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ISBN 978-1-4847-7396-3
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Act One: Widowed
Prologue: Natasha
Rewind: Weeks Earlier in South America
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 1
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 2
Chapter 1: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 3
Chapter 2: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 4
Chapter 3: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 5
Chapter 4: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 6
Chapter 5: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 7
Chapter 6: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 8
Chapter 7: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 9
Chapter 8: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 10
Chapter 9: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 11
Chapter 10: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 12
Chapter 11: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 13
Chapter 12: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 14
Chapter 13: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 15
Chapter 14: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 16
Act Two: Targeted
Chapter 15: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 17
Chapter 16: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 18
Chapter 17: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 19
Chapter 18: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 20
Chapter 19: Dante
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 21
Chapter 20: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 22
Chapter 21: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 23
Chapter 22: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 24
Chapter 23: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 25
Chapter 24: Dante
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 26
Chapter 25: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 27
Chapter 26: Ava
Act Three: Revealed
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 28
Chapter 27: Dante
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 29
Chapter 28: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 30
Chapter 29: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 31
Chapter 30: Dante
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 32
Chapter 31: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 33
Chapter 32: Ava
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 34
Chapter 33: Dante
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 35
Chapter 34: Carol
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 36
Chapter 35: Tony
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 37
Chapter 36: Natasha
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 38
S.H.I.E.L.D. Eyes Only 39
Chapter 37: Ava
Acknowledgments
About the Author
THIS ONE IS FOR SARA MARGARET STOHL ZERO PERCENT SIDEKICK ONE HUNDRED PERCENT BUTT-KICK FUTURE HERO
HIGH-DENSITY TARGET AREA,
MIDTOWN MANHATTAN
RADIATION ZONE ZERO, ZERO HOUR
Nothing like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, thought Natasha Romanoff—for terrorists, crackpots, and basic criminal scumbags. As always, there were no visions of sugarplums dancing in the Black Widow’s cold red head. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent glanced up at the green-needled monolith—dusted with snowflakes and twinkling with lights and Swarovski crystals, the centerpiece of Manhattan’s annual holiday party—and thought two words.
Merry Christmas? Try: target package.
Natasha knew that the famed Rockefeller Center tree was larger-than-life in a score of dangerously useful ways. Symbolic significance? Check. Media coverage? Check, check. Mass casualties? Check, check, check. She sighed and touched her earpiece. “Black to base. No sign of their Alpha.”
“Copy that, but don’t park your sleigh just yet, Black.” Coulson’s voice crackled into her ear as she moved through the crowd. “And check in with Red. We’ve lost her signal.”
“Copy that, base. Black out.” She kept moving.
A sea of raised arms, all holding cell-phone cameras, now saluted the hundred-foot Norway spruce from every side, as if the yuletide monstrosity had crash-landed on some worshipful alien planet and assumed the role of supreme leader. Yeah, a planet of sardines, more than a million a day, all packed squirming into one snowy city block, Natasha thought.
And for what? To see a freaking plant.
It was a stormy Saturday afternoon in December, a bad time both for crowds and weather, which meant these were die-hard tree people—Natasha just hoped not literally.
Tourists plus terrorists? That always ends well.
The potential for disaster was staggering. Eyes up, defenses down—not one dazed worshiper was looking anywhere but the supersized tree—even though there was an entire holiday parade moving down Fifth Avenue at the far edge of the block.
Ever since the yuletide crowd had begun to surge and climb over the sludge-banked metal barricades at the edges of Rockefeller Center plaza—the corner of Forty-Ninth and Fifth—the NYPD had given up. Now they just cursed the cold afternoon, waiting out the end of their shifts on the safe side of the roadblocks, their breath curling upward in raggedy white puffs. And they’re strictly donut patrol, not top command. That had probably also been a factor in the strategic acquisition of this target, she thought. Human gridlock with only Paul Blart on your tail—
Natasha touched her ear again. “Red, what’s going on? Ava? You lost?”
All she got back was static.
That’s not a good sound—
“Hey, happy holidays,” said a harried-looking mom in a cheery red fleece, pushing a stroller zippered in plastic up the curb next to Natasha. “Great snowsuit—”
Natasha nodded, eyeing the kid as the patch of red disappeared into the snowflaked crowd. Don’t get distracted, Romanoff. Do your job and maybe this time nobody gets hurt. She hitched her pack higher, pushing on toward Fifth Avenue.
Yeah, right.
The odds were good that this op was going to end in casualties—and that, soon enough, the red in the snow wasn’t going to be fleece. Natasha’s hooded “snowsuit” was a CBRN (Chemical Biological Radiological Nuclear) state-of-the-art mop suit that only resembled snow gear; really, it was lined with filtering charcoal and striped with M-9 detection paper so she could gauge what was being thrown at her in any given hot zone. And the goggles around her neck weren’t for skiing but surviving—a mouth guard flipped down from inside, like a collapsible gas mask. (Dire biological functions aside, the whole getup also lowered the odds that one of the Black Widow’s many superfans would recognize her
infamous red hair. Oh, the price of super hero superstardom…)
But it was the contents of her rucksack that really set her apart. Her requisition S.H.I.E.L.D. ruck held an M183 demolition charge assembly with enough C-4 (sixteen charges in all) to flatten a city block, if that’s what it came to.
