Natasha didn't panic. Before Jack’s fingers could fully yank the rusted pull-cord, her right boot lashed out in a tight, devastating arc.
CRACK!
Her heel caught the steel valve fitting at the base of the pipe, shearing the oxidized bolt straight off before the gas could flood the room. The cord in Jack’s hand snapped limp.
"Old pipes, Jack," Natasha said coolly, her body already shifting momentum. "You didn't check the pressure main."
"Ha... HAHAHA!" Jack didn't look disappointed; he looked fucking delighted. "Smart girl! I like a girl who knows her plumbing!"
He didn't pull a gun. He grabbed the heavy, cast-iron hand-crank off his reloading press and swung it horizontal, aiming straight for her throat with zero technical form—just pure, vicious leverage.
Natasha ducked under the iron bar with fluid, effortless precision, her left elbow driving deep into Jack’s broken ribs.
THUMP.
The impact echoed like a wet sack of cement hitting concrete. Jack’s lungs emptied instantly, bloody phlegm spraying across her shoulder, but instead of collapsing or reeling back, his right arm whipped around like a snake, wrapping tight around her throat in a ragged headlock.
He pulled her down into his chest, his feverish heat radiating off him like an open furnace.
"Gotcha, Red!" he rasped right into her ear, smelling heavily of copper, cheap disinfectant, and dried sweat. "What's the Russian word for 'hug' again? Is it dasvidaniya or idi na...?"
Natasha’s eyes narrowed. Normal combatants reacted to pain—they flinched, protected their injuries, or pulled back when their ribs caved in. Jack moved into the pain, using his damaged flesh as bait to trap her arm.
She drove two fingers sharp into the nerve cluster behind his jaw.
Jack’s jaw twitched, his mouth opening in a wide, silent gasp, but he didn't release the lock. Instead, he leaned his head back and slammed his forehead directly against her cheekbone.
BANG.
Both of them stumbled sideways into the workbench. Jars of gunpowder, lead slugs, and empty brass casings rained down around their boots in a metallic storm.
Natasha shook off the blur in her vision, stepping back and snapping her right wrist forward. The spring-loaded batons built into her cuffs slid into her palms, humming with high-voltage electricity.
"Last chance, Jack," she breathed, her posture shifting into a low, deadly stance. "You're fighting on two broken ribs and a gunshot wound. The math doesn't work out."
Jack leaned against the crumbling brick pillar, wiping a smear of blood from his nose onto his torn sleeve. His wide, bloodshot eyes were lit with an insane, flickering fire as he watched the blue sparks dancing across her batons.
[8.0%... SYNCHRONIZATION SPIKE... PAIN RECEPTORS MUTED].
"Math?" Jack threw his head back and laughed—a loud, barking HAHAHA that rattled the loose mortar in the ceiling. "Oh, honey, I flunked algebra twice! You want math? Let's talk about the math of four judges taking Union Allied cash in Westchester!"
He grabbed a heavy glass jar of gunpowder off the floor, smashed it against the brick wall, and threw the jagged, powder-coated glass shards straight at her face like a handful of shrapnel.
Natasha raised her forearms to block the flying glass, but Jack wasn't advancing.
He was already crawling through the narrow coal chute at the back of the cellar, his boots kicking dirt into the dark tunnel as he dragged his dead weight into the alley above.
"...dare..." his broken voice echoed back through the chute, fading into the sound of the rain outside. "...dare to count the bodies, Red... dare to count 'em all... HAHAHAHA!"
Natasha lowered her batons, watching the coal dust settle in the dim lantern light. She touched her bruised cheekbone, her eyes lingering on the shattered glass and the puddle of fresh, oxygenated blood left on the concrete floor.
She reached into her coat, pulling out her secure comms device.
"Director," she said, her voice completely devoid of its earlier detachment. "Cancel the bio-terrorist profile. He isn't working for a syndicate."
"What is he then?" a deep voice crackled back through the earpiece.
Natasha looked at the ruined court documents left scattered on his bench. "He's a wrecking ball with a fever. And he's coming for Wilson Fisk."
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