Hide and Seek
Zara counted three shots.
She was sure of three bullets fired, all sounding like they’d come from the same gun – which hopefully meant there was only one firearm at play. Zara was also sure she’d never run so fast in her life, and given her life experience, that was saying something. Three shots, three opportunities for a bullet to have found its target. Three chances that Steven and Marc could have been hurt. Or worse.
Zara practically flew into Hyde Park, to find Marc and an unknown assailant exchanging blows, his left arm moving like it was made of lead. The attacker was short, shorter than both Marc and herself, clothed in a black suit and a mask that covered their entire face. Marc had somehow gotten the gun and they caught his hand, forcing the firearm from his grip, twisting his good arm at an unnatural angle and throwing the gun out of reach. Marc swore as he advanced again, the attacker dropping expertly under his guard, striking him in the neck with something that stunned him, forcing him to drop to the ground.
Zara launched herself Marc’s assailant, catching them by surprise with a knee to the chest. The attacker stumbled back with a grunt, but did not fall. Zara came at them, attempting to overwhelm them with strike after strike, but they were fast – and very well trained. The attacker blocked one punch and swivelled to the side, striking Zara hard enough in the face that she was forced backwards. The assailant strode forward, and Zara swiped at the new gash over her eyebrow, watching them like a hawk. The attacker kicked out and she sidestepped, spinning to nail them in the chest with her foot. Zara leapt on her advantage and twisted her body, swinging her leg in a low arc, sweeping the attacker to the ground. They saw it coming – hooking their foot as they fell, forcing her down with them. As if in sync, they both landed with a roll, coming up low in a crouch, facing each other. The masked assailant cocked their head, and Zara felt like her mind was spinning.
It was like fighting a mirror.
Her attacker shifted, and then she saw it – the red hourglass framed in black, the symbol that haunted both her days and nights, yet the very thing she could never let go of. Zara felt her heart leap into her throat, her air leaving her lungs as if she’d been struck again. A sudden clicking sound came from behind her and Zara whirled on her feet, to see Marc aiming the gun at their attacker, blood still seeping from his shoulder. The black widow rose to her feet behind Zara slowly, every muscle under her suit taut as a tightrope.
“Marc,” Zara put her hands out, as if warding him off. “Don’t shoot.”
Marc tilted his head, with a gleam in his eye that she’d never seen before. He didn’t speak.
Zara glanced between them, the silence stretching beyond capacity, a cord waiting to snap. Marc’s gaze did not falter, his eyes never straying from the widow behind her. Something was wrong. His was the face she knew so well, the face she could’ve traced blind – and yet he looked like a stranger. She shook her head, her voice taut with warning. “Marc, don’t – ”
He pulled the trigger.
Zara moved before she even thought about it, throwing herself in front of the widow behind her. The bullet connected with the centre of her chest, the force pushing her backward as the armour of Sekhmet absorbed its power, her feet skidding back on the grass. The bullet fell from her chest, and Zara watched as it hit the ground, now just a malformed, useless lump of metal. Marc did look at her now, his beautiful face twisting, and she realised she’d been wrong – she had seen that look in his eye before. Once.
Zara turned swiftly to the widow behind her, her voice a hiss. “Run.”
The widow needed no encouragement as she disappeared into the night, Not-Marc firing after her.
“Stop!” Zara shouted, and he turned, stalking towards her. Her armour unravelled around her as she strode forward, furious. “What the hell are you – ”
He raised the gun at point-blank range, the cold barrel meeting the very centre of her forehead, forcing her to freeze in place. Slowly Zara raised her hands, swallowing hard. Her voice was barely a whisper. “I know you’re not Marc. Or Steven.”
“Encantada de conocerte finalmente,viuda.” Spanish. Even without the language difference his words rolled off his tongue in a way that both Marc and Steven’s did not, and she could only stare at him. It was like looking at a fractured reflection of the men she knew – this man had none of Marc’s stoicism or Steven’s heart – and unlike the two of them, there was no warmth to him. Everything about him was carefully blank, especially his expression, watching her the way a cat might look at a bird. Zara shifted slightly, and he pressed the barrel into her head. “I would not move, if I were you.”
