Most powerful Hunter in Marvel Universe - Chapter 13

Chapter 13: The Widows’ Web

The plan was simple.

Simple plans were usually the best plans, Veer had learned. Too many moving parts meant too many failure points. Complexity bred chaos. Simplicity bred success.

So they kept it simple: Natasha would be the bait. Walk the streets of Moscow openly, visibly, making herself an irresistible target. The Widows would come—multiple teams, probably, because the Red Room never sent just one asset when they could send five. They’d try to capture her, bring her back, make an example of the defector who’d escaped.

While they focused on Natasha, Veer would handle the snipers.

Because there would be snipers. There were always snipers. The Red Room trained their widows in every form of combat, and long-range elimination was a specialty. They’d position themselves in elevated locations surrounding the capture zone, ready to take the kill shot if Natasha tried to run.

Veer would make sure those shots never came.

They’d confirmed the Widows’ arrival three hours ago. Natasha had spotted the first tail while they were having breakfast at a café near Red Square—a blonde woman in her early twenties, pretending to read a newspaper but watching them with the focused intensity of a predator. Then a second tail, a brunette across the street. Then a third, lingering near a bookstore.

The net was closing.

“They’re setting up,” Natasha had murmured over her coffee. “At least three ground teams. Probably more in support positions.”

“Snipers?”

“Definitely. Standard doctrine calls for minimum four, probably six.” Her eyes had tracked the blonde woman without seeming to look directly at her. “They’ll establish a perimeter, wait for me to enter the kill zone, then spring the trap.”

“How long?”

“Two hours. Maybe three. They’ll want to be certain of the setup.”

That had been three hours ago. Now, standing in their hotel suite, Veer watched Natasha check her equipment with practiced efficiency. No weapons—she’d insisted on that. They were here to rescue, not to kill. Every Widow they encountered was another victim of the Red Room, another sister in chains.

“You remember the plan?” Natasha asked, securing her hair in a tight braid.

“You walk. They follow. They attack. I neutralize snipers while you handle ground teams.” Veer activated his Ten, feeling the familiar shroud settle around his body. “Once all snipers are down, I join you for cleanup.”

“Don’t hurt them more than necessary. Knock them out, but don’t—”

“I know. No killing.” Veer met her eyes. “I promise.”

Natasha nodded, but worry still creased her forehead. “Some of them might be… young. Teenagers, even. The Red Room starts training early.”

“I know,” Veer repeated, gentler this time. “I’ll be careful.”

She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and became the Black Widow. The transformation was subtle but complete—her posture shifted, her expression hardened, and suddenly she looked like someone who could kill you seventeen different ways without breaking a sweat.

Which, to be fair, she could.

“Let’s go save my sister,” Natasha said.

They left the hotel separately. Natasha exited through the main entrance, visible and exposed, walking toward Gorky Park with the casual stride of a tourist. Veer slipped out through a service exit, activated Zetsu, and became a ghost.

The perceptual gap hit immediately—that unsettling quality where the human brain simply couldn’t maintain focus on something that shouldn’t be invisible but was. Veer moved through Moscow’s streets like smoke, his aura completely suppressed, his presence barely registering even to people he passed within arm’s reach.

He’d mapped the likely sniper positions earlier using satellite imagery and his knowledge of Red Room tactics. High buildings with clear sightlines to Gorky Park. Positions that offered both cover and escape routes. Locations that maximized field of fire while minimizing exposure.

Seven probable positions within a one-kilometer radius.

Veer reached the first building in four minutes, moving at speeds that would have looked like a blur to normal eyes. An old Soviet apartment block, grey concrete and peeling paint. He didn’t use the stairs. Instead, he activated Ren, felt his strength surge, and jumped.

Twenty feet straight up. Then another twenty, fingers finding purchase on window ledges and architectural details. He scaled the building’s exterior like a spider, silent and impossibly fast, until he reached the roof access.

The sniper was exactly where he’d predicted—a woman in her mid-twenties, wearing an all-white tactical suit that blended perfectly with the snow-covered rooftop. She lay prone behind a customized VSS Vintorez, the suppressed rifle favored by Russian special forces. Her aura flickered dimly in Veer’s Gyo-enhanced vision—a small, controlled flame of life force.

She never saw him coming.

