Natalya
By Littlesilverstar, silverstar222b at yahoo dot com
A story about a woman I know - beautiful, smart, and a trained killer


You can call me John Doe. I have to remain anonymous, for reasons that will
become clear in a minute. Even though I would never in a million years dream
of publishing this; I'm just writing this in what's basically my diary. Just
to organize the thoughts in my mind after what happened tonight. I need to let
it out to someone, or something, and this is the best I can do.

As I said, my name is John Doe. I'm a computer geek. I work in cyber-security,
stopping others from hacking us and hacking others when the need arises.

And who is "us"? "Us" in this case means a secret government organization that
I'll just call "The Network." Officially, we don't exist. We appear on no
federal budget reports (though we're well-funded), we have no sign on our
official headquarters, and our leaders don't testify before Congress. I don't
even know who our leaders are, aside from my immediate supervisor; that stuff
is way above my pay grade.

And what does The Network do? Basically, we're a more efficient version of the
CIA. We monitor enemies of the state and "take care" of them when they become
too big a threat. There is very little red tape in this organization. We have
no "administrative specialists" or "long-range planners" or (thank God)
"diversity coordinators." Everyone here has a specific job to do, and does it
very well. What little management is needed is provided through a streamlined
chain of command of directors, regional directors, and local directors. Job
security is for life here, quite literally. No one puts in their two weeks'
notice, and no one gets a pink slip. No point in giving a pink slip to a
corpse.

Do I like the job? Well, it has its pluses and minuses. The pluses are that it
pays very well, and there's always something new and interesting to deal with.
The minuses are that it's, you know, a position where failure results in you
being the next one to be "taken care" of. Sword of Damocles and all that. As
for the gruesome work that The Network does, since I'm just a computer guy,
I'm shielded from all that. Well, I was, until a few hours ago.

So enough about me. The person I really want to write about is a coworker of
mine, a woman named Natalya. That's not her real name, of course. In fact, I'm
not even sure if I know what her real name is. She goes by another name at
work, but that's probably not her real name either. So I'll just go with
Natalya for this. It sounds like a sexy, mysterious name, right?

Natalya is a "field agent." In other words, she kills people for a living.
Most of our kil...um, field agents, are male, so she caught my interest right
from the first time I met her. And then, of course, the fact that she is
absolutely smoking hot just increased my fascination.

Natalya is fairly petite, about 5'6" and 128 pounds, but she can effortlessly
beat any man, or two or three or six men, on the street in a fight. She looks
like she's in her mid-twenties, although I'm sure she's older than that,
considering her level of experience. She has long blonde hair, blue eyes,
tanned skin, and an elegant, high-cheekboned face. She could have been a model
if the modeling industry didn't have ridiculous height requirements. Her body
is muscular and athletic, yet still feminine. Her upper arms have visible
muscle tone even when she's not flexing, yet don't look bulky. Her firm 34C
tits (I think they're 34C's), slender wasp waist, and round, muscular dancer's
ass add to her femininity and sexuality.

She never said much to me (until tonight). We employees don't talk much to one
another in the first place. We all have our own business to take care of. This
isn't the kind of place that has office Christmas parties. Our work and
personal lives are strictly separate. Still, I've often fantasized about her
and what her life is like. A model-hot woman who makes a living killing
people? If that isn't the epitome of fascinating and mysterious, I don't know
what is.

That was why it was so surprising when this all started earlier this evening.
I was working late, finishing up our latest firewall update, and Natalya must
have been staying after hours as well. We don't even share what we do with
other employees unless a director asks us to. Anyway, as I was finally
shutting my system down, she walked by, purse over her shoulder, and called
out to me.

"Hey, John. If you're finishing up too, want to grab a bite? I'm hungry."

I stopped and stared. One of the most beautiful women in the world was asking
me to dinner?

"Just as, you know, coworkers?" she said, approaching me. As she got close, I
could smell the sweet, feminine scent of her perfume. "You didn't think I was
asking you out or something, right, silly?" She playfully slapped me on the
ass.

