, now, out of loyalty, to right a wrong that should have been corrected long ago.”

Natasha tested her balance, cocking her head slightly so as not to look directly at the woman, for when the lightning flared her silhouette was emblazoned in her sight. She could stand, but her stomach was still wrapped tightly into knots, and she felt weak yet. She had to keep the other talking…

“Who are you, that you are so concerned?”

“My name is Yelena Belova…

“The Black Widow.”

Somewhere… else
Right about then…

D’spayre giggled fitfully as the luscious emotions boiled up and through his form like a frothing geyser of lava, scalding and aglow, bursting with emotion. He staggered, a hand against the jagged wall to support himself as he supped, feasting on the unexpected surge of emotion that washed over him like a molten wave, warming him through and through. He moaned near ecstasy.

Marvelous

He sagged finally, slumping against the cold stone wall of his Keep, deep within the forgotten realms. Outside Mephisto raged, the Lord of his Sect, master of this miserable corner of Hell fuming over some slight delivered by the Thunder God of the Nords. Another defeat by the side of the Light.

It was to laugh.

Mephisto was a fool. How many times had he been beaten back by the God of Crops? A Lord of Hell, true, but he set his sights too high. The Thunderer was simply too strong, and too good to be swayed by any corruption wrought by the Demon of Deceit. Granted, one should plan grand, but D’spayre knew that one had to plot and plan. Start small and build, he had learned.

And now, how many lines had he cast into the depths of the Sea of Humanity? He tended them all, hundreds of them of importance, thousands less so. Weaving and playing, he was drawing them tighter with every tug, and soon he would draw them all tight, the lines creating a net that would haul in all the lost and begotten souls that he had been culling these months and years.

But what was this new catch? A delight riddled with angst and sorrow, if not despair. It definitely required a closer look.

D’spayre moved through the halls and tunnels that were his Obsidian Keep. He strode with purpose, ignoring the D’sprites that scurried and huffed, trying to clear path and get out of his way. They knew when he was on a mission, and did not wish to suffer his wrath. Shortly he arrived at the Chamber of Crystals.

The hall was chill for Hell. The jagged black walls cool to the touch and sparkling with the inherent light of the crystalline stones that littered the chambers floor, walls and ceiling. D’spayre steeled himself for the emotional onslaught as he weaved his way through the rocky structures; shining stone that reflected the anguish of the damned until he arrived before the Obsidian Throne, his seat of power.

D’spayre ascended the throne and the world splayed before him…

There was an aged woman wailing on the docks of Hong Kong for her son, lost at sea…

There was a man in Niger weeping as he gunned down the children of the local school…

A woman in Brazil, shackled to a bed and praying to whatever god might listen to end her life before her rapist captor returned…

People starving in China, India, and Africa, everywhere…

War! Pestilence! Famine!

He could feel his body bloating as the emotions swept through him; hatred, envy, despair…

He focused, sucking air through his teeth as he waved his hands about the crystals trying to find that which he had sensed. The world was in such a sorry state, on the brink of collapse that it was hard to distinguish, but after an eternity he found the source, and smiled…

He had lines drifting in these troubled waters, he knew. If he could recall…

Calypso!

He reached out, snatching a random D’sprite from its rounds, holding it aloft. He considered, finally sneering at the little squirming demon spawn held lightly between his bony fingers, his face morphing to its death’s head masque, simply for effect.

Bring me Calypso, he ordered then tossed the tiny demonic thing aside. He ignored its squeals as it spludded to the rocky floor, then scurried off to do his bidding. It would take time, he knew, to bring the bitch home. One of his lieutenants in the Human Reality, Calypso had schemes and dreams all her own. She would come, however, just as he would come should Mephisto beckon.

He could wait, and with time to kill, he could sup.

