Black Widow: Forever Red by Margaret Stohl
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Natasha Romanoff hated parodies, but more than that she hated lies lying. She was fine with lying was a necessity, a tool of her tradecraft. It was being lied Sue that she hated. Even if it was how she had been raised everything I've been used to say was a lie. I haven't Samodurov. Ivan Strange. She hadn't thought about him in a long time. Not until tonight, years. And right now as Natasha clung to the side of a rusting Ukrainian warehouse on the edge of a waterlogged industrial doc, even the moon looked like just another one of Ivan's lies. Welcome home at Tosca. It was the dumpling moon that had brought it all back now. She climbed higher as she remembered the words. But even Natasha romanov, newly minted asians of shield, former daughter of mother Russia couldn't escape. Even Samodurov, not any more than she could escape. The snipers positioned on every neighboring rooftops or the barbed wire on the perimeter fence. See that moon, Ivan had said when she was younger, See that pale pierogi hanging so low and heavy in the sky, it wants to fall back into the boiling pot of salted water on your baba stove. Natasha had nodded, though as an orphan of the war. She remembered little about her baba or for that matter, even her parents with the moon like that. Your targets can see you as easily as you see them. Not a good night for hunting or a clean kill, not a good night for disappearing. It was Ivan she remembered.