Black Widow: Red Vengeance (A Marvel YA Novel)

by Margaret Stohl

  More important than the security breach was the reveal—the fact of what it said about the crime against her, and the person committing it. The trained-operative side of Natasha was fascinated, even if the rest of her wanted to scream.

  Interesting. So our UNSUB only wants me—or they want a certain piece of information from my files—or to disappear that certain piece of information?

  Or maybe they really just want to mess with my head?

  Any way you looked at it, it was useful. She pressed her earpiece. “How are we doing on the protocol?”

  “I’ve isolated your data string now, Natasha. Remaining firewalls appear to be secure.”

  “Copy that.” Natasha sighed. “Better loop in S.H.I.E.L.D.” As she began to pull the glasses off her head, a white flash temporarily blinded her—and she stumbled.

  Ava caught her by the arm. “Whoa—you all right?”

  The hologram shifted, and a pixelated graphic of a winged skull now appeared in front of Natasha.

  UNSUB: DO NOT WORRY, PTNETS.

  UNSUB: KRASNYY ANZHEL PRIKHODIT DLYA VAS

  UNSUB: THE RED ANGEL COMES FOR YOU

  UNSUB: DOCH’ SVETA

  UNSUB: DAUGHTER OF LIGHT

  UNSUB: REBENOK SMERTI

  UNSUB: CHILD OF DEATH

  UNSUB: ENJOYING THE VIEW?

  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

  COULSON: Red Angel.

  ROMANOFF: Daughter of Light, Child of Death.

  COULSON: Poetic.

  ROMANOFF: Twisted messages. I wish I had understood at the time.

  COULSON: You can’t blame yourself for what happened.

  ROMANOFF: How can I not?

  COULSON: So that day at the Cristo was your first indication that you had been targeted?

  ROMANOFF: Yes. We had believed the Red Room was operating in the region, but we didn’t know we were stepping into their crosshairs.

  COULSON: Not until that day.

  ROMANOFF: It was almost funny. Before the Cristo, we’d had no leads pan out since we’d gotten to South America. We were about to give up on finding any.

  COULSON: And people say there is no irony in special ops.

  ROMANOFF: Go figure.

  COULSON: Now can we talk about that poker game?

  ROMANOFF: Above your pay grade, Coulson.

  COULSON: How far?

  ROMANOFF: Friend, that’s one clearance you will never have.

  RIO DE JANEIRO, BRAZIL

  CHRIST THE REDEEMER STATUE,

  MOUNT CORCOVADO

  Ava watched in shock as Natasha ripped off her glasses and shoved her toward the monument staircase in almost one fluid motion. “What’s wrong with you?” Ava said as her phone went flying out of her hands.

  “Run. Now!” Natasha barked.

  Ava looked surprised, but once she caught a glimpse of Natasha’s face, she was up and sprinting after her. She knew that look well enough not to ask any questions or take any chances. The agents skidded down the stairs two at a time—Ava’s cheap sandals slapping on the stone—all the way to the parking lot next to the ticket kiosk and the shed of restrooms where Natasha’s Harley waited.

  Only paces away, Natasha stopped short, grabbing Ava with one extended arm. “Wait.” She pulled a keyless remote out of her pocket and clicked a button.

  Ava held her breath, though she didn’t really know why. What are you expecting, for the thing to explode? You’ve got to be kidding me. But the starter button hit, and the bike’s ignition kicked in, and the engine rumbled like usual. Both Widows looked relieved to hear it.

  Natasha slung one leg over her bike. “Get on.”

  Once again, she gets to drive. Ava hopped on, just behind Natasha. “You want to tell me—”

  “Nope.” Natasha grabbed the clutch and gunned the bike out of the parking lot. Ava barely held on to her shoulders—she was so surprised by the suddenness of the acceleration.

  What happened?

