Officer Carl Doyle of the Woodcliff Lake Police department shifted his weight from foot to foot on the sidewalk, checking his watch for the third time in as many minutes. The suburban street was quiet now, yellow crime scene tape still stretched across the doorway of the beige house behind him. He'd burned a big favor getting a hold of someone, mostly leaning on his cousin, Sergeant Doyle with the NYPD, who had some distant connection to... well, to her.
A black Chevrolet Caprice rolled up to the curb, its engine settling into a low idle. The rear door opened, and a woman with distinctive red hair stepped out, adjusting her fur coat. She was of average height and moved with a fluid confidence. Her hair was cut short in a textured, swept-back style that framed sharp features.
An older man remained in the driver's seat, leaning slightly to get a better view. He had a thick build and spoke with a distinctive accent that somehow reminded Carl of old detective movies. "You sure about this, Tasha? Playing detective for the locals?"
"I'll be fine, Ivan Petrovich." The woman waved him off. "Stop being such a old woman."
She turned and walked toward Carl with purposeful strides. "Good evening, Officer...?"
"Doyle. Carl Doyle, ma'am." He extended his hand. She shook it with a firm grip. "Natasha. Your cousin mentioned you had questions, and I didn't have anything pressing." Her voice was professional, clipped with a hint of an accent. No wasted words. "What made you reach out?"
Carl fumbled with the folder tucked under his arm. "I know I'm just a suburban cop, ma'am, but something about this whole thing feels wrong. The department wants to write it off. Turf war, gang activity, whatever. But I've been going over the evidence, and..." He trailed off, suddenly feeling foolish. Who was he to question the assessment of detectives with decades more experience?
"Be specific," Natasha said, not unkindly. "What feels wrong?"
Carl opened the folder, pulling out several crime scene photographs. "The wounds on one of the stiffs. They don't look like regular bullet wounds. Not like anything I've seen in training or in the field manuals." He handed her the photos, pointing to specific images. "This man here, the redhead. Two entry wounds, center mass. Too small, too clean. Like someone stabbed him with an ice pick. The exit wounds are barely visible, just small punctures. Nothing like a normal gunshot."
Natasha took the photos, studying them under the streetlight. Her expression shifted. Still professional, but with a sharpness now, like a switch had flipped. She flipped through several images, then held one up to the light.
"You were correct to question their initial assessment," she said quietly.
"Ma'am?"
She tapped the photo. "Needle pistol. Point-one-five caliber flechette weapon."
Carl blinked. "A... needle pistol?"
"Specialized weapon. Finned projectiles with explosive collars. Propel the dart at over eighteen hundred feet per second."
Carl sputtered. "I've never even heard of a weapon like that."
"You wouldn't have." Natasha handed the photos back, her expression thoughtful. "That's not hardware that small-time criminals have access to."
Carl felt a chill. "So whoever did this..."
"Was a pretty sophisticated actor." Natasha looked at the house, her eyes scanning the windows, the entry points. "Walk me through the incident."
Carl flipped through his notes. "Multiple gunshots were reported around ten-fifteen AM. First responders arrived twenty minutes later. Found five men inside. One DOA from the needle weapon you just identified. Two others unconscious. The fourth was conscious with a shoulder wound from the same weapon. The fifth had severe head trauma, blunt force. Died en route to the hospital."
"Survivors?"
"Three. They're in custody but aren't talking. No ID on any of them, no wallets, nothing. Fingerprints came back negative in our system."
"Professionals." Natasha frowned. "What about the scene? Any indication what they were doing here?"
"House has been empty for years. Belongs to some holding company, pays its taxes, but nobody lives there. The wounded man was tied up, and so were two other guys. No other evidence. No drugs, no stolen goods, no money." He hesitated. "Basement was a little strange, though."
"Show me."
They walked up to the house, ducking under the crime scene tape. The interior was exactly as Carl had described. Generic suburban rental frozen in time, except for the obvious signs of violence. Overturned furniture, bullet holes in the drywall, blood on the carpet.
Natasha paused in the foyer, crouching near where the body had been found. She studied the floor, the angles, the sight lines to the other rooms. "Whoever used the needle pistol came through here fast. Didn't hesitate." She pointed toward the kitchen. "Took cover behind the island. Engaged from there." She stood, walking through the scene. "Professional training. Knew how to move under fire."
They descended to the basement. The game room looked normal. Pool table centered on the floor, dartboard on the wall, pub signs creating that British working-class atmosphere. Natasha walked slowly around the perimeter, studying the walls, the floor, the ceiling with methodical attention.
"What are you looking for?" Carl asked.
"Whatever they were after." She paused, running her fingers along the wall near one of the pub signs. "Empty house. Five men. Firefight. People don't kill each other over nothing." She crouched by the wall, examining the floor. "Dust patterns are interesting."
Carl followed her gaze but couldn't see what she was seeing.
Natasha stood, brushing her hands off. "Someone was in here recently. Within the last day or two." She gestured around the basement. "The rest of this house is less disturbed. Dust everywhere. But this room saw activity." She frowned slightly. "Hard to tell exactly what with your crime scene technicians tramping through the place, but the patterns are there."
"You think something was hidden down here?"
"I think something was hidden down here. Past tense." She walked toward the stairs. "Whatever it was, they took it."
Carl felt his stomach drop. "So this is... what, organized crime? In Woodcliff Lake?"
