Kon Hargrave woke with a start. Eyes wide he sat bolt upright staring into the darkness trying to discern what it was that had waked him.
His room seemed still, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could make out the familiar shapes and shadows of his everyday life. His mahogany dresser and armoire stood where they always had, matching politely his massive bed and arranged just so pleasingly. The wall of mirrors seemed intact, as did the mirrors on the ceiling above the bed. No tiles had fallen. All statues and plants seemed in their proper places. All was as he last recalled- he glanced at the red glowing letters of the clock on his bedside table- five hours ago.
Still, he was sweating. The central air had shut down apparently, the heat kicking in for some reason. Perhaps the storm raging outside had played havoc with the thermostat. Maybe. Lightning flashed, the stark white glare casting odd, elongated shadows from the venetian blinds across the walls and ceiling. Almost immediately thunder rumbled behind, placing the storm almost right overhead. It was the thunder then that had woken him, of course. Still.
Kon Hargrave yelped with a start as the hand fell on his arm. He jumped, spinning about in the bed to stare wild-eyed at the woman wrapped in silk and reclining on the far side of the huge four-poster bed. She had been beautiful the night before with silky skin and kinky blonde hair, her full, red lips. Now, there in the shadows she seemed old and tired with dark circles under her eyes and her teeth stained crimson from too much lipstick. Hargrave tried to recall her name.
"What is it? Why's it so fuckin' hot?" her voice whined, that Jersey girl accent that some found so quaint. It had not seemed so thick last night, but now it grated on his nerves and made his head throb all the harder.
"I don't know," he answered, climbing out of the bed and stretching. He still felt uneasy as lightning crackled almost outside the window. The woman- Jessica (?)- squealed as thunder shook the building. He was up, he may as well have a look about and take a quick piss. The woman- Janice (?)- mumbled something and rolled onto her side.
He barely got three steps before lightning flared again, thunder slamming hot on its heels. The building shook once more as he staggered towards the windows. He could hear the rain smashing against the reinforced window glass even before he pulled aside the blinds to look out. A flash of jagged white arched down seemingly inches away and Hargrave winced, spots and after images washing through his sight. He rubbed at his eyes, gritting his teeth and feeling tears. He tried to focus, bright colors flowing through his vision: the shadowy skyline, ghostly images of buildings, and something else-
A man!
Konnar Hargrave pulled the blinds aside, watching as the flying man soared up, ever higher until he vanished from sight. He was huge, muscular and wielding what appeared to be a hammer-
Thor!
No! Thor was dead. He had died in the Onslaught travesty along with his Avengers friends and the Fantastic Four. Then who.
Thunder rumbled again and Hargrave felt the floor beneath his feet shake and vibrate. There had been no lightning though, so how-
Explosions down on the docks! Hargrave stared out the triple-paned glass, watching as a fleet of small, fast boats plied the East River in the storm. They were firing explosives at the docks and building, at the agents that were striving to turn them back.
SHIELD! Had to be.
Kon Hargrave stepped back and away from the window, his skin suddenly cold and clammy, goose bumps rising on his naked arms and legs. They were attacking the building, the complex, apparently somehow knowing who he was and just what was happening here. Strucker would not be pleased to say the least, but he would deal with the old man later. Now he had to get away.
Konnar turned as lightning lit up the room. The familiar scene of his bedroom glowed a stark white and thunder crashed even before the glow died. Janet (?) squealed again, sitting upright, her big breasts bouncing lazily at the sudden movement. Konnar licked his lips. Thor.
Movement caught his eye and Hargrave glanced up as lightning flared once more. It was his turn to scream-
There was a woman dressed in black, her skin pale in the afterglow, her auburn hair wild and in disarray. She was beautiful, like some angel of death, cold and evil. She was crouching in the corner of the ceiling like some great spider, her fingers and toes barely touching the stucco and mahogany paneling as she tensed and smiled cruelly. She sprang suddenly and Jeanette screamed-
Her name was Jeanette.
