Chapter 2
Salzburg is cold.
Not the biting, unforgiving cold of a Russian winter he’d experienced only once before, but the kind that lingers in the bones, creeping under layers of clothing no matter how tightly they’re pulled. The streets glisten with leftover rain, the cobblestone slick beneath Clint’s boots as he moves, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. It’s late, the sky a heavy shade of iron, and the city hums with quiet life — cars rolling by, the occasional burst of laughter from an open doorway, the rhythmic echo of footsteps on damp pavement.
Recon first. Always recon. It’s a routine he’s stuck to since he first started out as a contract killer, and one he was especially thankful for on that fever dream of a night in Copenhagen.
He’s been here for half a day now, long enough to ditch the plane, check into a nondescript rental under a fake name, and start getting a feel for the city. It’s not a large place — smaller than Vienna, less chaotic than Berlin — but it’s built in layers, a tangle of winding streets, old stone bridges, and footpaths that snake up the steep hillside. Plenty of places to disappear. Plenty of places to stage a hit.
And there’s going to be a hit.
Anatoly Fedorov, ex-KGB, is holed up somewhere in this city under CIA protection, waiting for an extraction that might never come. SHIELD caught wind of the situation, and Phil had been very interested in making sure Fedorov lived long enough to talk. Which meant Clint had to find him first.
Of course, he wasn’t the only one looking.
The Black Widow was here, somewhere in this city, already working. He didn’t know much about her, just whispers and scattered intel buried in old KGB files. But Phil had been firm — she was the real deal. Fast, precise, impossible to track unless she wanted to be found. If she was on Fedorov’s tail, the clock was already ticking.
Clint keeps moving, making mental notes as he walks.
Surveillance cameras — more than he expected, but nothing he can’t work around. Rooftop access — good vantage points, though some will take more effort to reach. High-traffic areas — potential ambush points, but also escape routes if things go sideways. He maps it all out in his head, slotting it into place, building a plan before he even knows what the mission will require.
He rounds a corner onto a quieter street, the kind lined with high-end boutiques and wine shops that cater to tourists with too much money. The air smells like rain and expensive perfume, the sidewalks still slick from the last downpour. A couple lingers near a taxi stand, deep in argument, their voices low and tense in German. A group of students spills out of a bar across the street, laughing, one of them gesturing wildly with a half-empty beer bottle.
Then—
A flicker of red.
Clint’s breath slows.
It’s barely anything. Just a brief glimpse, a flash of movement at the edge of his vision — someone turning a corner up ahead, vanishing into the crowd. Red hair, catching the dull glow of a streetlamp. It’s not bright, not obvious, but even if it weren’t for his keen eyesight, something about it sticks.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t change his pace. Just keeps walking, rolling his shoulders like he’s got nowhere to be.
When he reaches the corner, he glances up — casual, unassuming. The side street is narrow, winding off into the shadows, lined with shuttered storefronts and old stone facades. No sign of anyone.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it wasn’t.
Either way, he keeps moving.
He’s got work to do.
The rain hasn’t let up.
It clings to the streets in thick, glistening sheets, muting the city under its steady rhythm. Salzburg is a place of old stone and quiet charm, a city that moves at its own pace, unbothered by the weight of history. But tonight, it feels suffocating. Natalia moves through its narrow alleys like a shadow, the hood of her jacket pulled low, the weight of the silenced pistol resting comfortably at the small of her back.
Fedorov made this easy. That almost annoys her.
He should know better.
She tracks him to a modest apartment on the outskirts of the city, a temporary safehouse before the CIA can move him. She had expected better security. A team, at least. Instead, there’s just one man in a parked car down the street — Western intelligence, by the look of him, but not someone she needs to worry about. He doesn’t even notice when she slips past him, disappearing into the side entrance of the building.
Inside, the stairwell smells like damp stone and cigarette smoke. She moves up two floors, counting the doors until she reaches 2C. No light spills from under the frame. No sound.
She presses her ear against the wood, listening. A chair scraping against the floor. A slow, heavy breath.
Fedorov is alone.
Foolish.
She pulls out a small lockpick and slips it into the keyhole. It takes seconds. The door eases open, and she moves inside, silent as the rain.
The apartment is sparse — just a worn couch, a half-empty bottle of vodka on the table, and stacks of files spilling out of a suitcase. Fedorov is hunched over them, his back to her, the dim glow of a desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. He doesn’t even look up.
Her grip tightens around the pistol.
“Evening, Anatoly,” She says.
Fedorov freezes. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the table, where she spots the unmistakable shape of a handgun tucked beneath the scattered papers.
“Don’t,” She warns.
Slowly, he raises his hands. Not all the way, just enough to show compliance. His head turns slightly, eyes narrowing as he tries to see her in the low light.
“I know that voice,” He murmurs. “They sent you?”
She steps further into the room, her own silhouette dark in the doorway. “Shouldn’t be surprised.”
Fedorov exhales through his nose, something like bitter amusement flickering across his face. “I suppose not. We all knew they’d clean up the mess eventually.”
Natalia doesn’t answer.
He studies her now, his gaze searching. “And you, little spider? Do you ever stop to wonder if you’re a mess they’ll clean up one day?”
Her jaw tightens. She keeps the gun leveled at his chest. “This isn’t a conversation.”
But the words sink into her like a slow, dull ache.
Because she does wonder. She wonders all the time.
How long before her usefulness runs dry? How long before she stops being the knife and starts being the loose end? The KGB may have collapsed, but the men in power stayed the same. She had traded one handler for another, swapped loyalty from a dead empire to the ones picking at its bones.
She is no different from Fedorov.
The thought unsettles her.
And for the first time, she realizes she envies him.
He ran. He chose an exit, even if it was a desperate one. He cut himself free from the game, even knowing how it would end. That kind of cowardice — no, that kind of bravery — feels so distant, so impossible.
Fedorov shifts slightly, just enough for his fingers to brush against the table’s surface. Natalia fires before he even gets the chance to move.
A single suppressed shot.
Fedorov jerks once, a sharp exhale escaping his lips as the bullet tears through his sternum. He slumps forward against the table, the papers scattering under his weight, dark blood pooling over defection reports that will never reach their destination.
Natalia doesn’t move. She watches the life drain out of his eyes, the last flicker of defiance fading into something else — something colder.
He had tried to run. Had tried to cut himself free from the game.
And look where it got him.
She steps forward and crouches beside the body, pressing two fingers against his pulse. Nothing. It’s done.
For a moment, she stares at him.
Fedorov had been a ghost, a man who had slipped through the cracks of the old world, desperate to build something new. And now he was just another corpse in a cheap apartment, his blood soaking into the wood grain of a table that would be wiped clean by morning.
It could be her on that table. It should be. A quick, simple end.
She could let it happen. She could take a misstep, let her guard down, hesitate just long enough for someone to put a bullet in her instead. It would be easy.
But she doesn’t.
She swallows the thought like poison and stands, slipping the pistol back into its holster. No alarms. No signs of struggle. She moves to the door, her exit planned down to the second.
She doesn’t look back.