"Oh, er...no. I knew that," I said, hoping that my face wasn't red.

"Are you okay? Your face is kind of red."

Damn. "Um...yes. I'm fine. That sounds great. I'm hungry too."

I couldn't help smiling as the hostess seated us at a table in the outdoor
section of the restaurant, overlooking the river. I may not have been on a
real date, but all the guys who saw me come in with Natalya didn't have to
know that. As a nerd, I've never had much success with or attention from
girls, and I took a certain satisfaction from the envious stares of the other
guys at the restaurant.

It was a warm night, and Natalya was dressed for it. She wore a black
miniskirt, along with dark pantyhose over her long, shapely legs. Up top she
had on a sleeveless white blouse to show off the darkness of her tan and the
muscle tone in her arms. Black ankle boots with stiletto high heels completed
her outfit. Even though I was an inch taller than her, her heels brought her
height up to three inches more than mine.

We made small talk about the weather and the local sports teams as we looked
over the menu. It was nice to talk to a girl who knew so much about football
and hockey. As I listened to her talk, she just seemed so...normal, except
better, you know? It was hard to believe that she was a professional assassin.

After we had ordered and the waitress removed our menus, Natalya rested her
arms on the table. I couldn't help noticing her wrists and forearms. She wore
a silver Rolex, a man's model, on her left wrist and a brown leather bracelet
on her right. Her forearms were heavily muscled and surprisingly thick for a
woman of her slender build, while still remaining feminine.

She noticed me looking and smiled. "My bracelet, my watch, or my forearms?"

"Your forearms, Natalya. Sorry. It's just that your muscle tone is amazing.
And the bracelet and watch really accent them well."

"Don't be sorry, John. I'm proud of them and I like showing them off. I've
worked hard to develop them. Helps with my line of work." She placed her wrist
next to mine. Hers was clearly bigger. I felt my attraction to her grow
stronger after seeing that.

"So...your line of work," I said. "You know at some point I would have to
ask..."

She smiled again, but wistfully this time. "I know. And I'm sorry, but I can't
talk about that, any more than you could talk about your work. You understand.
You'll just have to use your imagination."

"I understand." I spoke the words reluctantly. She seemed so normal, which
added to the mystique around her, that such an ordinary-seeming woman could be
such a lethal and skilled assassin. But that was the idea. No one would ever
suspect her until it was too late.

"Come on. Let's just forget about work and just enjoy a peaceful evening and
some good food," she said.

I couldn't argue with that.

* * *

It happened after dinner. We were walking back to the street where our cars
were parked, still chatting to each other. Even though it wasn't a real date,
I remember thinking that I would always have fond memories of this ni...

They jumped out from the shadows, six of them. Gangbangers, with the whole
ensemble - baggy pants, wifebeaters, and facial tattoos. They formed a
semicircle in front of us. One of them stepped forward. He had a small black
pistol, one of those cheap Saturday Night Specials, in his hand.

"Well, well, well," he sneered. "What have we here? One hot piece of ass." He
licked his lips as he looked over Natalya's body. "And one little punk who's
in the way." He smirked as he looked over at me. "But not for long." His
comrades snickered loudly.

I was shaking with fear, but Natalya was calm. "I'm in a good mood tonight, so
I'm actually going to give you a chance to live. Give me that silly pea
shooter, turn around, and walk away. That will be your only chance to get out
of this alive."

More loud laughter came from the group. "Who does this blonde bitch think she
is?" said one of the guys in the back.

"Yeah," said the leader. "You think six real men are afraid of a dumb cunt
like you? Why don't you use those full, pouty lips of yours for something
better than flapping, like sucking my dick?"

At that, I had to step forward, even though I knew I could never win a fight
with these thugs. But I had to be man enough to try. "Why don't you show some
respect and shut the fuck up, you ugly piece of shit?" I growled.

The hand with the pistol moved, and the butt of the gun struck me in the face.
With a cry of pain, I fell to the ground.

Natalya's voice was still quiet, but now hard as ice. She looked at her watch,
hanging slightly loose on her left wrist. "That's it. None of you have more
than a minute left to live."

