Chapter Forty-Seven
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Heaven Knows | The Pretty Reckless

The prison walls rose above my head, shadowed by the cliff walls it was built into.

"This isn't going to work," Yelena grumbled over the comm-link.

"It'll work," Natasha replied, her voice flat and confident. "Mia knows what she's doing."

"She's not even a widow! She doesn't know the first thing about infiltration!"

I decided silence was better than trying to defend my bona fides. As it was, Yelena probably had a point, in that I wasn't trained for spywork in the same way the Black Widows were. Playing a part, memorizing personal details of the target, lying… all definitely not things I was used to doing.

So I, too, had my doubts. But Natasha insisted that of the three of us (she did not include Antonia in this count), that I would be the most convincing to play the part of Russian officer sent to interrogate one Alexei Shostakov.

"You just have the look," Natasha tried to explain it to me, but upon reading my baffled expression, she just shook her head and sighed. "It's a Russian thing. At any rate, you're the super soldier. Considering your skillset, you're best equipped to get Shostakov out. He might be a little… difficult."

"How so?" I asked.

Natasha opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. At length, she decided to conclude, "You may use force if necessary."

"Okie-dokie."

By far the hardest part of any infiltration mission was the first step; infiltration. Getting me to the front gates of the gulag, presented as a convincing military officer of the Russian army, and definitely not an American teenager who wasn't even old enough to vote in her own country yet. Among Natasha's newly acquired gear was a military uniform that just so happened to fit a person of my size, and with a bit of hair and make-up I could pass muster for a properly decorated officer.

The vehicle was the other hard part. Yelena flew the helicopter, on which Antonia would remain for the duration of this mission, dropping us off at a location about twenty miles outside the prison, where a certain de-commissioned truck awaited for us to take as we pleased.

Natasha drove, of course. Not just because she didn't trust me behind the wheel of a manual-shift; but also that an officer of my supposed ranking would never drive herself anywhere. And if I came alone it would look too suspicious. So she played chauffeur, wearing her Widow catsuit beneath her own uniform, with the end result looking a little bulky and frumpy enough to come off as an overworked attendant.

"Just remember," Natasha told me as she drove us towards the prison, rising out of the great mountainside in the distance. "Less is more. Don't speak unless you have to. You outrank everyone in there, and only the warden would have the balls to question you."

"You're not coming with me?" I asked, trying to keep my voice rising with fear. I didn't like working alone, not when I was in uncharted waters.

"No," Natasha said. "Shostakov will recognize me, and I can't trust he won't immediately blow my cover. Besides, I have to get back on the helicopter, make sure everyone's ready for the extraction. Don't worry!" She added when she saw my fraught expression. "You'll do fine. Just don't overthink it. Try to, ah, try to channel your father."

I threw her a look, but decided to ponder that advice. If it was as simple as looking scary to a bunch of hardened prison guards, then maybe I could pull it off.

We rolled up to the gates, where the man in the booth looked at our papers, received our confirmation, and checked both of our appearances to our IDs. Natasha rolled down the rear window so that the guard had a chance to peer at my stone-faced expression. A pair of dark sunglasses sealed the deal for my whole look, it seemed, as the guard only seemed to swallow anxiously as he looked up, down, up again before waving us through.

Maybe Natasha overdid it with the rank, if it was enough to startle the gateman.

The interior courtyard was huge, split off into several sections. On either side of the road were gated grounds, one half for leisure (as leisure as you could get here) and the other for hard labor, with what looked like mining equipment and large piles of rubble and stacks of heavy metal bars and large containers. Prisoners looked up from their various tasks to stare at the incoming vehicle, which came to the end of the path, rolling in front of the main entrance. There was more excited activity here, guards rushing back and forth, trying to look as sharp and upstanding as they could in this unexpected visit from what might be one of the Kremlin's top officers.

"You have ten minutes," Natasha told me in an undertone, after stepping out and opening my door to let me exit. I only gave a slight nod of acknowledgment before putting on my peaked cap, turning to face the warden as he approached.

He was in his fifties, a little paunchy, but a little puffed up as well. He gave me a short but strong handshake, by far looking the most calm and collected of all his men. "Lieutenant Karenina, what short notice! If we had known you were coming, we would have rolled out the red carpet!"

Overly effusive, I thought. And perhaps overcompensating, when he kept having to look up at me. I towered over the warden by a good six inches, and he looked quite taken aback. A blink or two of surprise as he studied my face, and I tried not to break out into a cold sweat immediately. I already hated that Natasha chose me for this part.