Veer appeared behind her like a shadow given form. His hand moved in a precise strike—the kind Zeno Zoldyck had executed thousands of times—and connected with the nerve cluster at the base of her skull. The sniper’s eyes rolled back. She slumped forward, unconscious before she could even register the attack.

Veer caught her rifle before it clattered against the rooftop. He checked her pulse—steady and strong—then carefully positioned her in a recovery position. She’d wake up in an hour with a headache and fuzzy memories, but no permanent damage.

One down. Six to go.

He moved to the second position—another rooftop, this one on a taller building overlooking the park’s eastern entrance. The sniper here was younger, maybe nineteen, with the kind of focus that came from years of conditioning. She was scanning through her scope, tracking something below.

Natasha.

Veer watched for a moment as the young woman’s finger rested near the trigger, not on it but close. Ready. Waiting for the order to fire. Her aura was brighter than the first sniper’s—more vital, more energetic. Younger meant less experience, but also more raw potential.

He disabled her with the same precise strike. She dropped without a sound.

Two down.

The third and fourth snipers were positioned together—a spotter-shooter pair on a commercial building’s roof. Both in white tactical gear, both focused on their sectors with professional intensity. Veer took them simultaneously, appearing between them in a burst of speed that neither could track. Two strikes, delivered in the space between heartbeats.

They collapsed in tandem.

Four down.

The fifth sniper was different. Older, maybe early thirties, with scars visible on her hands even through the tactical gloves. A veteran. Her aura burned brighter, more controlled, shaped by years of discipline. She’d positioned herself in a water tower’s maintenance platform—a brilliant choice that offered three-sixty-degree coverage and multiple escape routes.

She sensed something wrong the moment before Veer struck. Her head started to turn, hand reaching for a sidearm—

Too slow.

Veer’s chop connected. She fell, and he caught her before she could tumble off the platform. He laid her down gently, checking to make sure she was breathing properly.

Five down.

The sixth sniper had chosen a church bell tower—bold, unconventional, effective. She had the best sightline of any position, commanding views of the entire park and surrounding streets. Veer climbed the tower’s exterior, his fingers finding purchase on aged stone and weathered gargoyles.

This sniper was left-handed. He’d noticed from her stance, the way she’d positioned her rifle. It meant the strike angle had to be adjusted, coming from her right side instead of directly behind.

Details mattered.

He adjusted. Struck. She fell.

Six down.

The seventh and final sniper wasn’t where he’d predicted. Veer stood on the rooftop he’d identified as the most likely final position, but it was empty. No sniper. No equipment. Just unmarked snow and the distant sounds of Moscow traffic.

He activated Gyo, enhanced his visual perception, and scanned the surrounding area in a slow sweep. Nothing. No aura signatures in the expected positions. No—

Wait.

There. Underground. A faint flicker of life force beneath street level, approximately two hundred meters south. An underground parking structure, probably, or a maintenance tunnel. Unconventional positioning. Smart.

Veer smiled despite himself. This one was clever.

He dropped from the rooftop, landed in an alley, and activated Zetsu again. Found the parking structure entrance, descended into the concrete depths. The aura signature was clearer now, positioned on the third underground level with a perfect upward angle through a ventilation shaft.

Genius, really. Nobody looked down for snipers.

The seventh sniper was young—maybe seventeen—with platinum blonde hair and the kind of cold focus that made Veer’s chest tighten. Too young. Way too young to be doing this.

But the Red Room didn’t care about age. Only results.

He disabled her as gently as he could, catching her rifle, lowering her carefully to the cold concrete. She looked even younger unconscious, face relaxed, the hardness gone. Just a teenager who should have been in school, not lying in an underground parking garage with a sniper rifle.

Seven down. All snipers neutralized.

Veer pulled out his phone, sent Natasha a single-character text: ✓

Then he started moving toward the park. Time to help with the ground teams.

—

Natasha had known the attack would come in Gorky Park. It was too perfect a location—open spaces for mobility, enough civilians to discourage explosive options, multiple exit routes if she needed to run. The Red Room would expect her to choose it, which meant they’d expect her to expect them to expect it.

Spy logic. Circular reasoning that ate its own tail.

She walked along the park’s main path, hands in her jacket pockets, looking like any other Muscovite enjoying the late morning. The first attack came from behind—a garrote wire, professional and silent, meant to render her unconscious for extraction.

