Black Widow: Red Vengeance (A Marvel YA Novel)

by Margaret Stohl

  Tony looked back at her as he pulled the particulate mask down to expose his mouth. “I can’t talk with this thing on. And I was thinking my good friend the padre here may have some helpful information.”

  He turned back to the old man. “Buona sera, padre.”

  The padre did not seem to like having his arm held, and he unleashed on Tony in Sicilian, or Italian—it was hard to tell. “Lascia andare! Sei pazzo!”

  “What did he say?” Natasha looked at him.

  “That I should let go and I’m probably crazy.” Tony sighed, and tried again. “Al centro, la fontana? Quero che era li? Altre cose?”

  “And?” Ava asked.

  “In the center, the fountain? What was there before? Other things?” Tony said, watching the man’s face.

  His mouth was red and spluttering under the mask. He tried again to pull his arm away. “Sono occupato! Sprecare il mio tempo!”

  “He’s busy and I’m wasting his time.” Tony looked back at Natasha and Ava. “Any other bright ideas?”

  “Si tratta di una emergenza, idiota!” the padre bellowed.

  “Really?” Tony looked at him. “I know it’s an emergency and I’m not an idiot.”

  “Ask him about the fountain. What did it look like?” Ava said.

  Tony nodded. “Descrivere la fontana, padre.”

  “L’angelo alato in ferro?” the padre said.

  Tony nodded. “Okay, so what he’s saying is that there was an iron statue, of a cherub.”

  The padre berated him again. “Non cherubino!”

  “Not a cherub, maybe just a baby.”

  “Non un bambino! Un angelo, idiota. Angelo.”

  “Okay, got it. Not a baby—an angel. I think.” Tony held both hands up. “Sorry. Scusa.” Natasha said nothing; her eyes were on the old man.

  “Si, l’angelo di ferro.” The padre slowly pulled down his mask. “The Iron Angel. Very beautiful. Molto bello. E andato. Tutti finito. Gone, all gone.”

  Natasha pulled down her particulates mask. “Iron angel? That’s what was there?”

  The padre smiled—revealing three missing teeth—and reached forward to pat Natasha’s face with his wrinkled fingers. “Come te.”

  “Like me?” Natasha asked.

  The old man sighed and walked back into the smoke.

  “What does that mean?” Ava watched him go. She looked at Tony. “And do you even speak Italian?”

  Tony shrugged. “I speak villa and trattoria and barista. I’m fluent in gelato and vino and espresso and limoncello. I also learned contessa at a shockingly young age. You’d be surprised how much you can absorb from a life of debauchery.”

  “Really not that surprised,” Ava said.

  “That’s okay, ’cause it’s really not that much.” Tony shrugged.

  “Iron Angel,” Natasha repeated. She hadn’t been listening to them. “Why would someone go to all that trouble to blow up the fountain of a courtyard next to a cathedral outside of Sicily?” Her eyes were fixed on the target site. “With or without an iron angel?”

  “Religious reasons?” Ava asked. “A message from some higher power, like a Burning Bush or whatever?”

  Natasha frowned. “If this was a message to the Catholic Church, wouldn’t you aim four or five hundred kilometers north and target St. Peter’s?”

  “Sure,” Tony said. “But for all we know, this might be the St. Peter’s of Sicily. Or at least Palermo. Definitely of Monreale.”

  “Definitely,” Ava said. “That.”

  Now Natasha was climbing over the barricade and heading back into the blast zone. “Maybe it’s not about the results? Maybe it was about the process?”

  “I don’t think you can go in there,” Tony called after her.

  Natasha looked back at him. “What if this whole thing was just a test? A diagnostic tool?”

  Ava ran to catch up with her. “A weapons test?”

  “It’s possible,” Natasha said. “I mean, that’s what we were struck by, right? The adjustable fin, and how well it worked?” She pulled out her ComPlex and knelt in the rubble.

  Tony beamed. “Aw, really? You’re using it? That just makes me feel so warm and fuzzy all over.”