***
Natasha Alianovna Romanova pressed her foot down on Konnar Hargrave's throat to silence his shrill screaming. She had his arm fully extended for leverage, his thumb twisted back as she ground the heel of her boot into his larynx until his whining turned to muted, gagging sobs. She turned to the still screaming woman and raised her hand, pointing-
"You!" she shouted, watching as the prostitute shrank back against the headboard of the huge bed. "Shut up and get out!"
The woman's eyes were huge as she stared, first at Romanova and then at the man lying at her feet. Natasha applied the slightest pressure and the sound of Hargrave's thumb snapping filled the room. The hooker sprang from the bed and made a dash for the door letting it slam behind her as she ran through. The Black Widow returned her attention to the sobbing man at her feet.
He did not seem so much whining and groveling on the ground. Hardly one of the hierarchy that ran the worldwide terrorist organization known as Hydra. Naked, broken, he was like any other that had crossed the beauteous Black Widow. As nothing. Natasha smiled-
"Konnar Hargrave?" she asked, giving his arm a twist to get his attention. He whimpered, tried to answer and she eased her boot off his throat.
"Y-yes."
"For crimes against the security of the United States and the free world you are hereby sanctioned." Lightning flashed-
His eyes went wide as the Black Widow simply repositioned her foot and stepped. She heard the snap of his neck as she applied the slightest bit of leverage to his arm, twisting his bones far beyond their endurance. His body shuddered once, but it could have been the thunder. Olsen was on a roll it seemed.
Natasha Alianovna Romanova dropped Hargrave's arm and stepped away leaving his naked broken body there on the floor for his security forces to find. If the old saying was true, there would be another to take his place before too long, and probably two. Still, she had severed this arm of Hydra, slain a mass murderer that was plotting biochemical warfare against the innocents of Manhattan before the week was out. He was evil and a sociopath- at least according to Fury- and he deserved to die.
Still, it had been hard. It had been years, and miles, since her last sanction and it had taken all of her will to ignore those things that she had learned alongside the likes of Clint Barton and Steve Rogers. They had taught her another way. A better way-
Once an Avenger.
But they were dead now. Dead and gone.
The building shook and Natasha heard the heating she had cranked to full finally die away. A quick glance showed that the alarm clock was blank and the red flicker of the security cameras was dead. Olsen had finally 'pulsed' the power core of the building. It was time to go.
Natasha Romanova left the way she had came, climbing out of the window and onto the thin ledge that ran the length of the building. The rain was pounding down slicking the cement and lighting flared amidst the constant roar of deafening thunder. She took a deep breath and smiled, leaping, diving into the storm.
The Black Widow was back.
Fury stood before the vast expanse of glass that made up the windows of his lavish offices overlooking Madison Avenue some three dozen stories below. It was a huge set of rooms for just one man; large enough to bed down the entire troop of Howlers comfortably, and still have room for any guests that they might want to invite. There was the one vast main office where he conducted business on a daily basis, and like the other three adjoining rooms it was paneled in oak and decorated in oak and furnished in oak. It was good and solid with a calming color and soothing lingering odors that had not quite been choked off by the smell of his own imported Cubans. He had an oak desk that should have seated three and contained little more than the inlaid computer screen in the top, a pen stand that he had gotten as a gift one Christmas from the 'Boy Scout' and his Desert Eagle secreted in easy reach. There was a twelve-year old bottle of scotch in one lower drawer buried under a sheaf of papers that were probably important, though he could not quite recall why. There was a bedroom situated to the right of his desk, which- except for the latrine- he hardly ever used. All too often he would end up nodding out in his plush leather captain's chair rather than make the short trek to the bed through the door and not thirty feet away. Off to the left was a meeting room that saw some action. It was decked out in the latest technology that Stark Corp could offer up; computers and digital viewers, communications and a state of the art entertainment center. There too everything was oak; light and dark, and soft leather. It looked impressive, and Stark himself had said it was necessary to present the proper image to clients, but there were times that it was just a bit too much for Fury.
