The command center door was reinforced steel, mag-locked, and probably rigged to explode.
Steve examined it while I coordinated global operations through my earpiece. "Poland extraction complete. Thailand extraction complete. Mongolia..." I paused, hearing Frank's strained breathing. "Mongolia status?"
"Facility destroyed. Explosive trap claimed three operatives—Kowalski, Martinez, Chen." Frank's voice carried weight of command decisions gone wrong. "Four Widows extracted alive. We're moving to secondary extraction point."
Three names. Three people I'd recruited, trained, led into combat. Dead because I'd ordered this operation.
Accept it. Grieve later. Mission continues.
"Confirmed. Return to staging area." I switched channels. "Belarus team, final breach imminent. Taskmaster location?"
"Perimeter of command center," Yelena reported. "Guarding Dreykov. She's not attacking, just blocking access."
"Steve, can you breach that door?"
"Not without Taskmaster engaging immediately." He tested the lock. "Need her distracted. Sixty seconds minimum."
Natasha stepped forward. "I'll draw her out. She's fixated on me—Dreykov's programming prioritizes eliminating Black Widow above other targets."
"That's suicide," Yelena said flatly.
"That's tactical advantage." Natasha checked her weapons. "I engage, she follows, you breach. Simple."
"Nothing's simple with photographic reflexes—" I started.
"I know the risks." She met my eyes. "Trust me to do my job."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to override her with command authority. But Natasha Romanoff had survived things that should have killed her a dozen times over. She knew her capabilities.
"Sixty seconds," I said. "Then we're coming through regardless."
She moved into position.
Natasha's assault was poetry written in violence.
She attacked Taskmaster from three angles simultaneously—throwing knife, energy weapon blast, physical strike. Taskmaster copied each response perfectly, but Natasha had spent years developing unpredictability. She flowed between styles—Widow, SHIELD, ballet-trained grace that photographic reflexes struggled to categorize.
The fight moved down the corridor.
"Now!" Steve hit the door with his shield.
Metal shrieked. The mag-lock shattered. We poured through into command center—sparse room with computer terminals, monitors showing facility layouts, and one man standing calmly in the center uploading data to external servers.
Dreykov.
White hair. Expensive suit. Expression of absolute confidence despite armed operatives surrounding him.
"You must be Yelena Belova," he said in Russian. "Traitor Widow. You've cost me significant resources."
Yelena raised her weapon. "You enslaved me. Tortured me. Turned me into weapon. I'm here to end you."
"End me?" Dreykov laughed. "You think this ends with me? Red Room is idea, not place. Training protocols, conditioning methods, operational networks—all backed up with Leviathan AI. You rescue some Widows today, I build more tomorrow. There's always orphans. Always desperate people. Always market for what I provide."
"You provide slavery," Steve said, voice hard.
"I provide purpose to girls who would otherwise die anonymous and meaningless. I transform them into excellence. Into power." Dreykov returned to his computer. "You're too late anyway. Data upload ninety-seven percent complete. Physical evidence destroyed. And I have diplomatic immunity through Russian Federation shell companies. I walk free within days regardless of your vigilante justice."
Yelena's finger tightened on the trigger.
Steve moved between them. "He faces trial. We don't execute prisoners."
"He'll never see trial. You heard him—diplomatic immunity."
"Then we find legal recourse. But we don't—"
Explosion from the corridor cut him off.
Taskmaster had thrown Natasha through a wall.
I moved instinctively, sprinting toward the sound. Enhanced Reflexes showed me the scene in slow-motion clarity—Natasha pinned against rubble, knife through her shoulder, blood spreading across tactical gear. Taskmaster raising blade for killing strike.
No time to think. Only react.
I activated Gravity Control and Kinetic Absorption simultaneously.
The void marks exploded with heat beneath my shirt. Corruption spiked—I felt it climbing through thirteen-point-five percent, approaching fourteen. But Taskmaster's weight reduced to near-nothing. She floated, confused, strike momentum absorbed into my body as stored energy.
I redirected that energy as force blast.
Taskmaster launched across the corridor, hit the wall hard enough to crack concrete, crumpled in heap of bent armor. Her helmet fractured, revealing scarred face underneath.
Antonia Dreykov. Nine years old in Natasha's memory. Twenty-something now with scars across her face where explosion had nearly killed her and neural implant visible at her temple.
"What the hell was that?" Steve demanded, emerging from command center.
"Proprietary enhancement." I was already moving to Natasha, activating Regeneration to help her shoulder knit. "Don't ask."
"I'm asking—"
"Later." I pulled the knife free carefully. Natasha screamed but my healing factor was already transferring through contact, accelerating her natural recovery. "Yelena, Dreykov status?"
"Secured. Uploading finished but we have him in custody." Her voice came through tinny with fury. "For however long that lasts."
Antonia stirred. Tried to stand despite armor damage. Conditioning warring with damaged consciousness.
Yelena approached slowly, hands raised. "Antonia. I'm sorry. For the explosion, for everything Dreykov did to you after. But you can choose now—stay his weapon or come with us."
Antonia's scarred face twisted. Neural implant sparked. Her mouth opened.
"Help... me."
Two words. Barely human. But conscious choice made through years of conditioning.
I tranquilized her immediately before programming could reassert control. "Medical transport, priority one. Full deprogramming protocols. Neural implant removal requires specialist surgery but we save her even if it takes years."
"You're not what I expected, Hammer," Steve said quietly, helping Natasha stand. "More complicated."
"Everyone's complicated. I'm just honest about it."
Belarus facility secured at 0612 hours.
We extracted with eight Widows, one Taskmaster, and Dreykov in restraints. Behind us, planted explosives reduced the bunker to rubble—one less Red Room facility operational.
Final count transmitted from all sites: thirty Widows freed total. Three ARES operatives dead. Seventeen wounded including Natasha's serious shoulder injury. Four facilities destroyed. Dreykov captured but facing political release.
The Quinjet lifted off into dawn sky. I sat beside Natasha while Christine—transported in for field medical support—worked on her shoulder.
"Stupid," Christine muttered, cleaning the wound. "Engaging super-soldier level threat without backup."
"Had backup. Just moved faster than expected." Natasha's voice was strained but functional. "Thanks for the intervention, Justin."
"Couldn't let her kill you. I have use for you still."
"Romantic."
"I try."
Steve sat across from us, shield beside him, studying me with calculating expression. "That force blast. The gravity manipulation. Those aren't normal capabilities."
"No. They're not."
"How many powers do you have?"
"Enough to be useful. Not enough to be invincible." I met his eyes. "You going to report me to SHIELD?"
"Depends. Are you a threat?"
"To bad guys? Yes. To innocent people? No. To cosmic threats nobody else is preparing for? Hopefully yes." I leaned back. "I'm building capabilities for war most people don't know is coming. If that makes me threat, then I'm threat. But I'm threat pointed in right direction."
Steve was quiet for long moment. Then nodded slowly. "Fair enough. But I'm watching you, Hammer. Power without accountability becomes tyranny."
"Power with too much accountability becomes ineffective. I'm finding balance."
"Let's hope you find it before it finds you."
The Quinjet carried us home through morning light. Below, Belarus facility burned. Somewhere behind us, three ARES operatives weren't coming home. But thirty Widows were free. Antonia had a chance at humanity. Dreykov's empire was fractured.
Partial victory. Better than nothing. Worse than hoped.
The void marks pulsed steadily beneath my shirt.
Fourteen percent corruption now. Two years minus however much dual-power activation had cost me.
But Natasha was alive. That was worth every percentage point.
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