The woman in Hong Kong seemed exceptionally distraught…

Vaskov Shipping Warehouse:
Red Hook, Brooklyn, New York:
3:29 AM

There are weapons…

The woman had said, but if she was to be believed, Natasha had yet to find any. What she had found was a maze in the darkness. The crates and boxes had been stacked and arranged in high rows that seemed to lead in circles and dead ends, most easily converted into a boxed death trap but for the Black Widow’s slowly returning speed.

Natasha had been silently making the circuit through the warehouse, playing for time until her strength and stamina returned to something near normal. She held no doubts that the woman – Yelena Belova – was well trained in the martial arts as well as assassination. If she truly was a product of the Widow Protocols, then she had been trained by the best that the SVR and the Red room could muster, currently at least. The men and women that had trained Natasha were all dead, or sufficiently aged to the point that they would be unable to repeat the conditioning that had created Natasha Romanoff: spy and assassin, but she was certain too that there were many willing to fill the void.

Despite her training, the labyrinth of boxes was confusing in the darkness. Belova had lit a flashlight as she had explained the rules; a brief glare that had been as blinding as it had been enlightening. Natasha had blinked away the sudden spots dripping through her sight, trying to see past the glowing dots of afterimage to take in her surroundings. She had awakened in a central cleared area perhaps five yards in diameter and surrounded by huge wooden crates stacked four and five high; over thirty feet, yet still well short of the support rafters crisscrossing the naked air above, and the shadowy ceiling beyond. She saw beams of metal and wood above, pulleys and chains and fraying rope dangling down from the darkness. There were windows, waxy with grease and dirt, but even from a distance she could see that they were barred, probably locked and at least reinforced with mesh between double panes.

Belova had been standing before one of the windows, and in the glow of her flashlight’s beam, Natasha had seen the woman for the first time beyond a spectral silhouette. Her hair was blond and full, trimmed to her shoulders and feathering her face in a delicate frame. She was short, but Natasha could see that her body was well defined; her muscles firm and effective for the unique line of work that they shared. She wore the leathers, the uniform of the Black Widow though tailored to her own preferences apparently; her midriff was bare displaying a washboard of abdominals, the flash of scarlet shaped like an hourglass, painted or tattooed on her belly, and thicker boots than the uniform allowed and not made for wall-crawling by the look of style.

But Belova had not lit the flashlight to display her body. Natasha reluctantly had followed the beam, her eyes narrowing as she saw their weapons dangling from a hook and chain attached to the dark recesses of the invisible ceiling. Two sets of bracelets dubbed the Widow’s Bite, and the swing line cable, along with her belt and another, both no doubt armed with tear gas, explosives, a radio transmitter and other Intelligence essentials. High up, with no visible means of reaching them save traversing the rafters. A mean fall and a deadly place to be forced to fight…

We shall be equals…

Natasha saw that the woman was standing on a rusting, metal catwalk that ran the upper perimeter of the warehouse walls. She had started searching for a stairway or ladder when Belova had struck the flashlight against the metal railing, shattering the lens and bulb amidst the resounding clang. Instinctively Natasha had stepped quickly aside, backing towards one of the corridors created by the stacked boxes and heard the flashlight clatter to the stone floor where she had been standing.

Good. Almost ready…

Belova had said and Natasha heard the amusement in the other’s voice. Amusement and contempt, was she so certain of her abilities? Natasha wondered at the woman’s arrogance as she inched away towards the corridor at her back. Belova was correct in that she was ‘almost ready', but suspected ‘almost’ would not be enough when the woman made her move.

But we have time. We have all night in fact. I’ve paid handsomely to ensure that we are not disturbed until dawn’s early light…

She had laughed at that; a cold and cruel chuckle that sent a shiver down Natasha’s spine. There was a hint of madness in the woman’s voice. Not insanity, but a psychotic drive for her goal. A lust for the termination of the Black Widow, apparently.