  Natasha careened the Harley out onto the twisting mountain road, narrowly avoiding a rattling truck full of jackfruit—which slid, rolling into the street with every bump. A wild marmoset monkey screeched from his perch atop an abandoned Dumpster as both truck and bike passed, leaping clear over the Harley to chase the roadkill fruit. All Ava knew, as she hung on for her life and dodged flying green produce the size of watermelons, was that Natasha had to be driving like a maniac for a reason.

  Something has gotten her attention. The mission. Something big.

  Ava ducked behind Natasha’s back as the Harley dove forward, ignoring the S-curve of the road by shooting straight down the center axis. Krasnaya Komnata? Red Room? Is that what this is about? As the highway curved in front of them, she considered the shadowy group that had been funding Ivan’s rise to power, his research, his tech, his whole army. In other words, the organization they had sworn to destroy—

  Something to do with Ivan Somodorov? And Alexei?

  Ava’s stomach lurched and roiled, and the wind bit her face as they raced toward the long shadow of the mountain, spraying gravel behind them. She pulled her chin up over Natasha’s shoulder to see ahead of the bike.

  Only then did Ava notice the Widow’s Cuff sparking and smoking. She pointed, shouting, “Look, your Cuff—it’s on fire!”

  “What?” Natasha glanced down. The Cuff began to burn red-hot, smoking against the skin underneath it, where it had come into contact with her throttle grip. She swore, pulling her left hand away from the handlebar, continuing to curse as she held it out from her body. She didn’t stop the Harley, though—she drove faster, steering the bike with only her right arm.

  “Natasha!” Ava shouted. “You have to get that thing off—”

  “It’s stuck.” Natasha leaned to twist her arm back behind her. “You try—”

  The bike swerved as Ava reached up to fumble at the jammed release on Natasha’s Cuff. It burned the pads of her fingers, and she winced. How is she not screaming? How high is the Romanoff pain tolerance?

  As she tried the clasp again, the Harley’s back wheels hit a gravel patch and skidded out. For a moment, Ava thought that Natasha was going to inadvertently lay the bike down on the road.

  She closed her eyes. Pazhalsta— Please—

  “Ava,” Natasha yelled.

  The energy flowing through Ava—that was always flowing through Ava, ever since the O.P.U.S. blast in Istanbul—pulsed and convulsed from the center of her chest, finally surging, uncoiling all the way down her arms and up her legs, wrapping its tentacles from her neck to her wrists and ankles. Though normally the light found its way out through her blades, which functioned more or less as basic conductors, now she let it escape through her fingers.

  When she opened her eyes again, her pupils glowed with the now-familiar iridescent blue light. Even her lips and fingertips burned with cold blue fire.

  Natasha glanced over her shoulder. “Ava, what are you—”

  Ava reached for Natasha’s Cuff again, this time barely touching it. The Cuff began to stream black smoke from all sides—

  It exploded open, flying off Natasha’s wrist and shooting high into the air over their heads—

  Ava ducked forward with a shout. “Watch out!”

  Natasha winced and yanked her wrist away. A split second later, the Cuff exploded into a billowing cloud of soot and flame.

  Oh no, not again, she thought. She had overdone it. Quickly. Shut it down, before you make everything worse—

  “Der’mo—” Natasha cursed, and Ava saw that now the left throttle had ignited as well. The flames were spreading, and Natasha had to control the Harley again with only her right hand. “Oh, come on,” she
shouted at the bike, annoyed.

  You lit a whole motorcycle on fire this time? Great. With your luck you should just be happy the whole thing didn’t explode—

  Ava shouted up into the wind. “Pull over!”

  If this thing does blow, I don’t want to be remembered as the person who killed an Avenger.

  Natasha shook her head. “Can’t. They’re here, and we have to put a little mileage between us and whoever wants us to be roadkill.” As she spoke she gunned the bike.

  Roadkill, Ava thought. Who wants that?

  The burning Harley sped through the center of the smoke, dipping dangerously to one side. Natasha’s hair fluttered in the wind as she leaned to swing her weight far to the left. Ava followed, until they pulled the bike back up to a vertical axis.