Unlike the rest of Manhattan, Natasha Romanoff hadn’t come for the tree. She was there to take out the unknown number of hostiles who were plotting to use Rockefeller Center as holiday bait for civilian casualties. Her alpha priority was their leader, who had threatened to launch the largest and most sophisticated chemical-weapons attack in the nation’s history.
When it hit, the Northeast Megalopolis, the Boston–Washington corridor that was home to more than fifty million people, would be flooded with aerosolized chemical particulates. The invisible, odorless microbes would seize control of human neurons and eventually destroy them—unless Natasha could destroy the as-yet-unidentified dispersal device before the Alpha triggered it, somewhere on this street, sometime on this day, at some point during this parade.
But no pressure.
This wasn’t the first time she had carried a satchel charge through the streets of a populated area; off the top of her head, there had been Pristina and Grozny and Sana’a and Djibouti and even Bogotá before now. She had infiltrated Serbian revolutionaries and Chechen guerrillas and Yemeni pirates and Somali armed forces and Colombian mercenaries—but then, they had already known they were at war. It didn’t make the ops any less devastating, only less of a surprise; those buildings had long been riddled by bullets, roads ravaged from IEDs, walls chiseled with rat holes for hostiles at every turn. Those cities had become operational theaters way before she’d gotten the call; everyone who could leave had already left.
At least, that was how Natasha had rationalized it to herself.
This, on the other hand, was midtown Manhattan. This was a holiday attack perpetrated on American soil in the clear light of day during prime traffic for the highest-density urban population in the country. It was the sort of bad business only attempted by a depraved coalition of psychopaths grasping for global attention—because it worked. Every lethal move the opposition made brought them closer to achieving the desired result, to producing the headlines—THE WORST! THE DEADLIEST! THE BLOODIEST!—that could shape or rule an era and force a country to its knees.
Not if someone stops them first.
She checked her watch.
Come on, Ava. Where are you?
They didn’t have this kind of time to waste. For the next two hours, the parade would still be going, and Rockefeller Center would still be jammed with civilians. The timing wasn’t an accident. Pearl Harbor was hit at 7:53 a.m.; the first of the Twin Towers was 8:45 a.m. If the attack succeeded, today would be worse by an order of magnitude.
From where Natasha stood, she knew she could shake up a Coke and spray fifty people without so much as tossing it. If she had to use it, the effect of a single stick of C-4 in a place like this, on a day like this, at a time like this, would be unimaginable. If she didn’t use it, the number of people affected by the chemical attack would probably be worse. There was no easy answer, and there never had been.
Twenty-eight years of peace. She’d read it in one of Ava’s S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy assignments, citing a journalist named Chris Hedges.
That’s all the quiet this planet has known, since the beginning of recorded history. How can one person change that?
Even if that one person happened to be the Black Widow.
But it’s not just you; there are two of you now, she scolded herself. I don’t know why you keep forgetting that. Red and Black, remember? You don’t always have to be so alone, Natashkaya—
“Natashkaya!” She heard Ava’s voice while her back was still turned. “I found the Alpha. Right around the corner. There’s just one thing—”
Natasha heard it in Ava’s voice before she saw it. The flinty hardness, the push of adrenaline that inflected every syllable.
The betrayal.
Her hand went immediately to the back of her waistband.
It’s not there—
Now the voice was louder, harsher. “Touch one hair on that Alpha’s head and I’ll shoot,” Ava said. “I mean it.”
“I know,” Natasha said, raising her hands in surrender. And as she slowly turned to face all that remained of her family, she also found herself staring down the barrel of her own Glock revolver.
S.H.I.E.L.D. EYES ONLY
CLEARANCE LEVEL X
CONFIDENTIAL: PHILLIP COULSON
CLASSIFIED / FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY (FOUO) / CRITICAL PROGRAM INFORMATION (CPI) / LAW ENFORCEMENT SENSITIVE (LES) / TOP SECRET / SUITE AB ENCRYPTION / SIPRNET DISTRIBUTION ONLY (SIPDIS) / JCOS / S.H.I.E.L.D.
** FILE COPY OF INCOMING TRANSMISSION ** FROM THE PENTAGON **
Phil, buddy:
Just heard from the Oval. It’s not good. Keeping a potentially dangerous “controlled specimen” under wraps is off the table. What did you think POTUS would say? [CODE: REDROCK] is still too hot with the press.
What I can do is declare [CLASSIFIED SUBJECT] a Restricted Handling Asset, and name you to run the After Action Assessment. AAA is an easy sell, you have the expertise. Wrap it up, control the narrative, it all goes away.
