As she rode back, she watched the thin rain bead on her window, then streak back away from the wind. Her mind turned over the appearance of the man she talked to, referencing and cross referencing her studies. He didn't match any profiles she could recall. If she had seen him before, she would remember. Even more unsettling. He was trying hard to look CIA, but he wasn't. She wondered who he worked for.

She strolled through the lobby of the hotel.

"Ms. Shostakova," the clerk said, quickly. She looked over at him. "A package came in for you while you were out."

"A package, really," she said, moving to the counter. The clerk ducked fumbled for a moment and came up with a small box. Her name was written on the top in black marker.

"Thanks," she said, turning her back on him to open it. Inside was a cell phone.

She looked at it narrowly for a moment, then pocketed it and turned back to the clerk. "Thank you, you've been most helpful," she said with a smile.

She almost made it to the stairwell before the cell phone rattled off its warbling ring. She opened it.

"Greetings," came a deep voice in Russian. "I am not KGB. May we talk a little?"

"Who are you then?" she asked in fluid Russian.

"There will be time for that," the voice replied. "Of more interest to both of us is what I want, yes?"

"Yes," she said. "You're running out of time."

"I stole the cure for Tymaz Nine from the KGB, and someone in turn stole a sample from me. I'm upset about that, and I want to know who else has the cure, so I can punish them for stealing from me. You are about to find out the identity of someone else who has it. I will cure you, if you reveal the identities of those you are negotiating with."

"No deal," she said, and she prepared to close the connection.

"I have the cure with me," he said earnestly. "I can think of no better way to demonstrate my good faith than to cure you. I want nothing more than to keep you out of the clutches of yet another corrupt government."

She hesitated, thinking. "How did you find me?" she asked.

"I saw your plane reservation, cross referenced known aliases with hotels," the voice replied. "I do not want this to turn into any kind of confrontation. I thought this phone might be the best way for us to talk."

"Who is this?" she demanded.

"I just want to make things right," the voice replied. "When would you like to be cured?"

"How about right now?" she said.

"I'll meet you in the lobby," the voice replied.

She turned and headed back to the lobby, snapping the phone shut.

Waiting for her there was a huge man. He stood well over six foot, bulked with muscle but free of fat. He smiled, his huge white teeth gleaming.

"Sergei Kravinoff," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I would never have expected to see you here. How is hunting these days?"

"Much better since I was cured of Tymaz Nine," he replied easily. They spoke in Russian, feeling confident that those around them would not understand even if they could overhear.

"You were infected?" she asked, her eyebrows raising with surprise.

He scowled. "Yes."

She understood. "Assassinations?"

He shrugged. "What's past is past. They paid for their crimes, and I obtained the cure. I detest the thought of Tymaz Nine being used to ensnare others, to make slaves."

She glanced around the open lobby. "Perhaps we should move to the lounge," she said. "Is the cure an injection?"

"Yes," he replied as they headed for the somewhat dimmer and more private lounge. It was deserted. "The cure takes effect over about three days. Ideally there is supervision over that time, but we will not suggest that for you. It is hard enough to trust as it is, and I understand that. This cure has freed three so far with no ill effects, so I believe you should be fine."

They stepped into the lounge, making a striking couple. Kravinoff guided her around to a booth towards the back. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle and a plastic wrapped syringe. He expertly freed the syringe and drew the contents of the glass bottle into it.

"I apologize," he said with a smile. "I forgot to bring swabs. I do have a band aid, however."

She shrugged out of her leather coat and tossed it on the table. Her shirt had no sleeves. She extended her arm, her eyes bright in the dimness. Kravinoff exhaled, and raised the needle. He hesitated, caution darkening his features. He glanced around, sniffing.

The syringe exploded in a fine shower of glass and liquid as a bullet passed through it. Kravinoff leaped to one side, Natasha to the other as more bullets pounded through the wallpaper and wooden screens. Silenced Glocks, close range. Kravinoff popped up behind the partition, Natasha peeked out from where she was prone behind a booth.

Three figures, dressed in black, silenced weapons. They moved closer, gunsmoke twirling in their wake.

"Autodial four on the phone! Call me!" Kravinoff said in a stage whisper. Then he stood, whirling, and plunged through the window in an explosion of glass. The lounge was on the first floor, so he hit the ground running, a few bullets zipping hungrily after him.

Natasha gathered herself for a spring. Three of them, and not the best in the league. She gave herself a four second time limit to have them on the ground disarmed. She glanced out to check distance.

Another figure stepped into the lounge doorway. A silenced gun barked three times, and the three gunmen sprawled forward without a chance to return fire. Natasha watched as the woman who shot them in the back stepped into the lounge and swiftly closed the doors.