Still, I kept my tone curt and cold, face impassive behind the sunglasses as I said, "Problem?"

"N-no!" The man jolted slightly, as if I'd slapped him. "It's just — you look so young. For a lieutenant."

My glare didn't need much acting to pull off. The warden paled slightly, coughed, and then gestured behind him, welcoming me inside. "Ah, come, come! The interrogation room is prepared, we just — allow us a moment to fetch Shostakov. I'm afraid he can be difficult to manage sometimes, so I must beg for your patience."

Maybe Natasha was right about Shostakov being a problem. He certainly had no idea what was going down. I certainly didn't have time to waste if I only had ten minutes to get him out of here. Thinking fast, I said, "Tell him I'm a fan of his work."

"Oh?" The warden glanced at me in surprise, then seemed to catch my meaning. "Ah, yes! He still gets fanmail on occasion if you can believe it, after all these years…"

Out of the sunlight, the inside of the prison was cold and damp and slightly foul-smelling. Mildew, old metal, and unwashed bodies stank up the place, and I hadn't even reached the the main cell block. Theoretically, I wouldn't have to.

The warden led me down a side hall, filled with identical metal doors in old chipped paint. The cement walls were cracked and the electricity from exposed bulbs flickered from overworked filaments. Everything about this place was old, outdated, and in need of repair. We stopped in front of a door with no window, but several considerable locks on the outside, including a metal bar and an electronic keypad.

"For our most dangerous criminals," the warden explained for the amount of security for this room in particular. "You may not exit from the inside, but merely press this button or call for help and we will answer. We have cameras running twenty-four seven, and an extra officer on-hand in case Shostakov gets… handsy." He paused, glancing away. "He considers himself something of a ladykiller, if you get my meaning."

"Ah." Was all I said, frowning slightly. Shostakov was, what, over fifty years old now?

Ew.

I only had an old photo from the Eighties as my reference to confirm Shostakov's identity. Natasha had said there was not an impossibility that he really was dead all this time, and whoever the prison claimed to be Shostakov was just a fake. Sometimes a valuable prisoner dies before you want them to, and instead of losing face with the Kremlin, a warden lies and fills his spot with some vague resemblance just to keep from losing their jobs.

Or ending up in here themselves.

In the Eighties, the so-called Red Guardian had been a huge man, appropriate for Russia's attempt at their own super soldier project. Not like the Winter Soldier, no, but more of their own version of Captain America, a patriotic icon for the people to root for, a semi-public figure.

Except now he was in prison, and in prison for so long that not even Natasha knew if he was still alive or not. It was just as likely one of his enemies wanted him dead; maybe he'd even been imprisoned with them.

The Red Guardian had been tall, clean-cut, beefy but well-dressed, in a sort of blue collar way. Rolled up sleeves showing off well-muscled forearms, the thick strong hands of a worker proud of his job. I was only vaguely aware of some of the Red Guardian's exploits, before his disappearance after the fall of the Soviet Union. He'd inspired several iconic movie villains of the era. The Red Guardian even had action figures.

Inside the door waited an interrogation room not unlike the kind you might see in movies or shows, but lacking the one-way mirror. Probably because a super soldier might try to smash through that. Just a camera to know I was not alone, alongside their bulkiest officer standing in the corner, back straight and chin tucked.

I had just sat down at the table in the center of the room, door closed behind me, when the other door, on the opposite wall opened, and in shoved a huge beast of a man. He had a guard on either side, forcing him to sit at the table in the center of the room, the old metal chair creaking under his weight. He grumbled and complained the whole time, and shook off one guard so hard it nearly sent him flying. But then they left him there, quickly shutting the door behind them.

Then it was just me and the prisoner, staring at each other.

He was huge, all right. Taller than me, I thought, and outweighed me by almost two hundred pounds. And not all of it, I thought. A heavy, unkempt beard covered his lower face, the rest of his hair greasy and uncut by several years, and he was absolutely covered in gaudy tattoos of Soviet flair. His hands, like lion's paws, rested on the table between us, the cuffs looking like delicate bracelets around his meaty wrists, his knuckles tattooed in Cyrillic letters, with what appeared to be a woman's name.

Blue eyes glared at me from underneath bushy eyebrows. He had ruddy cheeks, but the rest of his skin was quite pale due to lack of sun exposure. He didn't look anything at all like the picture Natasha had shown me, but the resemblance was there. The echo of the man he used to be.

Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian. Or what was left of him.