  The bike lurched, smoking and coughing up gravel, but managed to stay on the road. Ava’s eyes were watering in the wind, and it was difficult to see. She could feel her entire body tensing into a tight fist of clenched limbs.

  Is someone after us?

  She looked over her shoulder. There was a crater in the asphalt behind them now—and above it, a coiling black snake of smoke and ash. She turned back around to see the fire spreading across the front of the bike.

  That can’t be me. Not all me.

  Someone rigged her Cuff, and I set it off.

  Her throat and lungs burned; her eyes stung. The air around her smelled charred—or maybe that was her hair—and she could hear (and feel) Natasha coughing up smoke in front of her. “You okay?”

  “Ideal? No,” Natasha yelled back. Perfect.

  Of course. How Russian. Ava tried again. “What was that?” I’m guessing a direct action assault, not that you’ll admit it. Not while we’re sitting on a burning Harley meters from the attack site—

  Natasha accelerated again. “My Cuff. Someone got to it.”

  “No kidding,” Ava shouted back. “But what was that?”

  “Magnesium.”

  “What?” Ava yelled. “I mean, how?”

  There was no answer until they came out of the next turn. Then Natasha leaned halfway toward Ava. “Magnesium trace concentrate. You were just the lighter. Can we talk about this later?”

  So they rigged your Cuff—? You, the great Natasha Romanoff? Ava shook her head. And they knew I would set it off? Whoever it is, they know about me?

  Natasha swerved again, this time cutting left off the main road into what looked like a long private driveway. The flames on the left half of the handlebar were spreading into the main chassis of the bike now. Natasha’s tough black boots only protected so much; Ava’s legs were bare, and she curled them up as high as she could, keeping her feet propped on the wheel covers. We can’t keep this up for long—

  The bike chewed and bumped its way past a ranch-style house, then through the shrub-covered hillside beyond it. Pebbles and roots and dust went flying. With every revolution of the wheel, the flames spun farther down from the handlebars to the body of the bike. Ava leaned forward to shout in Natasha’s ear. “It was the girl, right? Back at the monument? The one in the green dress? Who tried to pull a brush pass?”

  “What?” Natasha glanced over her shoulder, startled. Ava felt proud for a moment—and then humiliated. She didn’t think I noticed. She doesn’t think I’m capable of anything.

  “Brush pass,” Ava shouted.

  “Yeah.” Natasha turned her attention back to the rocky hillside. “Think so.” Classic Red Room move—right out of Ivan’s manual. But Ava also knew that Natasha understood that manual better than anyone, so she knew what must have happened next. She leaned forward once again.

  “Did you tag her back? Tell me you tagged her back, right?” Ava shouted.

  Natasha angled her head slightly to one side and smiled. “Is that even a question?”

  Of course you did, Ava thought. Knowing Natasha, she’d stuck her standard-issue adhesive RFID tag on the girl before she could walk away. Hopefully, within twenty-four hours—or as long as it took S.H.I.E.L.D. to find the right frequency—they’d be able to pinpoint her location. Radio frequency IDs were the classic go-to in data-pushing surveillance, and Natasha always kept one handy; it was the size of a grain of rice, lodged in a niche at the base of the tiny silver ankh ring on her left hand. She wore it the way other people would wear a wedding ring.

  Lucky for both of us, she’s married to the job.

  Ava thought back over the attempted plant again now; at least, what little she had seen of it. The dark-haired girl’s elbow, bumping Natasha’s shoulder. She imagined the bump was the decoy, or what Natasha had taught her was the sucker’s move. You had to keep an eye on the other hand, the one slapping the magnesium tab on the underside of the Widow’s Cuff. That was the shot that mattered.

  It’s always the second move that counts, isn’t that what you said, Natasha? The second shot, the second flank, the second attack? See, I was listening—

  They powered through a row of jacarandas and burst out onto the road again, just as it curved around the bottom of the rising hills of Corcovado. The Harley bounced over and over—and Ava’s body slammed against Natasha’s from the impact. “Smotret eto sestra!” Watch it, sister! You just might kill us before anyone in the Red Room can—

  “Yeah, you should talk, zhivchik—” Natasha shouted back. Fireball.