He had spent a good deal of his life in Hell's Kitchen, sharing a room with his brothers- Jake and John- and even a bed with Jake for a time in their three bedroom walk-up with his parents and grandmother. Most of the rest of his life had been spent in a waterlogged ditch or a foxhole with bombs falling around him in some god-forsaken country half a world away. Most of his homes could have fit within these offices three times over- even the rooms he had had when he had worked with the CIA. He had thought he had had it good then. That was nothing compared to this. The threadbare carpets and peeling wallpaper were gone. No more rats or roaches crawling over his sweaty body at night. He had it good now; better than ever. Still, he was starting to hate oak.
Pressing against the glass he could just see the billows of dark smoke rolling skyward from the fires on the East Side Docks where his strike force had invaded the illegal operations of the Oriental Expeditors. Olsen's storm was blowing itself back out to sea shunting the ill effects of the fire up and away from the city as per instructions. The rain was still falling downtown containing the flames to keep them from spreading, but before too long they would dwindle and die as well. MI-6 and Interpol would send in their troops to round up the strays that were wanted overseas and the FBI would impound everything within a three-block radius pending their investigation. By Monday there would be several checks for bounty claimed sitting on his desk waiting for signature- that not counting the check that was being signed behind him at that very moment.
Another job well done.
Fury saw a flash of yellow reflected in the glass as he sparked his Zippo and puffed the bit of his cigar back to life. Jennifer Hargrave was waiting on him to accept the check that she had just written out; he could see her looking him up and down in the glass. She was an arrogant and greedy bitch, the CEO and sole heir- now- of the Cross-Tech Enterprise fortunes. Fury knew why she had wanted her brother dead, and why she was willing to pay top dollar to SHIELD to have it done. He was the eldest and rightful heir to the corporation and a threat to her livelihood if he ever came forward, but he was also world-class scum; a drug czar and killer in his own right, and a member of the Hydra to boot. That alone made the whole deal worth while.
Miss Hargrave's story had been that Konnar Hargrave had murdered her father in some vengeful fit of madness. Fury did not doubt it, and from what he had heard of the dealings of the elder Hargrave, he probably deserved it. Anthony Stark had had many stories of his confrontations with Cross-Tech, both with the father and the daughter, and none of them were pretty. Still, Konnar had murdered the man; an invalid that could barely breathe on his own and was confined to a wheel chair. He was a killer, and that made Kon Hargrave fair game.
Too, as a leader of one of Hydra's many divisions he had a sizable bounty on his head. He had not been a major concern until Jennifer had hired the services of Nick Fury's SHIELD Corp, but as soon as she was willing to pay the price he had become a top priority. Fury wondered just when he had started worrying about the money-
"Fury?"
Retired Colonel Nicholas Fury turned and saw the woman looking at him curiously. She had returned to her seat, crossing her long, slender legs as she leaned back in one of the plush black leather chairs that the offices supplied for his guests and clients. She was a fine looking woman, though a bit on the young side for Fury's tastes. He would do her, but he would hate himself in the morning, just a little bit.
"This is the price we agreed upon, yes?" She leaned forward slightly, giving him a nice view of her ample cleavage and slid her signed check across the vast expanse of the polished oak desktop towards him. Fury glanced at the check, noting the information on it was from her personal accounts rather than a corporate heading with the logo of Cross-Tech. There was a photograph of sleeping kittens etched into the background. Fury counted the zeroes that she had jotted down, comparing that to the actual words of the amount written. He nodded-
"Pleasure doin' business with you, Miss Hargrave." He slid the check into one of the drawers of his desk, locking it away. He would let his Office Manager deal with that tomorrow. Thunder boomed- Olsen's parting shot- and Jennifer stood, apparently knowing when she was being dismissed.
"It has been a pleasure, Colonel. It's always a pleasure to deal with a man that knows what he's doing. I hope we might do so again one day." He watched her as she shouldered her bag and gathered her briefcase before turning on her heel and walking towards the doors. Her hips were swaying nicely as her long legs propelled her forward. Her heels were muted clacks on the carpeted floor. Fury's finger was resting on the button that would buzz her through the solid oak doors when she half-turned, flipping her long golden hair out of her almond eyes. She smiled-
"Doing anything for dinner tonight, Colonel?" Her teeth flashed perfectly, white framed by soft red. The Contessa would kill him-
"Actually, Miss Hargrave," he said, stepping around from behind the desk and walking towards her, "I think I'm free this evening." She smiled-
"Wonderful! I have a reserved room at the 21 Club. You should enjoy that. And please, make it Jen!"