An old friend of yours, actually. A forgotten hero of the Old Republic exiled to Brooklyn owns this place, and was more than happy to rent it out and assist me in your downfall. His men hid weapons about before we arrived, so as I said we shall start out as equals. I am just as in the dark as you…

That laugh again, but this time the Widow had ignored it, her mind racing to think of who her mysterious backer might be. An old hero exiled to Brooklyn; there was little choice. She knew that Yuri Petrovich, once the Crimson Dynamo now led the Brooklyn Mafiya. But the Brighton Beach Godfather was hardly exiled. Petrovich had retired with the break-up of the Old Union and the fall of Communism, such as it were. The years had not been kind to him, but as far as she knew, he ran his mob with no malice or past grudges on any of his old acquaintances; friend or foe.

His men locked us in. They guard the doors and they shall not allow either of us to leave without proof that one of us is dead. My head, or yours, it does not matter to them. But now, I think it is time to begin…

“And if I do not wish to play?” Natasha had said, wishing for a bolt of lightning to give her one final brief glance to her surroundings.

Then I shall simply come down and kill you where you stand. I could have done so any time you were unconscious, Natalia. Remember that. I wish however to be fair. You deserve the chance to fight for your survival, no matter your past transgressions, or how pathetic and lax you have become. I will kill you, regardless, resist or not. Now run…

And she had. Well, not run exactly, but stealthily slipped into the shadowy corridor. She reached the first intersection in the stacked crates and crouched, listening. She had expected Belova to head directly for the bracers and belts, but was surprised to hear the woman’s unguarded footfalls on the catwalk. There was a brief echo of her descending the metallic rungs of a ladder, then the creaking of wood, which abruptly ceased. Belova had kept he high ground, smartly, and was now listening in return.

Natasha took a moment to relax and control her breathing again. She could feel her heart beating faster and the first sign of adrenaline rush coursing through her body. Despite the chill air of the icebox of the warehouse, she was starting to sweat, which was good. All combined would force the last of the drugs from her system. She took a moment to wind her hair back into a loosely knotted bun to keep it off of her neck and out of her face. Finally, she unzipped the front of her jumpsuit slightly, then jerked the metal ring from the zipper and slipped it over her right index finger. It was not much, but there were weapons about after all.

Slowly then she raised to the balls of her feet and silently slipped around the corner. She ran crouched as quickly as she could, her left hand trailing along the wall of boxes to keep her bearings as best as possible in the dim. The corridor ran along for a few dozen feet before breaking left and right again. And again at the intersection she had paused.

She had no idea just how large the warehouse was, but if the height of the ceiling was a good judge, it must be huge. She let her other senses expand as she listened, waiting. Her sight had adjusted as best it could under the conditions, but every time her gaze drifted to the yellow light coming through the windows, her vision faded again. She could hear the ocean, rather New York Harbor beyond the walls; the splash of waves on pylons when the storm waned in its fury for brief moments, a forlorn call of a ship’s horn somewhere in the storm-tossed waters, the rumble of thunder still too close to overhead. All of that made listening all the more difficult, trying to pick out the footsteps of her huntress. The rot of decay was overwhelming and that was laced with the thick, briny smell of high tide. Her only hope was that Belova was playing her game on equal terms and was as blind, deaf and dumb as she.

Natasha crept on, her senses on alert now. She wondered briefly just what was contained within so many crates and boxes. She was half-tempted to open one, suspecting the mystery weapons to be within perhaps, but knew that the noise would alert Belova to her position. Besides, the smell of rot and decay more than likely meant that some of the boxes contained spoilt food at least. Knowing Petrovich, probably relief earmarked for the Federation, despite his status with the SVR. Natasha had to smile at the thought –

The briefest sound, a boot scraping on the stone and Natasha fell to the side. She felt the wind of the high, passing kick just before she heard the wood above smash and splinter with the impact. Unprepared and reminiscing as she had been, the kick would have just as easily caved in her skull as it had the wooden box. Stupid!

Natasha turned her fall into a leg sweep, her left leg shooting out in a wide arch hoping to catch Belova’s grounded foot before she could recover her balance. She heard the slightest grunt however, and as her leg cleaved empty air she knew that the other woman had been prepared and moving, no doubt scissoring her kick into a high flip to get out of range again. Natasha rolled, knowing that she was a sitting target and slammed up against the stacked boxes on the right.

