Cliff Ryder - Black Widow

"She is old," Achmed declared.

For a moment Ajza couldn't believe the man had said that. Achmed was easily twice her age, probably more. Then she realized that most of the Black Widows were in their teens and early twenties. She was old by those standards.

"Not too old to carry a bomb against our enemies," Ajza told him.

Achmed frowned and glanced at Ivan doubtfully. "You allow her to speak?"

"This one is prideful," Ivan said. His voice held no sign that he'd been caught as much off guard as the slaver. "She only wants to bring death to our enemies."

"What of her husband?" Achmed stared at Ajza.

"Dead fighting the Russians," Ajza said.

"When?"

"Weeks ago."

"Why are you not already dead if you loved him so much?"

"Because I could not kill enough of them by myself. I need help for that."

"Yet you come to me in chains."

"I do not believe you are the man that can help me take my vengeance."

"You do not know me."

"Then prove to me you can help me."

Achmed cocked his head and walked to Ajza's side so he could look at her in profile. "Do you have children?"

"We were not so blessed."

"What did you do so wrong in God's eyes that you were not given children?"

"My husband wanted our children to be born free, not under Russian oppression. We chose to wait until that happened."

"And he believed that would happen in his lifetime? A most ambitious man."

Ajza said nothing. She pulled back when Achmed ran his hand down her cheek.

"Have you had her?" Achmed asked Ivan.

"I would not," Ivan replied.

"Why?"

"After the death of her husband, the Russian soldiers had her." Ivan shrugged. "I would not wallow in their filth."

"She told you this?"

"I saw it. Before I killed them."

Achmed looked at Ajza again. "That is too bad. For an older woman, she looks good. But I prefer them young."

Disgust roiled inside Ajza as she thought of the young women — many of them not more than girls — who must have been violated at Achmed's hands. All of those women were trapped between two enemies, and they had mercy from neither.

"If you cannot use her, then perhaps it would be best if we killed her here." Ivan drew his sidearm and pressed the muzzle to Ajza's temple.

Ajza felt the cold metal against her flesh. She was certain that Ivan was only upping the stakes, that he had no intention of pulling the trigger, but the presence of Achmed's men made every move dangerous.

And she hadn't kept silent as she was supposed to. Maybe Ivan was acting in his own self-interest, to make certain his cover story remained intact. She stood silent and still.

"No," Achmed said. "There is fire in her. If she truly wants vengeance for her husband, Taburova can harness that fire. Many of these women don't have that. A woman's anger, if properly focused, is a dangerous thing."

Ajza let out a small breath but didn't feel any safer.

Ivan put his pistol away. "Then I'll take my payment."

Achmed gestured to one of the men. Ivan caught the pouch the man tossed to him.

"Bring me more women," Achmed told Ivan. "I can sell them if you can bring them to me."

"I will," Ivan promised.

Achmed grabbed Ajza's arm and shoved her forward. Surprised by the man's rough treatment, she stumbled on the uneven ground and almost fell. Behind her, she heard Ivan and his men clamber back aboard the jeeps. The engines turned over, the transmissions engaged, and the yellow headlights pulled away.

Just like that, she was alone and once more in enemy hands.

* * *

New York

Kate stared at the monitor showing the overhead view of Ajza in the cluster of the human traffickers who serviced Taburova's Black Widow camps. After the experiences she'd had sending Room 59 agents into harm's way, Kate had learned to deal with the guilt about her part in the machinations that had put the young woman at risk. In the end the decision had belonged to Ajza Manaev.

But you knew she had plenty of motivation to do this, Kate reminded herself. You're not going to get off that easily.

On the screen Ajza marched with her hands behind her back. So far none of the men tried to touch her. The satellite pulled the image out of the night and turned the figures green. A floating blue triangle marked Ajza.

"Worried?" Jack asked.

"Concerned."

He nodded. "Me, too."

Kate let out a slow breath. "For now we watch and wait and hope for the best."

"We got scattered too much on this one." Jake rubbed his stubbled jaw. "We started out behind."

"We usually do."

"I know, but this one got shifted all over the place. The Russian connection to the weapons caught us flat-footed. We could have handled this better if we had more intel."

"We're working on that now," Kate said, thinking of the Russian Room 59 agent she'd activated. Ajza Manaev wasn't the only one treading dangerous waters. Sergei Prokhorov was conceivably in over his head, as well.

Moscow

"Dr. Golovko, a moment of your time, if I may." Sergei showed the medical examiner his FSB credentials as they stood in the hospital hallway.

Golovko took his time looking at the identification. He was small and round. Round-lensed glasses covered dark eyes that stood out against his pale skin. His suit was neat and tailored.

"Why have you come to see me?" Golovko looked bored. In the old days a visit from the FSB or KGB would have incited terror. It was much easier to get information in those days.

"I need to see one of the bodies you recently examined," Sergei said.

Irina Rachmanov had indicated that the man was part of the reason Kirinov had come back to Moscow. The man's identity, however, wasn't known by the authorities. After she'd mentioned how the man had died — shot through the head and thrown from a building — it hadn't taken long to find him. Even in crime-rampant Moscow, such things did not happen routinely.

Golovko pushed his sleeve back from his watch, checked the time and looked like a petulant child. "My shift is over."

"This will not take more than a few minutes."

"Come back tomorrow." Golovko turned to walk away.

Sergei dropped his hand heavily onto the man's shoulder, stopping him. "I have this time only. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

Golovko glared at Sergei. "You cannot do this. In this country, I have rights."

"A favor," Sergei replied. "And I will not tell your wife about the mistress you rush off to see."

Scarlet touched Golovko's cheeks, but Sergei couldn't discern whether it was caused by anger or embarrassment. Mikhalkov had told Sergei about the doctor's mistress and suggested he use the fact as leverage if it became necessary.

Golovko turned and dug his keys from his pocket.

The morgue always filled Sergei with a sense of unease. The fact that a person — male or female, honest citizen or criminal, rich or poor — could be neatly stored away in one of the refrigerated metal boxes seemed disrespectful. What a person had been surely couldn't fit into one of those boxes.

The corpse lay on the stainless-steel table. Sutures closed the chest cavity. Gunpowder tattoos marred the forehead and face around the bullet hole. The man had been shot from less than a foot away.

"His name…" Golovko began.

"Emile Ivanov," Sergei stated.

The medical examiner checked his records and frowned. "That's not the name I was given."

"I know." Sergei looked up at the man. "Who identified him?"

Golovko checked his records. He was more wary now. "His wife."

"You have her name?"

"Of course." Golovko offered the folder.

Sergei noted the name, knew it was an alias and didn't bother to write it down. He did write down the time of her visit, though.