“You’re him, aren’t you?” Zara interrogated, looking him directly in the eyes. “The third alter? You’re the one who shot Harrow.”
“Ah, so you do recognise me.” His grin was shark-like, a flash of white. “I have to say, viuda, I liked the look of that armour on you.”
“Stop calling me that,” Zara demanded, through gritted teeth. “I am not a black widow anymore.”
He merely tutted, shaking his head. “You live that life long enough, and it becomes a part of you. You can’t change what you are, any more than a leopard can change its spots.” He chuckled at his own words, his laugh sounding so jarringly out of place that Zara had to fight the urge to recoil. He waved his other hand dismissively. “Or whatever that saying is.”
“And what does that make you?” Zara questioned him, raising her hands a little higher. “You’re the one pointing a gun. You’re the one who takes off with their body, and leaves them wondering where they’ve been and what they’ve been doing.” Her eyes flicked to his hand in front of her head, streaked with red. “You’re the one who leaves them to wake up with blood on their hands.”
“Zara…” he drawled, and the way he said her name made her blood turn to ice. “La viuda negra, the avatar of Sekhmet.” He flashed that grin again, mirthless, and all teeth. It was the kind of grin that looked disused, like he’d had to practice it. “I can see why they both like you so much.”
Zara shuddered. “What do you want?”
“I think that’s the question I should be asking you, viuda.” Zara flinched at the name, which only seemed to spur him on, that icy smirk carved into his face. His hand in front of her head was disturbingly steady, and Zara knew he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, if he decided it suited him. But he had to have something at play here – she didn’t believe this alter was simply here to wreak havoc. He hadn’t shot her yet, despite the fact that this man clearly had no love for her, no affection. There had to be a reason for that.
Even still, she didn’t doubt that he could – and would – kill her.
She released a ragged breath, the metal barrel pressing into her head beginning to cause pain. “Are you going to kill me?”
“If I have to,” he stated simply, and she physically recoiled.
Her voice shook. “Why haven’t you?”
“Ah,” he snickered again, that same disused sound. “You have mis hermanos to thank for that. But I have to say, I expected more of a fight from you, viuda.”
Mis hermanos. His brothers.
“That’s what you’re here for?” Zara replied, incredulous. “A fight?”
He watched her intently, that bottomless gaze swallowing her once again. He didn’t answer.
She pressed on, her voice quaking slightly. “You know, they’re not going to be very happy if you kill me.”
He laughed that mirthless laugh again, and Zara was struck by how unfamiliar it sounded. “If I do, it’ll be for their own good.”
“You’re worried about the wrong thing,” Zara reasoned, refusing to drop her gaze. “I’m not the one who’s hurting them. You are.”
He cocked his head. “That so?”
“You’re the reason they woke up in this park, covered in blood, aren’t you?” Her eyes flicked up to his hand. “You’re the one holding a gun.”
“And I see no reason to put it down.” He scanned her, unblinking, as if she were a specimen under a microscope. “Unless you want to give me one.”
Zara raised her chin, looking him dead in the eye. “I came here to help them.”
“So she says, after taking a bullet for their attacker.” He clucked his tongue, giving a slight shake of his head. “And you let them get away, viuda.”
“You need to understand – ”
“Let’s pretend that I believe you,” he interjected, and she bit back her anger. She couldn’t let him get under her skin, but she had always found moments like this to be the hardest part. “Let’s pretend that I believe you were here for Marc and Steven. Why stop me from killing their attacker?”
“Because I’ve been that person,” she hissed, and tears began to brim in her eyes. “Because I can help them, I can get them out of the mind control that makes them kill people.” The man in front of her did not react to her sudden burst of emotion, but she saw his finger loosen on the trigger. “And because if a black widow is after Marc and Steven, it’s because she was hired.”