"I do try."
Nicholas Fury chuckled as he looped his arm about the woman's. Lord knew there was more business to attend to. There always was, but it would wait one night, whatever it might be.
Even the Director of SHIELD needed a night off.
***
Sharon Carter stood at the very back wall of the vast hall that was the United Nations General Assembly trying her best to stay awake. She hated these assignments that did little more than test her patience, no matter what they paid.
It was hot and humid in the auditorium, the air-conditioning had given up the ghost sometime during the night, and the huge fans that had been set up about the Assembly Hall did little to stave off the heat of so many people packed into the huge room. To the contrary, the constant hum of the fans was like a lullaby, slowly putting her to sleep with their unending drone.
The hum of the mechanical fans however was nothing compared to the unending litany spewed by the various members of the UN that had bid for time to speak either pro or con to the current agenda on the docket. Sharon Carter could speak ten languages fluently, and another five besides in drabs, and she had stood her ground listening to the ambassadors from Poland, Germany, and Russia as they all babbled on and on and on for hours. The Russian delegate had given way to the Ambassador of Wakanda, and though she knew a smattering of Swahili, the African might just as well have been speaking Greek for all that she could comprehend. UN Security had provided an earpiece for translations, but the device was filled with static and almost useless.
Sharon sighed and rubbed at her eyes. She shuffled her feet, finally pacing as she eyed the great hall. She checked her watch- almost time for the next security check. She pulled her communicator from her belt and depressed the Com button opening a link to her fellows-
"Status check, boys! Give me your twenties!" she waited.
"Spector here!" the first voice crackled over the static. She would have to turn her gear in for maintenance at the end of the mission. It seemed nothing was working right. Luckily Marc Spector- the mercenary and free lance SHIELD operative sometimes code-named Moon Knight- had brought his own gear. He and his pilot were hovering out over the East River doing aerial reconnaissance, slipping in and out of the restricted airspace over the UN Plaza at predetermined intervals randomly provided by the USAC and the local authorities as well as UN Security.
"Traffic's a nightmare on First Avenue, but other than that it's a typical hazy, humid New York summer morning. Not a cloud in the sky-"
"When I want the rush hour traffic report, Spector, I'll ask for it!" Carter snapped in response. She was cranky, and in no mood for his attempt at being coy. The heat and boredom was starting to get to her. "Just keep it tight."
"Yes Ma'am, Miss Carter, Sir! Position A, all clear!"
There was an audible click as Spector severed his radio connection, obviously annoyed. Fuck him! This was not a game, and if he thought otherwise he should not have signed on.
"Trouble in paradise, Carter?" A gruff voice sounded over the radio, snapping Sharon Carter back to the task at hand and forcing Marc Spector from her thoughts, at least for the moment. She had thought that Marko would be the agent to worry about with this assignment, but to her surprise he had turned out to be the least trouble of the three under her command. Cain Marko was a powerhouse, arguably the strongest man on the planet. He was often mistaken as a mutant- a mistake that usually worked to his benefit. He denied being a mutant of course, as vehemently as any sane person would with the current state of affairs and mutant bigotry running rampant throughout the world. Still, he never would explain the source of his seemingly limitless strength and invulnerability. He had signed on with SHIELD as an enforcer and strong arm- albeit on an enforced probationary parole- and was apparently just in it for the money, freedom and occasional excitement- and of course the eventual presidential pardon. He slid into the role well though, and had earned his pay in every mission that he undertook for the firm.
"Nothing I can't handle, Marko. What's your status?"
"Bored shitless, babe, an' this monkey suit's killin' me. All clear at the main doors though. Ain't nobody getting' by me!"
Carter smiled at Marko's confidence, glad that she had one operative that she could count on without worry. "Glad to hear it, Marko. If it makes you feel any better, my feet are killing me in these heels. Keep your eyes open all the same. Carter out-"
Sharon Carter shifted the frequency of her Com link and spoke softly into the microphone. Her last agent had complained about the volume of her voice in his cybernetic headgear despite how low he set the controls. He explained that a certain gain was necessary to interpret the natural chatter of the insects that he constantly monitored for emotional reaction, and her voice most often sounded like the wail of a rock star over a tower of speakers at a concert.
