Cat and Mouse ↣ Natasha Romanoff

i.

CHAPTER ONE

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❝Death will have death.❞

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IT had been one of those assignments that Tristan's subordinates took, one that he shouldn't have bothered with at all.

But it was a different story when Josef Weber showed up dead.

His death was hushed up by Kendra, but the others were beginning to talk. Weber was the third that had been sent after Natasha Romanoff, and out of the three, he had been the best.

Not that it mattered anymore.

Now that the Russian assassin was Tristan Win's assignment, they all knew exactly how dangerous she was. Win was Kendra Valient's right-hand man, the only one of her many pets that she would loosen the leash of. Several of the older ones used to say that the thirst for violence ran in Win's blood just as it did in Madam Valient's. That made the two kin, both hungering for the need to survive and to do whatever it took to end up on the top of the food chain.

Measured breaths echoed around the room as these countless thoughts darted to and fro from Tristan Win's brain, his eyes on the fingers flying across the keyboard before him. Every single notable detail on Natasha Romanoff's nature and her kill streak was accounted for - all that was left was to actually find the woman, and hopefully put a bullet through her head before she pulled the trigger of her own gun.

Tristan had confidence in his abilities. He wasn't Madam Valient's golden boy for nothing. But several hours in and he was beginning to feel frustrated - Romanoff appeared to be as adept online at hiding herself as she was in real life.

An irritated frown crossed the assassin's lips and he placed a heavy hand on the shoulder of the one in the chair. Greg Darson was fresh out of his teenage years, but the tremble that shook his shoulders now befitted a child faced with a horror movie.

"Aren't you supposed to be excellent at finding women?" the words were measured, like Tristan's every move.

Greg only shuddered again. "M-Maybe ordinary girls - "

Tristan's grip tightened. "This is no ordinary girl, Greg."

The boy winced. "N-no, I guess not."

"So your skills are useless, then."

"No!" Suddenly Darson's thick tone was clear with fright and panic. "Please..."

He was begging. Begging was always the person's last option - begging meant you had nothing left to do.

Begging meant you were worthless.

"Please what?" Tristan asked, a muscle jumping in the his jaw.

"I tried, I did..."

Now he was making excuses. No, there was no such thing as excuses. There was no room for error, and if you didn't succeed, it was only logical to deduce that you failed.

And if you failed, you died.

Tristan was mopping blood off the monitor when Kendra Valient entered.

"I told you not to waste your time," she said, her tone icy.

Tristan stared at the floor, concrete grey with fresh red flecks. "Forgive me, Madam. It was..." It was worth a try? No, he realized, it wasn't. Not if Valient didn't see it as so. "It was a mistake on my part."

"Let's hope there will be no more of these mistakes, then," said Valient. "I'd hate for my best assassin to die before he even began the hunt."

And Tristan kept quiet, because there was nothing else he could do.