Wood smashed above her again, this time the result of a missed punch. Either Belova was not as good as her conceit conveyed, or she was just as handicapped as the Widow and fighting blind. Neither mattered as Natasha rose swiftly, her arm extending and locking as she drove her palm upwards. She felt her fist graze the woman’s shoulder, a glancing blow that was quickly countered by a knee into her unprotected right kidney. Natasha suppressed a squeal of pain, but still hissed air through her gritted teeth as she spun, pirouetting on her left foot to swing her right leg up into a sweeping high kick of her own.

Her foot swept through empty air, and mentally she cursed as she used her momentum again to flip about. Belova was quick however, and her own foot connected, hooking Natasha’s and throwing her off balance. She spiraled and twisted to land, slapping the ground as she hit to absorb the impact in a Judo fall, though still managing to slam her funny bone. Pain shot through her arm, followed swiftly by a tingling numbness. She ignored the injury, rolling to her left just as Belova’s foot slammed down onto the stone at her back.

“Good!” she hissed, and Natasha could hear the woman back-pedaling away. Her breathing was controlled, but heavy. Not nearly as heavy as her own, however. Natasha too scrambled back and away, finding the corner of a crate and slipping around it. She cursed as she fell into a shaft of light, lightning exploding through one of the windowpanes and throwing her shadow on the ground blatantly behind her.

She could hear Belova shouting over the crash of thunder as Natasha sprang to her feet and ran forward towards the briefly illuminated next intersection. Screw stealth, she needed distance.

“Run, snowflake! Catch your breath! We have all night!”

Belova’s laughter followed her into the darkness…

Outside:
3:47 AM

James Woo stared at the two men standing before him, ignoring the cold drenching rain that plastered his hair to his head and soaked his suit and skin through to his bones. Both were big, each well over six feet tall and muscular. The word: brutes came quickly to mind. Their faces were smug as they returned his cold stare, however they were dry standing beneath the overhang of the loading dock, so had reason to be amused for the moment. The machine-guns that both held kept Woo at bay, and standing in the rain.

He had made good time from Manhattan, especially for driving in the storm. He had still been feeling the effects of the chemical the woman had used to render him unconscious, but as he had pulled away from the curb and Petrovich after getting directions for Brooklyn’s Red Hook he had cranked the windows down and let the cold wind and rain chase his sluggishness away. By the time he had reached the West Side Highway he was almost fully alert. In the storm, and because of the time of the morning; a week day, traffic was light. Taxicabs were the majority of traffic, and as reckless in their driving as Woo as he sped downtown paralleling the Hudson River, heading for the Brooklyn Bridge.

The going congested along Manhattan’s lower point as delivery trucks and vans were about making their daily trips to the markets of the South Street Seaport. Woo cursed often, chaining cigarettes and leaning on the horn of his sedan, taking chances that only a madman might take when confronted with an oncoming 18 wheeled semi. He had finally turned from the highway and headed into the lower streets of the city, finally spying the onramp to the bridge.

Whatever time he had recovered while racing across the bridge he swiftly lost again as he threaded his way through the streets of Brooklyn, trying to get to Red Hook. He had been to Brooklyn before, but not extensively and usually simply passing through. Truth to tell, he was a Manhattanite since joining SHIELD and moving to New York if anything, and held the other four boroughs in contempt like most city dwellers. New York City was Manhattan, despite the mayor’s protestations to the contrary.

He had followed Petrovich’s directions and headed west, quickly becoming lost in the maze of all but identical streets. Compounding his frustration, said streets were dark due not only to the storm, but the fact that most of the streetlights were out, probably broken. The blocks seemed to blur together from rows of old brownstones to tenements to warehouses with no rhyme or reason. Woo cursed as he passed a familiar park three times in his circular travels.