"Who are you?" The man demanded, frowning down at me. "What does the Kremlin want now? There is nothing I can say that hasn't been said already."

"I'm on special assignment," I said, deciding to dodge the first question a little. If I had to lie about my name, it might give the game away — I didn't want to chance it with how bad I could be at lying. "I'm investigating the details of one of your old missions. Ohio. Do you remember it?"

His brows furrowed deeper. "Ohio? I haven't been…" He seemed ready to deny it, before a spark in his eyes lit up, and he course-corrected. "Ah! Ohio! Yes, I remember that now. Ridiculous mission. But a successful one."

Shostakov seemed to be gloating a little, as if placing himself above whatever reproach I was about to give him. He had not aged well, I thought. Though he clearly maintained the bulk of his super soldier genesis, he had put on a lot of extra weight, some of his flesh having turned to fat or flab. Doubtless the gulag diet had worked wonders for one's physique.

"Assigned by General Dreykov, yes?" I asked politely.

"Yes, yes," Shostakov went back to scowling again. Just mention of that name brought a dark shadow across his face, and he hunched his shoulders in what I thought to be the remnants of a longheld grudge. "Bastard. You can tell him I said so."

A throat cleared behind me. The guard, indicating that Shostakov was treading on thin ice. The older man rolled his eyes and flicked a hand at the reprimand. "Pah! I don't care what you do to me. There is no pain greater than what I have already endured," He looked to me now. "You're too young, I think, but rest assured, you have not known betrayal until your beloved country turns its back on you."

I glanced at my watch. Five minutes. I had to get this moving. Shostakov looked like he was about to start monologuing. "I can appreciate your devotion the old soviet ways, Shostakov, but I do not have time to hear you reminisce. I want to know more about your work at the time. The other agents you worked with."

"Agents?" Shostakov made a face. "There was only Vostakova. She was the heart and soul of that mission — whom our country also betrayed, mind you — but she was by far the most excellent partner I have ever worked with. You hold yourself so high, young lady, but you haven't met a true woman like her before. Ah, we were quite the pair! The Red Guardian and the Iron Maiden. That's what they called us, you know. Russia's greatest heroes."

His eyes grew misty, and I realized his wistfulness was genuine as he wiped at his face, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. Despite myself, I glanced behind me at the guard on duty, who could only give me a tiny shrug, as if to say, He always does this.

Turning back, I tried to stay on task. "I know of Vostakova." A lie. Natasha hadn't mentioned her. Though the Iron Maiden sobriquet sounded pretty badass not to bring up until now. "But the others. The girls."

Shostakov sniffled and shook his head. "No, no, they were not agents. Well, not full-fledged. They were — children! They played their parts. But they were difficult, as all children are, I suppose. The older one knew what was going on. The younger one, I cannot say how much she understood. She was easier to lie to, she wouldn't have known any better."

"Their names?" I prompted.

So far, Shostakov had been so forth-coming — if a little too digressive — that I wasn't prepared for the sudden look of suspicion he shot my way. "Why do you want to know? Is it not already in your records?"

"No," I said, wondering what had tipped him off. Maybe it really was in these so-called records, but I doubted it. Not when it came to Red Room agents, I figured. "We have their aliases, but not their true identities, or what happened to them. They are old enough now that they might be… problematic for the Kremlin. We would like to ensure there are no loose ends."

Shostakov's booming laughter nearly had me jolting out of my seat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the guard's hand twitch an inch closer to the gun on his belt. Shostakov slammed his hands on the table to emphasize his sudden bout of humor, adding between laughs, "Ha! Loose ends? You'll never catch them. Not my girls. If they yet live, I know they are far too slippery to catch through the fat, clumsy fingers of the Kremlin, swollen by their own ego and greed for money and power —" at the guard's second warning, he threw up his hands. "Alright! No need to be so antsy! I mean her no harm. Not as much as she is, if she keeps going down this road."

"I'm in no danger, I assure you," I said, keeping my tone even. I didn't know if Natasha and Yelena could overhear this conversation, deep as I was within the mountain. I hadn't had any communication with them over the earpiece since I entered. Still, Shostakov's enduring loyalty, as I saw it, was surprising. "What have you to lose, Shostakov? What else can Dreykov take from you?"

I glanced at my watch. Two minutes.

"Ah." The great bearish man sneered down at me. "That's it, isn't it? I knew you were too pretty to be an officer."

"Excuse me?" My voice came off a little sharper than I meant it to.