There were other problems that Scott Lang complained of- constantly- but the anal little prick did his job, and in a way that no one else could. He had been a simple technician at one of Stark's many facilities before he had come to the attention of SHIELD's Personnel Department. Apparently he was an ex-thief that Stark's rehabilitation net had snared and provided for, giving him a good job at one of their munitions plants. Lang had apparently needed more money however, and was caught stealing patents and prototypes from the Long Island home of Henry Pym, unfortunately for him. There had been a huge but mostly secretive judicial battle for Lang's release back to Stark's probationary care. When SHIELD's board of financiers stepped in, well, when the smoke had cleared Lang was let off scot-free and the scientist's inventions were mysteriously missing. There had been a good word or two from Henry Pym himself as well, oddly, despite his missing hardware. Carter wondered what Fury had over Pym.
Enter, the Ant Man.
"What's your status, Lang?" Carter whispered, listening closely for the response. The voice she heard seemed tiny and far away. Oddly, she heard the slightest echo behind the faint sound.
"I'm in the ventilation system; the central air duct on the stage near the podium. You all think you're hot, I'm sweating like a pig in here. And I'm filthy with dust and grease. You'd think a big outfit like the UN could hire a maid-"
"Quit whining, Lang and stay alert. And for god's sake make certain you're anchored this time! We don't want a repeat of Kansas City if the air conditioning decides to kick back in."
"Got'cha, Chief! Lang out."
Carter sighed, then yawned as she turned her radio to stand-by before clipping it back to her belt. She shuddered, trying not to stretch and attract undo attention to herself. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and wiped away the sweaty grime from her forehead. Lang was right. The air in the room was filthy and starting to reek from the press of bodies. There were dozens in the room taking up the seats and lining the aisles; ambassadors and UN reps, interpreters, security guards and ushers, reporters and a few simple onlookers that had special permission to be on the grounds. It was a huge, important meeting to discuss the alleged Mutant Menace that seemed to be rising progressively, especially since the deaths of most of earth's most prominent heroes. It seemed that anyone who was someone was there.
T'Challa, Son of T'Chaka and King of all the Wakandas was there listening raptly and nodding occasionally at whatever his spokesman was saying on stage. He was a regal, handsome man, and unfortunately arrogant beyond belief. Carter had met him recently in the company of Fury and the two men had argued fiercely for most of the encounter. Both men had acted the ass that time- at least in her opinion- but she had left the meeting with a sour taste in her mouth after witnessing first hand the attitude of the 'new' Black Panther. He was hardly the man she had met years before with Captain America.
She had seen Gyrich earlier, with his little Russian lapdog on leash. She should have expected at least one of the self-proclaimedAvengers to be on hand, though she had been surprised to see the man himself. He was a cocky one to be sure, and the Black Widow was no better. She was a retired spy- not all that different from Carter herself- though the name Natasha Romanova elicited just a bit more respect in the circles they ran in than that of Sharon Carter. Carter was jealous, she would never deny it, but their training had been different and their subsequent missions more varied. The Widow's got her the prestige as well as the awe from their peers. Carter's got the job done and paid the bills. She hated the bitch, and she had never even met her.
Carter had lost sight of Gyrich when the ruling monarch of Latveria had made his entrance. His Squire had announced his arrival just as Doom's robotic bodyguards had swept into the great hall and cleared a path to his assigned seat. Marko had had a fit, but Carter had been briefed on the eccentricities of the more mysterious attendees of the day's festivities and had been prepared for the Emperor of Latveria's grand entrance. The man himself showed no sign of concern, confident that all was well within the realm of normalcy as he strolled into the vast chamber. He was a tall striking figure dressed head to toe in tailored Armani from the heels of his black wingtips to the lacing and straps of the thick iron mask that he wore. Rumor was that in his college days at State University he was scarred in an experiment that exploded in his face. He was so vain, allegedly, that he had donned a mask to hide his disfigurements and had never shown his face to anyone since. It leant an air of mystique to the already mysterious man from the Eastern Block of European states. He was hardly the Doom that Carter remembered, stripped of the armor that was his trademark. The deaths of his greatest rivals had apparently changed the man, if the stories were true.