Finally he had found Van Brundt Street and raced down its length. The street dead ended against the warehouse in question, and ignoring the downpour he got out of his car and saw the metal placard wired to the high fence that surrounded the property. Vaskov Shipping in bold, blatant letters. Woo glanced briefly at the Constantine Wire that nested atop the fence and removed his suit coat before scrambling up the cyclonic links. He draped his coat over the razor wire and flipped across, his jacket ripping as he dropped down to the ground on the other side. He slipped into his coat again as he hurried towards the loading dock…

Where he stood now, staring at the two Russian Mafiya, their light machine-guns pointed lazily in his general direction. Both held RPK’s; short barreled Russian guns that could easily spit fifty bullets in the blink of an eye. Woo was no fool, and they had stopped him well short of the loading dock of the massive warehouse.

The building was huge and equipped to receive shipping both from the road and the water. The back half of the building hung over the harbor in fact, and Woo had considered making his way there but dismissed the notion with a glance at his watch. If Petrovich had been truthful, there was barely ten minutes left until he would be allowed inside, no doubt a shorter amount of time than what would be needed to find alternate egress. And there were other guards about as well. He had counted two on the roof, and another well off and away at the building’s corner. Not that he could not fight his way in, but the lag time was short. He would give Petrovich the shadow of doubt that he deserved. Still…

“You do realize that if my friend is hurt, or worse dead because you would not let me pass, I shall kill you.”

“We are timid,” the slightly larger of the two responded, smirking. “You make us fear. See our shaking?”

Their English was poor, but Woo understood. They had their orders, and either did not consider him a threat, or considered Petrovich’s repercussions the greater evil. James Woo sighed and checked his watch again.

Five minutes…

Inside:
3:56 AM

Natasha leapt into the darkness. A short leap and she landed lithely in a crouch on the opposite stack of crates, her slim form and slight mass barely resounding beyond a shallow moan of strained wood. She remained low, her eyes scanning the surrounds as she sought her huntress. Nothing…

She had nursed feeling back into her arm as she had made her way through the maze, flexing her fingers to get the blood circulating. When the numbness had receded she made the decision to take the fight up into the levels overhead, first to the top of the stacked crates, eventually to the catwalk and rafters. If the doors were guarded and locked, she figured her best chance for escape would be the windows. She hoped that with some effort she might pry one open, or shatter the glass and rip out the reinforcing wires. It would leave her exposed, but she had little choice.

After their first exchange, Natasha acknowledged that Belova was well trained. The younger woman was at least her equal in Martial Arts, though Natasha had the edge due to experience of age, which in truth was not all that comforting. What Belova lacked in experience she more than made up for in her lust and dedication to her goals. Natasha knew that she needed to get out to level the playing field. On Belova’s ground, she was at a disadvantage.

Something skidded at the touch of her foot as she shifted stance to make the next jump. She looked down and saw a boken; a wooden Japanese practice sword shaped in the form of a katana. Natasha picked it up, holding it in the palm of her right hand to check the balance. One of the alleged weapons no doubt, she flipped it about with a flick of her wrist. It seemed sturdy and well crafted. She would keep it for now.

She jumped to the next stack of crates, leaping upwards and grasping the edge of the taller stack, flipping up and over the top. She rolled to a crouch, then sprinted forward, flipping as she leapt to the catwalk. She winced as she landed with a ‘clang’.

“I hear you, Natalia,” Belova’s taunting voice echoed in the darkness. “I’m coming for you … “

Natasha ignored the taunt as she hurried along the catwalk towards the first window closest. As she suspected, it was double paned and lined with a wire mesh between. Worse, it was not only locked, but nailed shut. She cursed, slamming her fist into the thick glass, cursing again as it only spider-webbed with the impact.

The glass shattered as an explosive rapport of gunfire echoed though out the warehouse. Natasha dropped to the catwalk, spinning about to try to find the huntress, her vision almost useless as she had been facing the lighted window. She heard the soft shuffle of feet running, the creak of wood straining…

Sparks flared as a bullet ricocheted off of the catwalk’s guardrail. Belova had apparently found a gun.