"Natalia Allanovna Romanova," the woman whispered. "Are you here?"

"That depends," she replied from behind cover. "Do you want to shoot me too?"

"No, not at all," the other woman said, holstering her pistol. "More are on their way. Come with me." The blonde dashed to the window Kravinoff had burst and leaped lightly through. Natasha was right behind her.

To the parking lot. They dropped into a battered dark luxury sedan, and the blonde fired it up and off they went.

At the other end of the parking lot, a car started up. Kravinoff smiled, and spoke into his CB. "You getting this?" he asked.

"Loud and clear," said the gruff voice on the other end. "I'll be right there."

xXx

"You must know it was curiosity, not fear, that brought me this far," Natasha said sternly. "Pull the car over. We must talk."

"I don't think we're a safe distance away yet," the blonde said, glancing in her side mirror.

"Pull over now or I will pull us over," Natasha said, her voice even.

The blonde glanced at her, then flicked on the turn signal and pulled off the road. She turned to face her passenger.

"You have thirty seconds to explain who you are and how you fit into this," Natasha said. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she did not so much as gesture threateningly.

"My name is Ana Prentis," the blonde said. "I've been following you since you hit Duluth. Two groups are trying to get to you, a spy ring and a small coalition built by Kravinoff. He's gone mad in the last year or so and he's hunting down and killing Russian ex-pats. The spies can't be trusted but they do offer life and a cure. I'm here because you're my hero," Ana said, and she blushed.

"Is that so," Natasha said.

"Yes," Ana nodded. "I know some of your history. How your husband," she said, and she paused for a moment to collect herself. "Your husband was killed in the line of duty," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "I always thought that was sad, but I admired how it shaped you. The things around us shape us. My husband was… recently killed… in the line of duty. I was hoping," she said, looking away, "we could work together. That would mean a lot to me. A shared burden is lighter, I am told."

Natasha watched her. "My instructor told me that tragedy gives the true artist the strength to go on and become more, that anguish and suffering create vision. He was… is… a madman." She looked out the window. "The thugs with guns. Who were they?"

"Central Intelligence Agency," Ana said. "Kravinoff tipped them off to your meeting. He wants the authorities to bring you in."

"Your story is full of holes," Natasha said, her eyes distant. "Kravinoff cannot both want to kill me himself and want to involve the government. Besides, I'd know CIA. They were something else. Playing for sympathy with a story about a dead husband is an old trick that has been tossed at me time and time again; it is offensive. And Kravinoff has not been killing Russians." Natasha opened the car door. "We have nothing further to discuss."

"Wait!" Ana said, and something sharp was in her voice. "You walk away from this, from me, fine, we'll both deal with the consequences. But before you go," she said, her voice hardening, "know that my husband was killed just a few weeks ago, and that the pain is very fresh in me, and that I do admire you. That's why I want this to go the easy way."

"Life," Natasha said, stepping out of the car. She leaned down to look at Ana. "It is sometimes so disappointing," she said, shaking her head. She turned and walked down the sidewalk.

Ana got out of the car and half jogged after her. "Wait," she said. "Just another moment."

Natasha turned, taut, wary, irritation growing. "Let it go or you will be made to let it go," she said softly.

"She never was real good at that," growled a voice from the alley.

"Logan?" Ana said with a small gasp. A short man with wild upswept hair stepped out of the shadows between the two women.

"And you would be?" Natasha said, her eyebrow raised in an elegant arch.

"Kravinoff's partner at the moment," Logan said. "Don't listen to another word this bottom feeder is tryin ta get into your head."

"Bottom feeder?" Ana said. "Hardly polite."

Logan looked at her.

Her hand darted to her belt, reaching for her knife as he sprang. She whipped it clear, sidestepped him, and jabbed with the knife. It drove into his shoulder, but he was turning already. She flexed back, and his punch slid in front of her face. Fast. He had almost forgotten how fast she was.

They squared off. "You can't take me down without maiming me, Logan," she said. "You don't want to do that, do you?"

"Nope," he said with a grin. He feinted towards her. Her eyes widened, she spun around—

Just in time to catch the whirling bola around her neck and shoulder. The weighted balls on the end of the ropes hit the end of their swing and swirled inward as she flailed, then they knocked her, hard. She awkwardly tumbled. Logan snatched the rope of the bola, jerked her up to her knees, and put his fist on her shoulder pointed down towards her joint, arm, collarbone, lungs…

"Nice distraction," she said sourly.