  “Calm down.” Natasha held the tablet up, tapping it on. “I just need to locate my tracker. I want to get it home and into the Triskelion lab, see what it can tell us about impact.”

  “There,” Tony said, pointing at a brightly lit arrow on the screen. “That way.” Natasha pulled herself back to her feet and they moved forward, Ava following. They edged forward, screen first, until they were in the direct center of the debris field—standing in a deeply recessed crater that broke into a rubble pile at the middle point. The whole area was covered by about ten centimeters of what looked like thick, gray-white snow.

  “Careful,” Natasha said. “That’s not snow. It’s ash, and somewhere beneath the surface, you’ll find things a whole lot hotter than fire.” She pointed again. “There.”

  Ava kicked at a lump with her boot until the tracker came rolling out, battered and worn, but still flashing a single green light. “Got it.”

  Tony whistled. “Talk about taking a licking and keeping on ticking. Man.”

  Natasha picked it up and slid it into the side pack of her utility belt.

  “You can’t be here.” A soldier grabbed Natasha by the arm, pointing at his own masked face. “Radiation.”

  “Okay, okay. We’re going,” Tony said, raising his hands again. “Scuse.”

  It wasn’t until they were back in the air that they had a chance to look at the tracker. Natasha left Tony at the controls and laid her pack out on the glass coffee table, in the back of the plane.

  Ava watched as Natasha dumped the tracker out onto the surface. Then she picked it up, turning it over in her fingers. “It’s still warm,” Natasha said.

  “Wait, there—” Ava said. “It looks scratched.”

  Natasha brushed off the back of the device. “It’s not just scratched. Those are letters.”

  “And you didn’t put them there, right?”

  “No. They weren’t there before.” Natasha sat back on her heels. “Which means someone found it, carved the letters, and put it back.”

  “Okay, I didn’t see that coming,” Ava said. “Why?”

  “I’m guessing the missile isn’t just a symbolic message,” Natasha said, staring at the tracker. “It’s an actual message.”

  Ava moved to look at it more closely. “What does it say?”

  “They’re words. Carved into the silica.” Natasha brushed off the ash with her fingers. “It’s Russian.”

  “Of course it is,” Ava said.

  YA PRIDU ZA TOBOY.

  Ava read the words over Natasha’s shoulder. They didn’t bother to translate. They both spoke Russian, and even if they hadn’t, by now they would have come to expect those particular words.

  I will come for you.

  “Who do you think would—” Just as Ava began to speak, the Stark Jet banked so steeply that the tracker went flying off the coffee table—and then the coffee table itself went flying. Natasha hung on to the side of the leather couch. Ava hurtled into Tony’s desk chair, which rolled onto its side.

  Tony’s voice came over the speaker. “Sorry. We’ve got our second missile. Danvers caught it earlier this time; we may be able to land in Cyprus just before it does.”

  Ava looked at Natasha. “Just not in exactly the same spot, I hope.”

  Then the Widow’s Cuff began to vibrate, as did Ava’s cell phone, as did the phones in every newsroom, television station, military installation, government office, school, and hospital on the planet.

  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

  TRANSCRIPT: NEWSWIRE, EXCERP
TED

  CC: DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE, SCI INQUIRY HEARINGS

  [BREAKING] PALERMO AVOIDS; MONREALE ENDURES NUCLEAR MISSILE SCORES MIRACULOUS MISS (AP)

  (ROME) BREAKING: Italian officials are confirming this morning that Sicily’s largest city, Palermo, has been the target of a high-precision nuclear missile strike.

  The attack apparently targeted Monreale, a small, suburban commune built atop the hillside of Monte Caputo, in the province of Palermo. When an evacuation order was issued by the provincial government early this morning, upon first hearing of the imminent attack, the majority of local residents were able to depart.

  The town is renowned primarily for its twelfth-century cathedral, considered one of the finest remaining examples of Norman and Byzantine architecture, and containing some six thousand square meters of glass mosaic work.

  In its final approach, the missile avoided hitting the Monreale Cathedral; its historic cloisters were destroyed. “It’s a heartbreaking loss, but also a miraculous blessing that so many human lives were spared,” said the press office of the Holy See, speaking on behalf of the Vatican.