He took a small step back then, and she could swear she saw shock flicker over his features. A moment later, it was gone. “I think I’m gonna need you to elaborate on that, viuda.”
Zara exhaled slowly, as if calming herself. “The Red Room has fallen, but many subjugated widows are still being used by smaller players, those who may have been loyal to Dreykov. They have no say in what they’re doing.” He was watching her intently, standing unnervingly still in the cold night air. “One just tried to kill Marc, which means that someone else hired her to do it. We aren’t going to find out who if we kill her.”
“But now, she can strike again.” His finger still rested on the trigger, but Zara knew she was close. She raised her hands slightly higher, keeping her gaze locked to his. The man in front of her clucked his tongue again, his voice coming out as a near-perfect imitation of Steven’s. “An awfully convenient outcome for you, innit?”
Zara narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re the one who got Steven’s job back.” It wasn’t a question. He stiffened slightly, and she continued. “They think you’re here to play havoc with their lives, but you’re not, are you? You’re here for something else.”
“And I suppose you think if you charm me, I’ll tell you.” His lip curled, as if she was purely entertainment. A cat toying with a mouse. He dropped his voice. “Are you going to make me spill my secrets, like you used to in your old line of work?” Zara’s face fell and she blinked, a tear spilling over, the man in front of her merely shaking his head. “Oh, don’t cry now, viuda.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just…” she trailed off, her hands gradually getting closer to his as she shook her head, sniffing a little. “It’s just, you’ve been so good.”
He cocked his head. “Huh?”
Close enough.
The switch flipped inside her and her hands struck out, grabbing the gun and his hand simultaneously, forcing it to the side. He pulled the trigger but it was too late – the gun fired off into the darkness and she twisted, forcing him to drop the gun, sending him backwards before he could reach her with a kick to the chest. He grunted as he staggered back and she pulled the gun on him, the man before her transforming. The all-too-familiar strands of grey wrapped around his form, his body now encased in the ceremonial suit of Khonshu, brandishing his crescent daggers. Zara released a laugh, tucking the gun in the back of her pants. She shook her head, unable to stop the grin from plastering itself across her face.
“Thank you,” she murmured, looking up at him. “For your co-operation.”
The man in front of her suddenly recoiled, the realisation of what he’d just unveiled seeming to hit him like a punch. He swore in Spanish, shaking his head at her. “I’m impressed, viuda.”
She moved forward but he froze, inclining his head as if someone else was speaking to him, though Zara heard nothing. Suddenly he fell forward as if he’d been shoved, collapsing onto the grass, the suit unravelling around him as swiftly as it had formed. He fell to his hands and knees, before looking up at her, that familiar light in his eyes. “Zara?”
“Steven?” She gasped, kneeling on the ground to reach him. The bullet wound was gone thanks to the healing armour, only a smattering of drying blood on his shirt to indicate anything out of the ordinary had occurred. “Are you okay?”
“What happened?” His voice was practically a wheeze, his eyes suddenly fixing on her face. “Oh my days, you’re hurt.” Steven reached out to touch her, suddenly recoiling in horror at the sight of his own hand, still covered in blood. “Did – did I – ”
“No – no, Steven,” she assured him, taking his hand. “It wasn’t you. You didn’t hurt me.”
He stilled, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. “It was him, wasn’t it? The other bloke?”
She shook her head. “No, but he did come out for a reason. I think – ” she cut off, suddenly, uncharacteristically unsure of her words. “I think…he’s trying to protect you. You and Marc.”
“Protect us?” Steven stammered, his eyes flying wide. “He’s the one sending us on killing sprees!”
“I know,” she assured him. “And he can summon the suit. But he came out tonight when you and Marc were in danger, right?”
Steven seemed to have gone pale, but he nodded. The pieces of the puzzle were gradually falling into place in her head – but Zara hadn’t even told him the worst part yet. She exhaled slowly.
“Someone has hired a black widow to kill Marc.”