"Look here," Logan said to Natasha. "You've been talking to a shapeshifter. Show her somethin she'll recognize, darlin."

"Go to Hell," Ana snapped.

"I know you can grow it back," he said softly, moving his fist over her arm, "an I know it will hurt for weeks."

Her lips pursed in a thin line, then her outline blurred. Caught in the bola was an old man, in a trench coat, with a fedora. Natasha gasped.

"Shapeshifter," Logan said grimly. "She works for an international project that specializes in super soldiers and humanoid weapons, tricky warfare, maximum punch in a minimal package. Case in point," he nodded down at the woman under his fist. "They have low methods and do not, I repeat do not treat their employees well," he said, glowering. "She can be whoever she needs to be to gain your trust."

"What about the clues?" Natasha said. "What about the necklace?" She looked directly at Ana, who reverted to the blonde.

"The necklace is real," Ana said. "When we found it, that prompted us to look further. The former Soviet Union is a difficult place for us to move in. We thought we could help each other if you got on board."

"And if I passed this test, you'd find a different way to leash me," Natasha said, her voice sour.

Logan nodded. "They put a tracking device in my spine. Experimented on me."

"Where is Kravinoff?" Ana asked.

"Around," Logan said. "Don't change the subject. Ms. Romanova, you gotta walk away from these goons. Whatever they have, you can find it on your own. Don't let them leash you."

"I have grown accustomed to my freedom," she said. "I will not lightly surrender it. But if there is any chance, however slim…" she shook her head. "I don't know. What do I have to do to get the cure?"

"Go to New York with us. We have a facility there. We don't have any more cure with us."

"Go with Logan and Kravinoff and you'll never get a shot at our file on Alexei," Ana said. "They mean to trap you."

For just a moment there was silence between the three of them.

With a loud spang, a bullet smashed into Logan's head and ricocheted into the brick wall. He was bodily lifted off his feet, and he thudded to the ground hard. Natasha was moving at once, twirling into the alley out of the line of fire. Ana dropped and rolled along the sidewalk, smoothly sliding under the car. Logan groaned, but he was unconscious.

"Natasha please," Ana said as she effortlessly slithered out of the bola. "Come with us. We could be a great team. I respect you. I refused to copy your husband, which was the first plan proposed. I want you to come and work with us, not just for us. I want you to find your husband, even if it means you would then retire. I think we could be really good for each other. The offer still stands."

Natasha squatted down so she could look at Ana. "Even if you were completely honest and sincere," she said, "you are being used by those you answer to, making an appeal they cannot match. One way or another they will gather me into the fold." She shook her head. "I am sorry. I have seen enough blood to last me ten lifetimes, a hundred. I don't want to play this game anymore. I would rather die."

"You know it might come to that," Ana said.

Natasha laughed. The sound was fearless, merciless.

At the end of the street there was a startled shout; Natasha risked a glance around the corner. A large man was sailing off the roof of a two story building, twisting in mid air, and crashing down awkwardly on the sidewalk. A shadow moved back from the ledge.

The sniper.

Natasha spun out onto the sidewalk, every sense razor sharp with anticipation, instinct, danger. "If I work with you," she said to Ana as she reached Logan, "it will be on my terms, not yours." She hefted the startlingly heavy man to his feet, and they made it to the alley. "Don't follow me," Natasha said, and she supported Logan as they moved away.

Ana sighed, gave them a head start. Then she stood, brushed herself off, and walked down the sidewalk to the end of the street. The big man was sitting with his back to the steps leading up to a door. He was lighting a cigarette.

"Kravinoff?" she asked.

He nodded. "He's good. He's quiet. And strong." He snapped the lighter shut. "Real strong."
"You hurt, Garrett?"

He chuckled. "No. You need to pick a new identity, 'Ana.' Everybody's recognizing the blonde."

"This better?" she said, shifting into a redhead with strong features and bright green eyes.

"Everybody's a comedian," he grunted. "Why? Why does everybody have to be a comedian?"

She shifted into a woman with long dark hair and pale skin. "Fine, fine, fine. We need to get after them."

"No need," the big man shrugged.

"We aren't taking no for an answer," she said.

"Kravinoff got a small transmitter on her coat," Garrett said. "HQ is tracking their location. Kravinoff and Logan are using bargain basement gear. Anybody can fix on their transmitter."

Ana sighed. "I'll bet you fifty bucks the coat turns up in a taxi all by itself," she said. "Come on, let's go."

"You think we can shadow them?" he said.

"No need," she said. "They're going to the airport to get out of town. Do you trust me, or your training and gadgets?"

He looked at her for a long moment.

She helped him up.