There were others as well, but none so flamboyant. Kofi Amman of course, and other regular members of the various UN committees and councils. Fred Duncan was there as the official representative of the FBI- the only agent on premises with the respect to make his presence known to her. She saw Doctor Moira MacTaggart, the world's leading geneticist on mutation along with some of her more publicly acceptable patients. Carter had several field agents stationed in their vicinity.
Overall, despite the oppressive heat and rising smell the operation had gone off without a hitch. The Wakandan representative that they had been hired to safeguard was finally starting to wind down his speech. Their current employer, the Black Panther seemed relatively pleased with the morning's performance on all fronts. With a bit of luck and a lot of skill, within moments they would be out of the sauna and on their way home to base.
The best laid plans of course.
Carter was leaning with her back against the rear wall of the chamber when the alert sounded. She had slipped her hot and sweaty foot out of the confining leather pump she had been forced to wear, luxuriating in the feeling of being able to scratch the sole of her foot and wiggle her toes a bit. She was drowsing, and the blare of Spector's shouts over the radio had almost made her shout and fall over.
"Incoming!" he yelled in a whine of feedback. "We got incoming!" Carter ripped the Com link from her belt, slipping her foot back into her shoe as she stepped away from the wall to get a good look at the chamber-
"Spector! What is it?" she tried not to yell in return. As it was the people in the nickel bleachers in the hall were turning to stare at her in annoyance. All she heard was static-
Something came smashing through the ceiling. It was huge and round, a great metal ball on a chain. She could barely make it out as it came careening down through the roof and crashed into the very center of the great hall. The force of the impact created an explosion that sent dozens flying and sent even more cascading into the wide hole that was created. Screams of fear and panic went up instantly, and even through the resulting dust and spewing debris she could see that there were many, many people suddenly missing and probably dead.
She knew immediately who the attacker must be as she rushed forward drawing her gun, though she did not know what good that would do. Crusher Creel, the Absorbing Man was well known by the trademark ball and chain that he carried from his old chain gang days. He was a wanted felon, hired muscle and obviously on the pay role of someone wanting the proceedings cancelled.
Carter had not ran five steps when she heard a new crash over the panicked screams of the assemblage. She turned to see Cain Marko flying backwards through the shattered doors to land in a sprawl on the floor of the main hall. He did not look hurt in the least. Still it was surprising to even see him knocked down. "Nothing could stop the Juggernaut!" or so the press statements said.
A man stepped into the frame of the shattered doorway. He was short and squat, but even from a distance Carter could see that his bulk was mostly muscle. He was wearing a battered metal helmet and shoulder pads over a bare chest and belly rounded from too much beer. She recognized him after a moment, and realized that her initial response had been wrong. It was not Creel at all that was attacking, but another entire group with a member that wielded a wrecking ball.
One by one they stepped into view. There was a burly blonde man with wide, hammerhead fists and dressed in a dirty white tee shirt that stepped up beside the other before the two descended on the fallen Cain Marko. A black man suddenly dropped through the hole in the roof even as his ball and chain swiftly flew out of the rubble and shot towards him. He caught the thing in mid-fall, and used it to lower himself somewhat gently to the ground by spinning it rapidly overhead. The last of the group stormed in from the far side of the auditorium, right up on to the stage. He was dressed in green coveralls and wearing a gaudy purple pullover mask for no other reasons probably than he liked it. He was well known enough that everyone would recognize the weapon that he carried; a crowbar!
It was the Wrecker, a mercenary killer, kidnapper, and terrorist! He was a thug for hire, and he had brought his boys to town this time. Carter cursed as she charged forward, trying to get a bead on the man even as he grabbed the speaker from Wakanda and twisted his neck. She heard the resulting snap all the way in the back of the hall. The Wakandan fell to the floor in a crumpled heap and the Wrecker simply laughed.
It was the Wrecking Crew, and they were apparently out for blood.
To Be Continued.