Natasha scanned the darkness for her assailant, lying almost flat on the catwalk. The gloom of the warehouse was full however, and Belova remained hidden.

Natasha bit her lip as she glanced over her shoulder at the window. Belova’s shot had shattered most of the glass and torn a hole through the chicken wire. It would be hard, but Natasha imagined that if she was quick she could break out the rest of the fragmented glass, then start ripping the wire loose. She would have to do the job in jumps and starts, but there was little choice. She shifted position, listening as she screwed her courage up.

Nothing…

She raised up and rammed the boken into the glass, flicking it along the edges to knock away the shards. A chuff of dust marked a bullet imbedding in the wall beside her and she dropped down again as the rapport exploded. Was Belova a poor shot, or playing with her? Not that it mattered.

She stared at the wire mesh and set the wooden practice sword aside. She stood and grabbed the wire, heaving back with all her might, throwing her weight into the effort to rip the wire from its housing.

She heard something slam; a door.

“Natasha!”

Gunfire exploded and Natasha saw the spark of Belova’s gun just a few yards to her left. She fell back as the chicken wire gave way, and fell to the catwalk. She saw Agent Woo dashing for cover as Belova emptied the clip of her gun at his retreating form.

“No!” Belova shouted above the click-click-click of the empty gun. Natasha saw her huntress throw the useless weapon down to the floor far below before turning her direction. Her face was twisted with rage.

“No escape,” she snarled, stepping forward even as Natasha rose to her feet.

Natasha ripped at the wire again as Belova grabbed at her arm, pulling her away with a strength born of her maniacal vendetta. Natasha spun, her fist lashing out. She struck Belova across the jaw, the metal ring from her zipper cracking a tooth and spewing blood. Belova staggered back, wiping her mouth.

“Bitch,” she hissed, spitting. “You die now, old woman.”

Belova’s foot shot up in a snap kick that Natasha barely blocked. The woman followed through, stepping forward, her legs a flurry of motion as her arms windmilled in a series of punches and kicks that forced the Widow back. Natasha saw Belova’s eyes, and the spark of madness shining therein. She was obsessed and fully into the act of murder.

Her own arms and legs were a blur as she blocked Belova’s assault. Still, she was on the defensive, the other woman’s frenzied attack forcing her back and back, away from escape.

“Natasha!”

She heard Woo again, the sound of his gun. She hoped that he was simply firing into the air and not trying to shoot Belova. They were far too close and intertwined for him to get a clear shot. The other woman seemed to ignore the rapport, so focused on killing her.

“Give it up!” Natasha shouted as she deflected a knuckle strike that would have crushed her windpipe. “You’ve been forsaken. SHIELD is here and Petrovich has turned you out.”

“No!” Belova shouted, spinning, a low kick followed by an elbow followed by a thrusting knee that slammed against Natasha’s own. Both women staggered as they tried to regain their footing. “Never! I’m the Black Widow now!” Belova launched into a leaping high kick that Natasha barely ducked. She spun even as the other woman landed and whipped about.

“I’ve planned too hard. Endured too much!” Belova said, her eyes wild. Both women glanced aside at the sound of Woo clambering up the metal rungs of the service ladder.

“I’ve followed you for days. I watched you. I sent men to attack you so I could see your skills.”

The airport assassins…

“I killed your comrade to bring you back.”

“William … “

Natasha felt an icy hand clutch at her heart as she realized that William Peak’s death was simply another step in this madwoman’s plot. A very good man had died because of her lust for power and vengeance.

She swung madly, tears in her eyes. Belova grabbed her arm and twisted, falling backwards. Natasha felt the woman’s boots in her stomach and she was suddenly flailing, sprawling in a heap on the catwalk, her back scraping on the rough metal. Pain washed over her, but she fought to control it. She looked up, focusing and saw Belova in mid leap overhead, planning to land on her ribcage for a killing blow.