Natasha ducked, felt the wire pass over her head, and drove her elbow backward into her attacker’s solar plexus. The Widow grunted—female, young, strong—and tried to adjust her grip. Natasha spun inside her guard, trapped the wire, and used it to throw her attacker over her hip.

The Widow hit the ground hard but rolled immediately, already back on her feet. White tactical suit, brown hair pulled tight, maybe twenty-two years old. She came again, faster this time, hands moving in strike patterns Natasha recognized from her own training.

They’d taught this one well.

Natasha blocked, deflected, countered. They traded blows in a flurry too fast for civilian eyes to track properly. The few people nearby backed away nervously, unsure if this was a real fight or some kind of performance art.

Two more Widows emerged from the treeline—a pincer movement, textbook execution. One blonde, one redhead, both moving with synchronized precision. Three on one now. The odds had shifted.

Natasha activated Rhythm Echo.

The technique was still new to her, only two months of practice, but her body control had been honed since childhood. She moved in the specific pattern Veer had taught her—three steps forward, two diagonal, one back, creating a rhythmic displacement that left afterimages in her wake.

Suddenly there were four Natashas.

The Widows hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, unsure which was real. That hesitation was enough. Natasha struck from the afterimage’s blind spot, took down the brunette with a nerve strike, then flowed into the blonde’s guard before she could adjust.

Two down. One still standing.

The redhead was better. She’d adapted to the Rhythm Echo, tracking Natasha’s real position through sound and air displacement rather than sight. They fought across the park path, using benches and lampposts and trash bins as obstacles and weapons.

Natasha grabbed a trash bin lid, used it as a shield to deflect a strike, then spun and drove it into the redhead’s face. The Widow stumbled back, blood streaming from her nose—

And grabbed a fallen tree branch, swinging it like a staff. Natasha ducked under the first swing, rolled past the second, came up inside the arc and delivered a palm strike to the redhead’s sternum.

The Widow went down gasping.

Three down.

Natasha ran. Not in retreat—in engagement. She sprinted toward the park’s eastern section where she’d spotted two more Widows taking position. They saw her coming, separated to flank, moved with practiced coordination.

These two were twins. Identical faces, identical builds, identical movements. The Red Room loved symmetry.

They attacked in perfect synchronization—one high, one low, forcing Natasha to choose which to block. She chose neither. Instead, she jumped, planted her foot on one twin’s shoulder, and used her as a launching platform to deliver a flying kick to the second twin’s face.

Both twins stumbled. Natasha landed, rolled, came up with a park bench between her and them. The twins circled, trying to reestablish their flanking positions.

Natasha picked up the bench—sixty pounds of wood and metal—and threw it.

The twins dodged in opposite directions, breaking their formation. Natasha followed the bench’s trajectory, using it as a distraction to close with the left twin. They grappled, trading holds and reversals with the fluid grace of highly trained grapplers. The twin tried for an armbar. Natasha reversed it into a chokehold. The twin went limp.

One twin down.

The second twin came in fast, angry now, discipline slipping. Anger made people predictable. Natasha sidestepped her charge, grabbed her jacket, and used her momentum to send her crashing into a lamppost. The twin hit hard, slumped down, didn’t get up.

Five down total.

More were coming. Natasha could see them emerging from various positions around the park—at least six more, all converging on her location. The net was tightening. Good. The more they focused on her, the easier Veer’s job became.

She ran again, this time toward the park’s frozen pond. Ice and snow meant treacherous footing, which favored the fighter with better balance. Three Widows followed, spreading out to cut off her escape routes.

The fight on the ice was brutal. Natasha slid and spun, using the slippery surface to her advantage, redirecting attacks and throwing opponents off-balance. One Widow tried a sweeping leg kick and ended up on her back. Another attempted a grapple and got thrown into the third.

Natasha used Rhythm Echo again, creating afterimages that slid across the ice in different directions. The Widows tried to track the real one, failed, got confused—

And Natasha struck. Three precise nerve strikes, delivered in rapid succession. Three unconscious Widows lying on the frozen pond.

Eight down.

She was winning. Against all odds, despite being outnumbered, she was actually winning. Years of SHIELD training combined with Veer’s techniques, her own experience, and the advantage of fighting people who’d been trained exactly the way she had—

The ice beneath her feet exploded.

Natasha threw herself backward as a figure burst through the frozen surface like a missile. Water and ice shards sprayed everywhere. The figure landed in a crouch, water streaming off white tactical armor that was more advanced than anything the other Widows wore.