The leader began raising his gun. "Yeah right, bitch, like you could ever..."

Her leg flashed in an unbelievably fast crescent kick, and suddenly the gun
was flying through the air, landing on the pavement far behind him. Then her
fist flashed and the leader was down, his eyes crossed.

The other five charged her all at once. She leapt high with the strength of a
dancer, doing the splits in midair and knocking two men down with kicks to
their faces. She landed and spun, sweeping out with her leg and holding out
her fist. Two more of them were tripped to the ground, and the last was
greeted by her spinning back fist right to his face. Before he could recover,
she performed a backflip kick, the tip of her boot impacting the underside of
his chin with a sickening CRACK. He fell to the pavement, his neck broken and
his head swinging at an odd angle, as she landed perfectly on her feet despite
her high heels.

The remaining thugs, who had been struggling to get back up, all froze at the
sound. I could almost smell the fear that must have suddenly started flowing
through them, as they realized with horror how dangerous this woman actually
was. They were at Natalya's mercy, and she wasn't going to show them any. She
stomped on the nearest throat, piercing it with her razor-sharp stiletto heel.
As she withdrew it, a fountain of blood sprayed out. Raising her right leg
high over her head in a full 180-degree vertical split, she stood over the
next man, giving him (and me) a view up her skirt. Then she brought her leg
down with blinding speed, her axe kick shattering his skull like a ripe melon.
Blood, brain matter, and pieces of bone flew everywhere.

The leader was still down, stunned by her punch, but the other two had gotten
up. The first charged her, swinging his fist. She dodged easily and smashed a
palm strike into his nose, driving the cartilage into his brain.

As his buddy slumped dead, the other man decided that cowardice was now the
best option, and he began to run. Natalya sighed. She did nine standing back
handsprings in a row, elegantly backflipping like a pro-gymnast, to swiftly
take her over to the pistol. Snatching it up, she took careful aim and fired a
single shot. The runner slumped to the sidewalk. "Straight through the heart.
Almost have to, with a small caliber like this," she murmured to herself.

Although I was still dizzy, I felt aroused at her markswomanship. The guy was
almost a hundred feet away, and she had drilled a perfect heart shot on him
with that small, low-accuracy Saturday Night Special. I had had to learn how
to shoot in order to join The Network, and I'd barely passed the marksmanship
test with the minimum acceptable score. I'm sure Natalya could have passed the
test with flying colors with a blindfold on.

Natalya looked down at the leader, who had recovered just enough to realize
that all of his followers were dead. He began to beg for mercy.

The tone of her voice showed no emotion at all. "I gave you your fair chance
to walk away. You didn't take it."

"No, please..."

She suddenly did a front handspring followed by a cartwheel towards him,
landing right on top of him. She snaked her muscular thighs around his neck
and looked at her watch again. "Fifty-seven seconds."

Then she violently twisted her hips, snapping his neck like a dry twig. She
opened her legs, releasing him to fall to the asphalt face first.

She looked around, then over at me. "John, are you all right?"

I stood up slowly, holding my painful head. "I'll live."

She slipped the gun underneath her miniskirt. "I'll get rid of the
fingerprints and dispose of this later. Little .32 caliber piece of crap, no
loss. Now, we have to go. Fast."

* * *

We sat on a bench in a deserted park a few miles away. "Nothing to worry about
as far as anyone coming after us," Natalya assured me in response to my
inquiry. "I know how to dispose of hot firearms. And I took off my bloody
boots before getting in the car and put them in an emergency bag. Won't leave
any evidence in the vehicle. Punks like those guys have a lot of enemies.
Other gangbangers. The cops won't be looking for people like us. We'll be
fine."

I looked straight into her deep blue eyes. "Thank you for saving my life."

"Oh, I was just doing my job. Although usually I get paid for that."

Despite her joke, I was still looking at her with awe. The expression on her
face suddenly changed. "You're not falling in love with me, are you?" she
asked.

"Well, love is a bit of a strong word, but you do seem like the perfect woman.
You're beautiful, smart, charming, strong yet compassionate..."