"Welcome to the wider world, Officer." Natasha's tone was matter-of-fact, almost cold.
"What do I do?"
She considered this. "Your department wants to bury it?"
"Pretty much. Unsolved shooting, suspects in custody but not talking. Case will probably sit in a file somewhere."
"Then let it go." Natasha moved toward the stairs. "Whatever happened here is well beyond the responsibilities of a suburban police department, and it's unlikely to happen again. You called in favors to get someone who could identify what you were looking at. I can respect that. But the people behind this have resources your department doesn't." She paused. "If you keep pushing, you'll get on the radar of some very unpleasant people. You don't want that."
Carl swallowed. "Understood."
They walked back outside. Ivan was still waiting in the Caprice, though he'd pulled out a newspaper. Natasha paused before getting in the car.
"You have good instincts, Officer Doyle. Not many would have caught that discrepancy in the wound patterns." She gave him a perfunctory smile.
"Thank you, ma'am."
She nodded once, then slid into the back seat of the Caprice.
After about 10 minutes of silence, Ivan glanced at Natasha in the rearview mirror. "Worth the trip?"
Natasha stared out the window, her mind already working through the implications. "It was informative. Didn't think people with access to that kind of hardware would have business in a New Jersey suburb."
"You thinking it's worth following up on?"
"I'll make some call-"
The utility van came out of nowhere.
It slammed into the Caprice's rear quarter panel with a crunch of metal and breaking glass. The sedan spun, tires shrieking as Ivan fought the wheel. They came to rest at an angle across the New Jersey road, the engine stalling.
"Son of a..." Ivan was already moving, reaching under his seat. "You okay, Tasha?"
"Fine." But Black Widow's instincts were screaming. This wasn't an accident. She started to take off her coat, revealing her grey bodysuit beneath, its high collar framing her face. She reached into the fur coat's inner pocket and pulled out her gold bracers, sliding them onto her wrists.
Ivan stepped out of the car, his bulk filling the doorframe. "Stay put."
The utility van's door opened. A man in coveralls climbed out, hands raised apologetically. "Geez, I'm sorry, I didn't see..."
"Save it," Ivan growled, circling toward the damage. His hand stayed near his jacket. "Let's see some..."
The man moved. Fast. Too fast for a civilian.
His fist caught Ivan in the solar plexus, a precise strike that folded the big Russian forward. Before Ivan could recover, the man had him in a chokehold, squeezing.
"Nothing personal, pal."
Black Widow was already moving. The Widow's Bite charged with a familiar hum as she kicked the car door open.
She came out of the car in a crouch, her left hand extended. The driver still had Ivan in a chokehold, using him as a shield.
"Let him go."
The man smirked. "Can't do that, sweetheart."
Black Widow fired. The electrostatic blast caught the driver in the shoulder. Thirty thousand volts at full charge. He convulsed, his grip on Ivan loosening as he collapsed. Ivan dropped to one knee, gasping.
Another van screeched to a halt behind the Caprice.
Three men poured out in the distinctive green and yellow uniforms she'd seen many times before. The men fanned out in a practiced pattern. But instead of firearms, each carried specialized equipment. Cattle prods, a net launcher, and what looked like a concussion rifle.
Hydra. And they want me alive.
She pivoted, firing another charge at the lead agent. He went down hard, the electrical discharge dropping him mid-stride. But the other two were already moving.
The agent with the cattle prod pressed forward, the weapon emitting a high-pitched hum that made her teeth ache. She dodged left, but the third agent fired the concussion rifle. She twisted away before the distorted air could hit her head-on, and rolled behind the Caprice.
Then she heard a third vehicle screeching to a halt.
Multiple teams. Coordinated.
She looked over the hood of the car, and saw 5 men piling out of the newly arrived van. The first three were all carrying capture gear. Collapsible batons. Electrified restraints, and what appeared to be some sort of launcher.
Finally, the last two men held suppressed firearms at low ready. Backup, in case things went catastrophically wrong. But those weapons stayed down, fingers off triggers. They very much wanted her alive.
One of the agents raised a bulky launcher. With a soft whump, a projectile arced through the air.
Black Widow started to move.
The grenade detonated mid-air, three feet above her head.
No shrapnel. Just overwhelming pressure and sound that turned her inner ear to jelly. The world became a blur of swimming shapes and muffled noise. She twisted away instinctively, protecting her eyes even as her balance went sideways.
A pair of gloved hands grabbed her from behind.
She drove her elbow back hard, felt it connect with something soft beneath the uniform fabric. A grunt. His grip loosened. She twisted free, her vision still swimming, operating on muscle memory and instinct.
A blurred figure lunged at her. She snapped a kick at center mass, and felt the satisfying crunch of ribs breaking. The figure dropped with a wheeze.
Movement to her left. She ducked, and the electrified baton whistled past where her head had been. She came up with her wrist extended, fired blind. The Widow's Bite caught a hydra agent square in the chest. He went down convulsing.
Then lightning shot through her body.
The electrified net hit her from behind, weighted edges wrapping around her shoulders and torso. Electricity surged through the conductive mesh. Every muscle locked. Her legs gave out.
She hit the pavement hard, still wrapped in the crackling net. Tried to move, to activate her bracers, but her hands wouldn't respond. Another pulse of electricity coursed through the net.
Boots surrounded her. Crimson goggles looked down through the haze.
A voice, close to her ear. Triumphant.
"Hail Hydra."
Then darkness took her.