狡猾的伊万与神秘的仪器（上）Chapter2【纯英】（一周五更）

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CHAPTER 2: NATASHA 

Part 1

ODESSA SHIPYARD WAREHOUSE, 

UKRAINE 

NEAR THE BLACK SEA 

The moment Natasha Romanoff anchored her carabiner to the steel frame of the open skylight, her mind went into overdrive. Battle mode. The adrenaline kicked it up, and she rode the surge the way she did everything—fast and hard, with no apology and no regret. She hadn’t felt it when she was unbolting the warehouse skylight’s glass panels or when she was silently dislodging them from the metal frame that held them in place. She only felt it now that she was going in. 

As she loosened her belay clip and rappelled silently down into the warehouse, her mind first ran through Ivan’s obvious moves, then his logical moves, then his less logical ones; she knew them all. It was a one-woman game of speed battle chess—and when it was over, Natasha almost always won. 

Like a Kalashnikov, she thought. Like a Romanoff. 

This is who I am. This is what I do. 

Her eyes flickered across the interior of the warehouse as she read the room. So you’ve got five thugs at the perimeter trying not to look like they’re waiting for me. Where did you find these idiots, Ivan? 

Natasha dropped three feet farther, for a better look at her target. 

I know you heard me rolling the last few feet of roof to the skylight. You taught me that move. What are you up to? 

Natasha swung 180 degrees until she could see the little girl’s face. What about the kid? Looks genuinely scared. Kid. Vulnerability. Check. 

Natasha spun farther, counting heads as she turned. Thick cabling coming through the walls, with a heavy smell of ozone and a scary amount of electricity. Check. Let’s try not to blow the place up. 

It was time to do the real battle math. 

Thug One is sticking close to Ivan at one o’clock, but just out of the light. Looks like he’s the only grunt with a sidearm. 

She raised an eyebrow. 

Carrying Mexican style? Don’t they ever worry about blowing their balls off? Which means they’ve been told to grab me, not shoot me. She rolled her eyes in spite of the darkness. 

Good luck with that. 

Thug One won’t be the first to charge. He’ll be hoping to get in a cheap shot from behind—if he needs to—while I take out Two and Three. They’ll be coming from seven and nine o’clock as soon as I hit the floor. 

Four looks like he’ll be the fastest. 

Her eyes picked out the last of the soldiers in the shadows. 

Five looks lazy—he’ll have a weapon—maybe a knife. Definitely a knife. 

Once Thug One watches the other four go down, he’ll realize it’s over, panic, and go for his gun—look at him, he’s already sweating—so I’ll take him out somewhere in the middle. No need to get shot at if I don’t have to. 

She glanced back up at the ceiling above her. The snipers are just insurance. They would have already engaged me. Ivan clearly wants to chat. 

Natasha loosened her grip on the cable and continued to rappel down toward the target. She was getting close now. She could see the bald sheen on the top of Ivan’s head. He used to razor it every day to keep it shiny. She could see he still he still did. She wondered why he was sweating. 

Because he knows I’m about to get the drop on him? 

With that, Natasha Romanoff relaxed her hands and slid to the warehouse floor as quietly as a spider—but not quietly enough for Ivan Somodorov. 

“Little Natashka,” Ivan said, not looking up from the girl. “It’s a dumpling moon. If you’re going to be so obvious, next time just ring the doorbell.” A tattoo of barbed wire circled its way around his neck, the sign of a stint in a Russian prison. He turned to look at her. “You shame me.” 

Natasha took in the rest of what she could see of him: a cheap leather jacket and chains, which, along with the dirty V-neck shirt, just made him look like a Russian mobster. 

She sighed. “Knock-knock, Ivan. Who’s there? S.H.I.E.L.D.” 

He looked at her blankly. “I don’t get it.” 

Natasha punched him in the face as hard as she could. As he went flying back, she rubbed her fist. “Sorry. It’s more punch than line.” 

The little girl began to scream—but Natasha couldn’t hear a thing above her own heart pounding in her ears. She wasn’t thinking now. This wasn’t the time to think. This was pure movement and reflex. Action and reaction. Adrenaline. Muscle memory. And Natasha Romanoff’s muscles had a nearly perfect memory. 

Thugs Two through Five fell exactly as she had planned, except that Thug Five pulled out nunchakus—with a ninja flourish—instead of a knife. 

“Are you kidding me?” She looked almost impressed. “But I appreciate the creativity.” As she spoke, she dispatched her widow’s cuff and sent the ninja flying with a bolt of electricity—and not in a very ninja way. 

Thug One got off his shot, but not before Natasha shat-tered his arm with her left boot. The bullet went wide, and the shooter went down. 

There was no one better at battle math than Natasha Romanoff. 

Ivan Somodorov threw himself into the waiting chair next to the girl and attached the electrodes to his own head. The machine sparked between them. He grinned at his old protégée, his hand on the machine’s lever. “Took you long enough. I’ve been waiting for weeks now. My Natashka.”