Otherwise I’m hearing that [CLASSIFIED SUBJECT] faces quarantine in 1 of 3 high-security research facilities:
• Amundsen-Scott S.P. Station (INT)
• Superkamiokande (JP)
• CERN (SUI)
BUT: lab protocols would require [CLASSIFIED SUBJECT] to undergo a cerebral wipe and to be declared legally DOA—rough stuff, even for S.H.I.E.L.D.
We are, after all, talking about a child.
That’s the fallout from the [CODE:REDROCK] crapstorm. The NSA vultures are circling. Good luck.
Stay low. Head down.
ARTIE
OFFICE OF THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF
9999 JOINT STAFF PENTAGON
WASHINGTON, D.C.
S.H.I.E.L.D. EYES ONLY
CLEARANCE LEVEL X
SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES & INDIVIDUALS (SCI) INVESTIGATION
AGENT IN COMMAND (AIC): PHILLIP COULSON
RE: AGENT NATASHA ROMANOFF A.K.A. BLACK WIDOW
A.K.A. NATASHA ROMANOVA
AAA HEARING TRANSCRIPT
CC: DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE, SCI INQUIRY
ROMANOFF: What am I doing here, Phil? I don’t have time for this.
COULSON: You know the protocol. There’s always an After Action Assessment. You’re an SME now—
ROMANOFF: Subject Matter Expert? No, let’s leave that to the wonks on the tenth floor.
COULSON: The real battles don’t end on the battlefield. We need to lock down this story. Start at the beginning.
ROMANOFF: Why?
COULSON: A beginning is a delicate time.
ROMANOFF: Is that a quote? Are you quoting at me?
COULSON: Dune. Frank Herbert. You know it?
ROMANOFF: Not unless you’re talking about a Desert Storm field manual.
COULSON: The beginning, Agent. There are people asking questions, and this doesn’t end until we answer them.
ROMANOFF: I filed a report. Classified. Top Secret. Encrypted. You know, the kind they keep in the little drawers with the combination locks?
COULSON: So let’s just talk. I’ve been your friend longer than I’ve been your AIC.
ROMANOFF: You going Hallmark on me, Phil? Now you’re that guy?
COULSON: You know I was always that guy. Start with the truth. They say it’s out there.
ROMANOFF: Phil—
COULSON: I’ll get you started. It ended in a national disaster and a global emergency. It began in Recife. Just tell me the truth about Recife.
ROMANOFF: Some stories aren’t just classified. They’re also personal.
COULSON: I think we both know you’re not just a person anymore.
ROMANOFF: Okay. You want the truth? Then forget Recife. It s
tarted in Rio.
RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL
CHRIST THE REDEEMER MONUMENT,
MOUNT CORCOVADO
You are one huge stone dude. You know, you kind of remind me of this big green friend of mine—
Natasha bit into a wild guava as she stood at the base of the massive stone Cristo overlooking Rio de Janeiro. She contemplated the statue, sucking on the ripe pinkish fruit, dribbling juice off her chin. The polished, graying soapstone arms were outstretched, as if the forty-meter giant of a messiah looming from the mountaintop above her truly believed he could gather up the entire city for a group hug. Aw, bring it in, you guys—
“Tell me why we’re here again?” Ava Orlova, the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy rookie currently under Natasha’s immediate supervision, glanced at the guava in Natasha’s hand. “Huh. Wow. You don’t seem like a fruit person.”
“I’m a fruit person. Of course I’m a fruit person.” Natasha swallowed. “What does that even mean?”
“Let’s see.” Ava began moving through the swarm of tourists crowding onto the observation deck with them, high above the city of Rio. “Thick rind. Sweet and mushy in places, I guess,” she said, straight-faced. “Slightly seedy at the core, rotten in parts—”
“Funny.” Natasha scowled. “What did you think I ate? Rocks?”
Ava moved along the railing, looked over her shoulder as she slipped away. “I don’t know, rounds? Washed down with jet fuel?”
Natasha tried not to smile as she turned back toward the view. Their relationship had softened into an easy familiarity since they’d left New York. It made Natasha nervous. Don’t get to know me enough for opinions, kid. Everyone who does ends up dead.
The Widow eyed the pale sprawl of the city that unfolded below her, the broad blue sweep of ocean beyond that—and hurled the guava skin into the sky. It arched and fell, rolling down the mountainside. She wiped her sticky lips with the back of her sticky hand, still taking in the view. She always came up the hill at least once every visit; she had for years. Despite the number of times the job had brought her here, she had never gotten used to the way Rio looked—especially not from the Cristo at Mount Corcovado. It had always meant something to her, as silly as that was, and she’d wanted Ava to see it.
How can the world be so messed up and still look so magical?
Black Widow: Red Vengeance (A Marvel YA Novel) Page 1