  Italian military personnel have not released any other information offering motivation for the Sicilian strike, or for the particular choice of Monreale as a target.

  No group has stepped up to claim responsibility for the strike, which represents the first time that a nuclear missile has been launched on a civilian population since the United States bombed Nagasaki and Hiroshima in the final weeks of World War II in 1945. World leaders have offered Italy, Sicily, Palermo, and Monreale condolences in the wake of the sudden tragedy.

  NEW YORK PORT AUTHORITY,

  PENN STATION

  THE GREAT CITY OF NEW YORK

  “Burner phones? What are we supposed to do with two burner phones?” Dante sounded disappointed as he stared at the disposable plastic phone in his hand. Yeah, nuclear missiles are dropping on the world and all I can do is phone a friend. That’s helpful.

  A grim-faced agent had driven them off base in an unmarked black SUV the moment Ava was gone. They had been dropped at Penn Station, presumably so Dante could get the train back to Montclair. Sana had gotten off with him, saying she had a cab coming for her, which he guessed was just an excuse to not ride around alone with the guy with the gun.

  Not that I blame her.

  But Dante had no intention of going home, and soon enough he figured Sana must have known that—mostly because they began to walk toward the subway together, without even discussing it.

  “It’s just a free phone.” Sana shrugged. “What did you expect her to give us, ray guns?”

  “Blasters. First of all, that would have been cool, and second of all, way more Star Wars,” Dante said.

  “Ava already got all Jedi on that dealer with her lightsaber things. How much more do you want?”

  “Whatever. That was awesome.” Dante looked at Sana. “Also, how much cooler would fencing be if you could use those?”

  “So much cooler,” Sana agreed.

  Cooler than fencing, cooler even than LARPing, Dante thought.

  For a second he wished Alexei could have been there to see it—see her—until he remembered that Alexei already had seen all kinds of things like that, without even telling him.

  Jerk. He could have told me the truth. I would have been able to understand.

  It was too late for that. Dante had explained that to himself in the mirror, almost every morning of the past year. It was too late to wonder what would have happened if Alexei hadn’t seen Ava at the tournament. If Dante hadn’t let Alexei leave him. If Dante had even just kept him fighting Cap, their idiot of a former team captain, who had torn his ACL the very next week and been kicked off the team. Dante wished he could have at least told Alexei that.

  And anyway, he wouldn’t have needed me to explain how his girlfriend could kick butt like a Jedi in the Fort Greene subway stop.

  That would have been the first thing Al noticed about her. Well, the second thing. I was there when he noticed the first thing.

  He couldn’t look away.

  Then he felt Sana’s eyes on him and his face turned red.

  Dante smiled. “Just thinking about LARPing.”

  “You must really like LARPing,” Sana observed.

  Dante changed the subject. “Look. Ava and Agent Romanoff and that whole secret intelligence agency—they can’t honestly expect us to sit here doing nothing, now that we know all this stuff is happening.”

  Sana laughed. “Yeah, right.”

  “I mean, can they?” Dante asked.

  “They can do whatever they want,” she said. “They’re not going to ask your opinion. That’s the whole secret-agency vibe, remember?”

  “Sucks,” Dante said, feeling like a powerless loser. He’d felt that same helplessness about his life for the past year and he was sick of it.

  “It’s not personal,” Sana said, looking at him.

  Dante frowned. “It’s also not like we have to get their permission to help out. They don’t own saving the world.”

  “I still can’t believe Ava is one of them,” Sana said, watching a train take off. “The Red Widow, do you believe that? You think there will be action figures of her, like Natasha Romanoff?”

  “I don’t know.” Dante shrugged. “But here’s what I’m thinking. Ava may be a spy or an agent or a hero in training or whatever, but I’m the son of a cop.”

  “So you keep telling me,” Sana observed.

  “I can’t just sit around while people drop bombs on freaking churches. Can you?”

  “No.” She looked at him somberly. “What do you propose we should be doing?”

  What can we do that would matter? What would Alexei and I do, if he was still here? What would I do, if I was the one at the secret agency?