Taskmaster.

Even with the helmet obscuring the face, Natasha recognized the build, the stance, the aura of absolute confidence. Taskmaster studied her for a moment, head tilted, analyzing. Then moved.

The attack was impossibly fast. Taskmaster’s fighting style was immediately familiar because it was Natasha’s own style—every block, every counter, every combination perfectly executed because Taskmaster had already watched and memorized them from the previous fights.

Natasha barely managed to deflect the first strike. The second caught her shoulder, spinning her around. The third would have broken her ribs if she hadn’t twisted away at the last instant.

She created distance, breathing hard. Taskmaster advanced methodically, not rushing, completely confident. Of course. Why rush when you could copy any technique you saw?

Natasha activated Rhythm Echo again, her most advanced skill, the one technique Taskmaster hadn’t seen her use up close yet—

Taskmaster’s posture shifted. Mimicked Natasha’s exact stance. Then moved in the precise pattern, creating afterimages that matched Natasha’s own.

No. That was impossible. Rhythm Echo required months of practice, precise muscle memory, exact rhythm maintenance—

But Taskmaster was doing it. Perfectly. Better than Natasha, actually, because Taskmaster’s photographic reflexes meant instant mastery instead of gradual learning.

Two sets of afterimages clashed on the ice. Real Natasha versus real Taskmaster, hidden among the false images. They traded blows in a deadly dance, both using the same technique against each other, both trying to find the opening that would end the fight.

Natasha was losing. She could feel it. Every technique she used, Taskmaster copied and improved. Every strategy she attempted, Taskmaster anticipated because Taskmaster had already seen it. Fighting Taskmaster was like fighting a superior version of herself.

She tried a feint left, strike right combination. Taskmaster blocked perfectly, countered with the exact same combination but faster. Natasha’s head snapped back from the impact. Blood filled her mouth.

Another exchange. Taskmaster landed three hits for every one of Natasha’s. The Rhythm Echo failed—both of them using it meant neither had the advantage. Back to pure hand-to-hand. Back to physical attributes.

Taskmaster was stronger. Faster. Better conditioned.

A devastating combination drove Natasha to her knees. Taskmaster’s boot connected with her ribs, sent her sliding across the ice. She tried to rise, slipped, fell again. Looked up to see Taskmaster standing over her, helmet tilted in what might have been satisfaction.

The fight was over.

Taskmaster reached down, probably to deliver a knockout blow or secure her for extraction—

And stopped.

Just froze mid-motion, arm extended, completely still.

Then slowly, almost gently, Taskmaster toppled forward and crashed onto the ice face-first. Unconscious.

Behind where Taskmaster had been standing, Veer materialized out of thin air like a ghost becoming solid. His hand was still in the follow-through position from the neck strike, his expression calm and slightly amused.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, offering Natasha his hand. “Traffic was terrible.”

Natasha stared up at him, blood on her lips, ribs aching, completely exhausted. Then she started laughing. Couldn’t help it. The absurdity of it—Veer appearing at the last second like some kind of action movie hero, making jokes while unconscious Widows littered the frozen pond around them.

She took his hand. He pulled her up effortlessly.

“Snipers?” she asked, wiping blood from her mouth.

“Seven for seven. All sleeping peacefully.” Veer looked around at the scattered Widows. “You’ve been busy.”

“Nine on the ground plus Taskmaster makes ten.” Natasha limped slightly, testing her ribs. Bruised, not broken. “Are there more?”

“Not that I can sense. I think this was their entire assault team.” Veer walked over to Taskmaster’s unconscious form, crouched down, studied the advanced armor. “Interesting. This one’s different.”

“That’s Taskmaster. Photographic reflexes. Can copy any physical skill instantly.” Natasha joined him, looking down at her defeated opponent. “Nearly killed me.”

“But didn’t.” Veer stood, smiled at her. “Because you’re better than you think you are.”

“I lost. You had to save me.”

“You survived against impossible odds until help arrived. That’s not losing. That’s tactical thinking.” He gestured at the unconscious Widows. “What now? We can’t exactly leave them here.”

Natasha looked around the frozen pond, at the women she’d fought and defeated. Her sisters. Her fellow survivors of the Red Room’s cruelty. Each one a victim, each one trapped, each one deserving rescue.

“Now,” she said quietly, “we wake them up. And we offer them a choice.”