"Compassionate? I just killed six men."

"And you did it without even breaking a sweat. I can't help but find that
alluring. And those thugs deserved it."

"They may have deserved it, but that's not the point. The point is that you're
attracted to an image of who you think I am. You think I'm an assassin with a
heart of gold. Well, you've got the first part right. You don't really know
me..."

She suddenly paused. "You don't know me, but that's not fair. I've never told
you what I really am. What I really do. You were asking about my work back at
dinner. Well, now I'm going to tell you."

I sat back and listened...

* * *

The target's name was Max Rommerdahl. He had a net worth of several hundred
million dollars, and he owned several security companies. He was also one of
the biggest suppliers of illegal guns and explosives to domestic terrorists in
the United States. Whether they were tree-hugging eco-terrorists, Christian
fundamentalists who bombed abortion clinics, or homegrown Islamist jihadis,
Max Rommerdahl supplied them all, becoming rich in the process. He then
swooped in with his security companies to provide "peace of mind" to those
targeted by the terrorists, fattening his wallet even more.

Rommerdahl lived in Miami, and owned a 200-foot yacht, on which he frequently
traveled to Europe. The plan was to ambush him while he was in the middle of
the Atlantic. "There were three of us who would inflitrate the yacht," said
Natalya. "Myself, and two guys that let's just call Victor and Bruno. Those
are stereotypical tough guy names, right? Our support crew would be in a
fishing boat that would stay out of sight. We had a miniature submarine to
take us from the fishing boat to the yacht. Get on, bump off Rommerdahl, and
take his brown leather briefcase with all of his most important documents, the
one he took with him everywhere so he could run his criminal empire from
anywhere in the world. Then get off before anyone knew we were there, no
witnesses. Rommerdahl was on his way back to Miami from Monte Carlo and he was
smack in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Easy, right? Well, not quite."

"Victor and Bruno were exactly what you'd expect. I'd worked with them before.
They were big, muscular, rough-looking, and rough-mannered. They were employed
by The Network because they killed whoever they were told to kill without
question. Some field agents kill because it's their job. Others kill because
they genuinely enjoy it. Bruno and Victor were definitely in the latter
category. I didn't enjoy working with them, but the Local Director said that
this job was too big for one or two agents. Rommerdahl was rich and rather
paranoid, and had pretty good personal security. Security was his business,
after all. And Victor and Bruno, although they were chauvinist pigs, knew what
I was capable of and didn't give me any shit. So I agreed to the plan."

"It was a few minutes before midnight. The sea was a little rough, but nothing
we couldn't handle. I parked the sub next to a ladder and magnetically
attached it to the yacht. We climbed up the ladder and slipped on board. Bruno
and Victor wore black pants and black sweatshirts, and I had a black leather
catsuit with the front zipper halfway down to show off part of my tits. That's
what female spies always wear, right? I didn't want to break with tradition.
We each had a submachine gun with a silencer. Victor and Bruno also each had
an eight-inch dagger, and I had a miniature crossbow with a quiver of steel
bolts. We split up to do our assignments. Victor would take out the guards on
the starboard side, Bruno would do the same on the port side, and I would go
to the bridge."

* * *

Two burly, uniformed guards stood in front of the entrance to the bridge,
bored with their duty. Nothing was going to happen now, right? They were in
the middle of the fucking ocean.

There was a faint buzzing sound, almost like a bee. One of the guards looked
around, then suddenly froze in horror. His comrade was dead, a steel crossbow
bolt impaled in his throat, penetrating all the way through the neck and
pinning him upright to the wall. A trickle of blood flowed down from the hole,
staining his uniform.

He opened his mouth to shout, but before any sound could come out, a
leather-gloved hand closed tightly around his throat. The 6'2" guard found
himself looking somewhat downward into a pair of blue eyes, as even with her
heels Natalya was only brought up to 5'10". Then, with a flick of her muscular
wrist, she snapped his neck one-handed.

Natalya stepped onto the bridge. "Good evening, gentlemen," she said calmly.
Her submachine gun was in her hands.