  Ava’s face burned with embarrassment.

  Natasha accelerated wordlessly out of the landing, speeding into the oncoming chaos of Rio’s evening traffic. Their tires were smoking; their chassis was fully on fire.

  Ava turned once more to check out the road behind them, and then shouted back up to Natasha. “There’s no one there. We’re clear. You have to stop—this whole thing is going to blow, man’yak!” Maniac. She suspected that Natasha’s boots were burning, close to melting, even. They were out of options.

  But we aren’t the only ones, she thought.

  Now the Widows sped weaving past the cars in front of them. Nobody could stop Natasha Romanoff when she was in this mood.

  Whoever you are, girl in green, I hope you know what you’ve done, Ava thought. A siren began to blare in the distance. Because this means war…

  Natasha jammed down her one working throttle and plowed the bike up the back of an unsuspecting Fiat.

  Ava screamed and the Harley went flying into the air.

  She squeezed her eyes shut as they smashed through a chain-link fence and landed wheels down in the deeper end of the ancient, low-lying swimming pool of the Piscina do Casarão—

  Hissing and steaming, metal hit water. Both Widows went under, barely touching the concrete beneath their ten-foot tsunami landing.

  Ava opened her eyes in the murky water to see Natasha’s Glock sinking slowly down to the pool bottom.

  …and war is how she wants it.

  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

  COULSON: Unbelievable.

  ROMANOFF: I know. One day, two encounters. HUMINT and SIGINT.

  COULSON: I was back on the whole “driving a flaming Harley down a mountain and into a swimming pool” thing, but okay—

  ROMANOFF: Two encounters, both direct assaults. I didn’t know why.

  COULSON: I don’t know why there aren’t more action figures of you on flaming Harleys.

  ROMANOFF: Coulson. The attacks were messages, like I said.

  COULSON: And the message was, screw you?

  ROMANOFF: More like, we can screw with you.

  COULSON: How’d that go over?

  ROMANOFF: Pretty much like you’d imagine.

  COULSON: I have a vivid imagination. I’m imagining grenades.

  ROMANOFF: I held it together.
After it happened, the only thing I pulled a pin on was Stark, when we got home.

  COULSON: To Howard Stark’s Copacabana Beach penthouse?

  ROMANOFF: Yes.

  COULSON: The one with the butler and the rooftop pool?

  ROMANOFF: Didn’t notice.

  COULSON: What came next? You had to locate the tracker you stuck on the operative?

  ROMANOFF: I handed that off to the guy who owns half the world’s airwaves.

  COULSON: Ah yes, our man of iron and butlers. Let me guess, he was happy to help….

  ROMANOFF: I wouldn’t say happy….

  COPACABANA BEACH, RIO DE JANEIRO

  THE STARK PENTHOUSE,

  COPACABANA PALACE HOTEL

  “No, Tony, I don’t happen to think you’re my IT guy.” Natasha bristled, wrapping the electrical burn on her wrist with a roll of gauze from one of Howard Stark’s many steel-encased first-aid kits. “I’m my IT guy.”

  “That’s great because, as I told you, I’m kind of in the middle of something.” Tony’s face looked down from the wall-size monitor behind her; behind him, wherever he was, she could see a massive, concrete wall—maybe part of a basement? His voice echoed in what seemed to be a cavernous space. “Six million volts of electron energy, to be exact—and probably my best shot at a Nobel Prize in physics, or whatever. You know, CERN? The Large Hadron Collider? But no big deal, I guess it can wait because you need your email fixed—”

  CERN? What is Tony doing in Switzerland? As the quantum entanglement link between Natasha and Ava had been one of Tony’s longest-running open investigations in quantum physics, she was suspicious—but she also knew the look on Tony’s face. He wasn’t talking.

  At the moment, she was too impatient to care. Natasha looked at him. “Are you through?”

  Tony shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Has your server finished tracking the data path yet?”