The Black Widow raised her legs, folding them up to her breasts then kicking up and out. The soles of her feet slammed against Belova’s and she thrust, kicking out and throwing her attacker off to the side. She heard Belova scream in anger just before she crashed through what was left of the window’s glass.

“Natasha!”

The Black Widow ignored Woo, scrambling to her feet and rushing to the window. Lightning flared as she looked out, thunder slamming as she leaned over the sill and saw Belova clutching the chicken wire that was barely still imbedded into the window’s frame. The rain was falling like a wall of water, the wind whipping with enough force to make the woman seem to float wildly in its grip. Natasha grabbed at the frame and leaned out, extending her arm, her hand splayed wide…

“Take my hand!” she shouted over the storm and saw Belova stare up at her, her eyes wild and staring. She was already soaked, and the wind slamming her body around was wrenching at the wire mesh, barely attached by a thread.

She saw the woman look down, New York Harbor surging beneath her, the waves crashing with the force of the storm and high tide making the currents overwhelming. Belova looked up, her free hand rising…

Natasha screamed as Belova drove a short knuckle blade into her outstretched hand. The metal dug deep and through the flesh, missing bone luckily, but still driving completely through her hand. Natasha screamed again as Belova used her newfound grip to rise up, hoisting herself back towards the gaping hole of the window…

Light flared beside her as a gun exploded.

She screamed, her hearing suddenly overwhelmed. She felt a rip in her hand and saw Belova’s wide eyes as the woman jerked and released her grip. Natasha watched as Yelena Belova fell into the churning waters of the harbor, her slight form swiftly swallowed by the surging waves…

Later…

Natasha Romanoff huddled in the thick confines of the rough woolen blanket, sipping steaming black coffee from a paper cup as the SHIELD Medico tended to her ripped flesh and sliced hand. They had ushered her into the back of a SHIELD EMS vehicle, agents canvassing the crime scene and keeping the Press and NYPD at bay. This was apparently bordering on an International Incident, and SHIELD had taken charge. She really did not understand the fuss involved, but was more than happy to let Fury get his rocks off. She was glad that it was over, despite the outcome.

“You okay?” James Woo asked for probably the fifth time. Natasha smiled, looking at him, soaked to the bone with one hand holding an umbrella, the other a cigarette. She smiled and nodded again.

“Yes… Still… “

He smirked, understanding and took a drag off his cigarette as Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD strolled up. He too was soaked, though oddly the cigar that he perpetually smoked was lit and glowing as he spoke.

“Nothin’, ‘Tasha. Sorry,” he said and she could hear the disappointment in his voice. “We’ll be addin’ our efforts ta NYPD Harbor Patrol ta drag the harbor, but I wouldn’t get yer hopes up. In this storm, we ain’t likely ta find nothin’. If yer Belova survived – which I doubt – she’s long gone by now.”

“Thanks for trying, Nick,” she said, sipping the last of her coffee. She set the empty cup aside, then looked at her bandaged hand. She wiggled her fingers, forcing a smile. “I was lucky.”

“That ya were, Widda.” Fury said, flicking ash. “We’ll be talkin’ ta Petrovich, an’ I’ll personally pay a visit to the SVR. No worries, Tasha. This is done.”

“Is it, Nick?” Natasha Romanoff said as lightning lit the sky. Seconds later the thunder followed. “I wonder … “

Fury had no response as he stared at the butt of his suddenly dead cigar. He flicked it into the water, watching as it floated away on the tide…

END

Author’s note: I hope that you all enjoyed my take on M2K’s Black Widow. As I’ve said before, I’ve always had a fondness for Natasha, and writing her just seems to flow and come naturally. I’ve hopefully tied up all the loose ends in her storyline and can now move the character ahead with my own ideas. The next arc – after approval – will touch on what’s happening over in DareDevil. I plan on tossing in a few guests and villains and eventually making the Black Widow a force to be reckoned with in NYC. Hope you all stay on for the ride…

Let me know what you think.

Curt F
November 2008