But Shostakov was already shaking his head, chuckling deeply. "I was wondering when Dreykov would send one of his girls to finish me off."

I raised my eyebrows, feigning mild surprise. "Do I look like one of Dreykov's girls?"

He frowned at me, confounded for a moment — sitting as I was, it belied my true size and stature, though I'd thought the breadth of my shoulders would at least give me away. Dainty ballerina torso I had not.

Nevertheless, he had the chance to figure it out for himself when I finally stood, pulling out the carbon fiber knife that had slipped past the metal detectors, and launched it into the chest of the supervising officer in the room.

The man went down with a grunt, clutching at the hilt in horror. As he crumpled, falling back, he left a smear of blood against the wall behind him.

Alexei fell out of his seat in shock, staring at me as I went to retrieve the knife, using it to cut the wire of the CCTV camera above. "We have maybe a minute before they notice," I told him.

Alexei scrambled to his feet as I approached the door. "It's locked from the outside, you'll never —"

"What? Get out?" I asked, allowing myself to gloat a little before I turned and slammed the heel of my boot into the door, above where the handle would be on the other side. It was so old that it didn't take much — with a great crack, the old mechanical lock, along with several bolts and a metal bar — broke down. The last blow sent the door off its hinges, hitting the floor with a mighty bang.

I glanced over my shoulder at the bulging eyes of Alexei Shostakov. "You were saying?"

Eyes wide like saucers, his lips too widened, until he was full-out grinning, throwing his arms wide in joy. The cuffs snapped apart like dry pasta, metal pieces flying everywhere. In a great booming voice that shook the air, he crowed,

"Is this as I always dreamed? My patriotic devotion, vindicated? The fruit of my loins, granting me freedom?"

He was so loquacious that I almost didn't understand what he said. "Freedom, yes, we're — wait, fruit of your what —?"

Alexei Shostakov didn't hang around to hear the rest of my question. I'd given him all he needed to hear before he charged off, through the door, like a great bulldozer or train, full-steam straight ahead. He plowed straight through three armed guards who had their backs turned to us, noticing only too late the commotion. Their bodies flew away like bowling pins, crashing against the wall as Shostakov cleared a path for me to follow.

"Hey, wait!" I called, throwing off my hat as I chased after him. So this was what Natasha meant by calling him a loose cannon; Shostakov wasn't even going in the right direction, smashing into one of the control rooms instead of the more immediate path to the outside world, to freedom. I could hear screaming from inside the room, flashing lights, then an alarm going off — red lights flashing and klaxons blaring across the entire prison.

Shostakov was so enveloped in his own gleeful warpath that he didn't notice his only exit to the room was blocked, two guards appearing to gun him down. Alexei had just turned to stare in shock when the first man went down, the other turning to fire wildly in surprise — only to be thrown across the opposite wall by my fist.

A third came up behind me, and I grabbed the barrel of his rifle before he could point it at either of us. The weapon bucked and grew hot beneath my grip as the guard tried to fire it anyways, only to yelp in surprise as I ripped it bodily from his grasp, before whipping the butt of the rifle across his head, sending him to the ground.

It all happened so fast I almost forgot I had an audience. I turned, slightly startled to see Shostakov there, clapping his hands together.

He gasped in what I could only call sheer joy. "Ah, you fight like a beast! Oh, my dear Melina would love you —"

"No time!" I said, rushing over to grab his arm and drag him along. I could already overhear the shouting of other guards in the area, word of an incoming aircraft, the crackle in my ear as Natasha tried to reach me. "We have to go now! Our window is short!"

"Wait, allow me!" Shostakov was so big and heavy that when he refused to move, I nearly pulled my arm out of its socket trying to move him. He turned, oblivious, and slammed his fist across the control panel before him. On the screens above, I saw a number of green squares go red. More alarms went off, a greater cacophony rising from deeper within the prison. Shostakov turned back to me with a wicked grin. "That should slow them down, the bastards."

Together, we made a mad dash for the exit, the way I came in. Being the bigger of the two, and possibly holding onto some chivalric ideals, Shostakov went first, clearing the path for me and slamming into the threshold just as two metal doors on either side began sliding shut, threatening to cut us off from the rest of the world entirely. I was so busy fighting off guards with guns and the first few prison escapees, who only saw me as the enemy thanks to my stolen uniform, that I almost didn't notice our escape route narrowing.

"I got it!" Shostakov shouted, placing himself between the sliding doors, hands on either one, pressing them apart again. Metal grinding against metal in a terrible rising shriek, as pneumatic pumps strained against the unexpected pressure. I could smell something burning as I made my way closer, slipping past a tattooed inmate as I slid my knife through his gut.

