Widow's Shadow

II: Inquiry

January 15 2027

Istanbul, Turkey

While the streets were filled with the sounds of thriving businesses, the alleys were silent and vacant. Even the sound of struggle was muffled as James dragged The Merchant down to an abandoned house at the far end of the cobble stoned path. The smell of smoke hung in the air from a nearby bakery as they walked into the empty room.

Dust clung to every corner, inhabiting the forgotten space and the wallpaper held on as it began to peel from the heavily cemented walls.

James threw The Merchant onto what seemed to be stable chair and Natasha aimed her gun directly to his leg. An area with no vital organs but will send a surge of pain if he attempted to escape.

A duffel bag was tossed onto the table, ripples of dust floated into the sunlight coming from the crack in the window; glistening like stars in the streak of unwelcomed light. James searched the bag until he found handcuffs, and they too gleamed in the light. The Merchant's back was to James as he footed to him. More waves of dust rushed into the air every time James' combat boots hit the worn and tattered carpet.

The cold metal touched the heat of the man's skin as the handcuffs clicked into place; James' hands both covered in gloves that seal his identity.

"My men will come for me!" He blurted out in anger laced with fear.

Natasha bent down to his level, his eyes searching her any vulnerability. "Oh is that so?" She turned her head to James who was leaning against the wall. "You see, my friend over there," she tilted her chin in James' direction, "took them all out before they could blink."

"Twenty men in fifteen seconds." She added, her voice showing a sign of impression. The man looked at her with more fear, he had no backup.

"What do you want?" His voice began to shake.

Natasha stood up and began to circle The Merchant. "Getting straight to the point now are we?" James smirked at her sarcastic tone. Natasha stopped behind the man, her hand suddenly wrapped around his neck and other gripped a Gerber Mark II, pressed against the bottom of his neck. With one movement, she can silt his Jugular vein; causing him to choke on his own blood. James checked his pockets, searching for his knife. She took it from him. He sighed thinking about how slick and easy it was to slip in while he wasn't paying attention.

"Where is your provider?" Natasha gritted as she pulled him lower, causing his chair to lean back.

"I'm my own provider." His voice mumbled under her hand.

Wrong answer.

Natasha laughed. "Playing the smartass card?" Her lips touched his ear. "It doesn't suit you."

James placed a hand on her shoulder, beckoning her to come and talk. Privately. She kept her eyes on the man as they walked into the compact kitchen. Its utilities ancient a coated in deep orange rust.

"What?" Natasha said impatiently.

"Let me take over." James said silently.

"No! I'm about to get what I need!" Her voice hushed but her anger was concentrated.

James can sense she has changed, ever since that day. The day they put a bullet into Trikov's head. The day she was told by her enemy, her nightmare, that her own daughter was alive. She never let it go, it has been over two years and she is still focused on the slightest hope that Rose was still alive.

James didn't argue, he put his hands up in defeat. He knew that she wouldn't allow him to step all over this, even if it meant saving her from being swallowed by Trikov's words.

Before James could say another word she was already facing The Merchant, his face trickled with sweat.

"Let's try this again." Her knife−James' knife−glinted in the natural light. "Your boss, who is he?"

The man stared into Natasha's eyes, afraid to let go. His chest rose in rapid speed while fear wrapped him like a cold hug. James sauntered to Natasha, standing right beside her with arms crossed. The air felt warm in the tiny space, filling with rising blood pressure.

Her eyebrow rose up. "Did he lose his tongue or?" She faced James for a split second, he shrugged his shoulders.

"He was screaming like a little bitch just a couple minutes ago." James answered.

"You have a point." Natasha responded, her hair dark whipped across her back, brushing the white cotton. "You have two options. Either, you give us the identity of your boss or," She kneeled down, stroking the cold metal of the knife against his neck, sliding it down to his chest. "I'll carve you like statue of David."

He swallowed long and hard, contemplating his options. Sweat continued to run down his temples and his breathing was inconsistent. "Not a he," He stuttered nervously. "A she."

Natasha kept her eyes on him, she stood up; unfazed. James also kept his reaction to himself, a sign of vulnerability they could not reveal.

Terror burned The Merchant's face like hot metal branded his skin. "She's a mastermind who was feared−dreaded by HYDRA." His legs shook with every word. "Inspired by the works of Arnim Zola and his Winter Soldier." The last two words rung in their ears.

James jerked his head, not being able to hide his shock this time. He walked to the man, his flesh and blood wrapped tightly around his throbbing neck. "Name." He gripped tighter. "Now."

The Merchant's face turned red under James' fingers. His breathing heavy, struggling. Natasha took a step forward. "Let go." Her voice muffled in his rage. After two heavy breaths, his fingers loosened and slowly unclenched. The Merchant sucked in large gulps of air, his eyes covered in a sheen of water.

"Marlisa," His breathing dense, as if he was holding back. "Marlisa Zola."

Natasha's eyes widened. "That's impossible−" A surge of pain hit her left shoulder and she fell to the ground, a shower of glass and wooden blinds splashed across the floor like raging waves crashing into crooked rocks. James ducked behind the tiled counter of the kitchen.

Their ears deafened by the continuous crashing and clashing of bullets piercing and puncturing through the broken window. The Merchant jolted and jerked, penetrated by the avalanche of gun powder encased in metal. Blood splattering across the worn and tattered carpet, like an angry artist spraying crimson paint across his canvas.

Natasha leaned against the wall that framed the window, pressing her hand on her bleeding wound; slowing the rush of blood exiting the blow. Debris fell like snow, coating the area. The gunshots stopped and their surroundings muted.

The Merchant, still handcuffed to the broken chair, laid on the floor. His blood outlined around his body, seeping through his clothing. His eyes open but unresponsive, death taking him sooner than they hoped.

James stood up and stared cautiously out the kitchen window. If anyone was there, they were long gone by now. He ran across the room, running to Natasha's side. James' eyes was on the wound and the pain it left. His hands clasped onto hers as he pulled her up.

"We have to go." James said as he pushed a loose strand of her coal black hair behind her ear. Natasha wasn't paying attention to James' soft tone or touch but the dead man that was sprawled lifeless on the floor covered in debris.

She was close, so close.