  Dante looked up. “What about the drugs? The Faith or whatever? That’s here in the city—and Ava went after that dealer in the subway station like it was important, right?”

  “She sure didn’t hold back,” Sana agreed.

  Dante hoisted his fencing bag over his shoulder, shaking his head. “Man, she’s a baller.”

  “Yeah?” Sana smiled, studying his face. “You say that about all the girls? Or just the ones training to be super heroes?”

  “Just the ones who are ballers.” Dante looked away, embarrassed. Alexei had been his best friend, and he wasn’t about to go crushing on his girlfriend.

  Why? Was that what you were doing?

  “Whatever you say,” Sana said.

  “Just stating a fact,” Dante finally said.

  “Sure.” Sana shrugged. “I believe you. You’re the cop’s son.”

  He looked at her, the beginnings of an idea slowly unfolding in his mind. “Well, maybe that’s it. I am a cop’s son.”

  Was there something he could do?

  “We’ve established that,” Sana said. “And moved on.”

  “No, I mean that’s how we could do it,” he said, thinking out loud. “Figure out the Faith situation. We go to the precinct, see what the cops can tell us.”

  “Tell us what?”

  “Who knows? If we go back through all the records of recent drug busts, maybe we can find something about Faith,” Dante said. “If it’s been out on the street for more than a week, I guarantee you someone has been busted for it. Probably even with it.”

  Sana considered the idea. “It’s true that we know what Faith looks like, and where it comes from. We might notice something the police would miss.”

  Dante nodded. “And we’ve seen that dude jump in front of a train just because his dealer made him. Maybe the NYPD will have more records about how people act when they’re using.”

  “That was so creepy,” she said.

  “Like a zombie. Like mind control or something,” he agreed.

  Sana stared out at the tracks. “You’re right,” she said, finally. “Faith is bad news. We have to do what we can.”

  Dante thought about it. “
Every precinct keeps a photographic database of their evidence room. We might actually be able to track down more Faith samples, now that we know what to look for.”

  It could actually work. If only my dad would help, for once—

  “You think we can just walk in a police station and say, ‘His dad’s a cop, now let us use your computers’?” She looked skeptical.

  “No. But it’s Friday now, right? Fridays my dad does swing shift at the Twenty-Sixth Precinct, in south Harlem. A Hundred Twenty-Sixth and Amsterdam, by Columbia. How about we take a subway uptown and ask him ourselves?”

  At least it’ll give him a chance to grill me. He’ll like that.

  “Let’s go.” Sana pulled her MetroCard back out of her pocket with a flourish. “Don’t ever say I didn’t do anything nice for you. Or, I guess, mankind.”

  Dante grinned. “Go nuts, big spender.”

  Dirt and cigarettes and coffee—with the occasional whiff of old booze and old weed and old pee, depending on who was waiting. All these places smell the same. Dante put on his game face and stepped up to the precinct’s worn front counter.

  “Hey, Lieutenant Mackey. You see my dad around lately?” Mackey was a burly cop drinking a too-small Styrofoam cup of coffee, a permanent fixture at the Twenty-Sixth.

  “Sir Lancelot.” Mackey nodded, winking. “The Cap’s in the back.” Then he looked at Sana. “You got a date, Lancey?”

  “In his dreams,” Sana said, dropping into a hard wooden chair along the wall next to the counter. “Also, I thought Lancelot was supposed to be the good-looking one?”

  Mackey hooted. “Burn. You got a feisty one, kid.”

  “Just ignore him,” Dante said, starting around the counter toward the back rooms of the station. “Mackey confuses fencing with jousting.”

  “No can do, Sir Talks-a-Lot,” Mackey said, stepping in front of him. “Only officers allowed past this drawbridge, unless you happen to be wearing Cuffs.”

  “Can you send my dad out, then? It’s important.” Dante pulled out his phone, like he was about to start crushing candy. “I’ll wait.”

  Mackey gave him a look.

  Dante picked up Mackey’s little coffee cup and handed it to him. “Go on. You know you need a refill anyways.”