The doors pressed closer and closer. Shostakov strained, grimacing under the pressure, as his body was slowly compressed, the open spaces between his limbs narrowing. "Come on, little one! Or I'll be smaller than you soon enough!"

Not wanting to chance it, I turned and ran, even as gunfire rang out behind me. With one last leap, I threw myself like a diver through the gap between his right arm and leg. Behind me, Shostakov gasped and stumbled, and with a great crunch the metal doors slid shut. I looked behind me, terrified I was about to see a bisected old super soldier — but Shostakov was already rising to his feet, brushing snow off his grungy prison jumpsuit.

"Just like the old days!" He grinned at me. I decided not to ask what that meant.

Above, Natasha's helicopter circled above the open pit — dodging gunfire from the prison's machine guns. Weapons meant to keep inmates in were now turned on this unexpected visitor. I thought I could make out Yelena at the controls, and at last her voice came ringing into my ears, full of anger and relief.

"Finally! Nat, they're out!"

"On it!" Natasha called back. "Antonia, cover for me!"

"What? How?"

"Use this!"

I didn't get to see what this was until the helicopter turned and I saw one of its bay doors opened. Natasha's form, dressed in a white catsuit, jumping out from a grappling line, while what I could only assume to be Antonia with a grenade launcher taking aim and firing.

Her shot was a little off. Maybe a lot off. As Natasha swung down from her line, the helicopter careening hard to one side to avoid more bullets in its already riddled frame, Antonia's rocket slammed not into the guard tower but into the canyon wall above it. Ice and rock shattered.

And with it, the snow atop.

An avalanche.

"Who in God's name is that?" Alexei Shostakov demanded, clearly as alarmed by the sight as I was. But I didn't have time to answer, pulling him along so we could get to higher ground.

The prison break was going well for everyone else, at least until they noticed the avalanche. The men already outside were trying to rush back in for safety, fighting the escapees who so desperately wanted freedom and would kill to get it. It created chaos at the other prison entrances, within the fenced courtyards. There was no area open enough, or safe enough, for Yelena to land the chopper, especially not with an avalanche coming down. The tallest structure now available was part of a mining rig on strong metal scaffolding that I hoped would hold beneath the increasing tremors and power of the avalanche.

"Can you reach me?" Natasha called over the wind that whipped up interference on her comm-link.

"Trying to!" I called back, guessing correctly that question was meant for me. There were steps that wrapped around the mining rig's column, but that would take too long. Before I could even direct him, Shostakov was already launching himself up over a fence and atop lower-level rooftops. I scrambled to follow, as Natasha dropped on the outstretched arm of the mining rig above. There were guards already waiting for her, trying to decide if they wanted to shoot at us or at the invaders.

They were already falling to their deaths by the time we reached her. She only had one line. I could only calculate the odds helplessly, as the oncoming rush of the avalanche came ever closer. "There's no way you're carrying both of us!"

"I'm not!" Natasha called back over the roar of the helicopter's blades. With that, she took the line from her belt and snapped it to mine. Before I could protest, she tugged at it, and sent me back up before I could stop her.

I yelped as my feet suddenly left the catwalk beneath me, and I was swinging through empty air, wind and ice whipping into my face as the grappling line zipped me up and up, until I bonked my head on the underside of the helicopter. I managed to scramble my way up and around until I was inside the hull. There, Antonia clung to the side of the door, hanging on for dear life as Yelena swung the aircraft around wildly.

"Thank god!" Antonia called, and all but threw the grenade launcher at me. "You can have this now."

There wasn't much I could do with it, when Natasha and Shostakov were still below. I could hear their voices shouting over the earpiece, but with all the wind and interference I could barely make them out. Still, I retained a grasp of the plan we had in mind, and managed to drop Natasha's line and a second one for Shostakov, hoping they'd be able to catch the swinging, dangling ropes whipping in this wind.

It took a few tries of Yelena dipping, rising, and cursing up a storm before both Natasha and Shostakov were hooked up. By that point, the avalanche was upon us, and Yelena didn't even wait for them to start zipping up before taking off, pressing the helicopter in a sharp forward tilt and dragging its two wayward passengers behind in an effort to outrace the onslaught.

The snow would never reach us and, ultimately, neither would any of the prison's guards. When I looked back, all I saw was a hazy white cloud of snow in our wake.

Mission accomplished.