There were only two men there in the middle of the night, the pilot and the
officer of the watch. They both looked up in surprise. Her weapon on
semi-automatic, she fired two quick but expertly aimed shots. A neat red 9mm
hole appeared in each man's forehead.

Shoving the pilot's corpse aside, she made sure the yacht was set on
autopilot, then made her way across the room and swiftly disabled all the
communications equipment. Somebody might have a satellite phone, but the
enemy's main avenue for calling for aid was cut off.

Knowing that the yacht captain's cabin was right behind the bridge, she headed
there next. The door was locked, but she picked it in a few seconds with a
wire. The captain was asleep in bed, and she stabbed him in the eye with one
of her steel bolts. He died without ever waking up.

Stepping outside again, Natalya heard footsteps on the deck below her. She saw
a guard walking by, oblivious to her presence. She waited by the railing until
just the right moment, then leaped off, landing right on his shoulders. He was
treated to her crotch being right in his face before she spun herself around
violently, whirling a full 360 degrees, completely breaking his neck and
nearly popping his head off. As she dismounted him, she saw another guard
coming. She shot him through the heart with her crossbow, then dashed forward
and yanked the corpse back just in time to prevent it from going over the side
and making a loud splash.

Natalya dropped down one more deck, gracefully executing a back tuck
somersault in midair to break her fall and make her landing softer and
quieter. Two men were standing by the railing, smoking cigars. She recognized
them in the moonlight. Associates of Rommerdahl, high-level lieutenants. She
shot the first in the head with her crossbow, causing it to explode in a burst
of blood and brain matter, drenching the second man. In pure terror, he began
to run. Not even bothering to reload her crossbow, Natalya simply drew another
bolt from her quiver and threw it with the strength and accuracy of a softball
player. The bolt drove deep into the runner's back and he slumped face first
to the deck.

She pressed a button on her radio. "Come in, Bruno and Victor. Bridge,
captain's cabin, and main deck bow clear."

"Bruno here. Upper deck's all clear. I got four."

"I got five," came Victor's voice.

"I got nine," said Natalya. "Meet me on the main deck. The owner's suite and
Rommerdahl should be here."

"Roger. Over and out."

The three assassins checked the various rooms on the main deck quickly. No one
seemed to be around, except for one man in a robe, presumably one of
Rommerdahl's guests, who was passed out on a couch in the lounge, an empty
bottle of vodka on the floor near him. Victor took out his dagger, ripped the
drunk man's throat wide open, wiped the blood on his hand, and gave Bruno a
bloody high-five. Both men were smirking. Natalya rolled her blue eyes. "Come
on. Let's just do our job."

While Victor and Bruno stood guard, Natalya approached the door to the owner's
suite. A huge man, about 6'6" and 300 pounds, Rommerdahl's personal bodyguard,
was seated near the entrance. When he saw her, he stood up in surprise, then
smirked cockily upon seeing how petite she was. He put up his fists.

She smiled back at him, then suddenly kicked him in the groin, sending his
testicles back up somewhere into his body. He sank to his knees, his mouth
opening and closing but no sound coming out. She shouldered her weapon and
prepared her hands.

Then she smashed both of her leather-gloved hands into his torso, in a lethal
precision double palm strike, hearing the satisfying and familiar crunching
sounds. She looked straight into her terrified victim's eyes.

"I've just shattered your ribs so that they'll pierce your heart," she
informed him. "You should be keeling over dead right about..." She looked at
her watch.

"Now," she finished as he keeled over dead. Chuckling, she helped herself to
his key, then unlocked the door to the owner's suite.

Max Rommerdahl was lying asleep in his large bed, naked. A skinny,
bleached-blonde woman with large fake breasts was lying nude next to him.
Natalya shot her in the head, then shoved the corpse aside. "Slut."

The faint noise of the silenced shot caused Rommerdahl to sleepily open his
eyes. He looked from side to side...then his eyes suddenly widened in horror
as he saw his whore dead on the floor and a woman pointing a submachine gun at
his face. "Who... who are you..." he stammered.

"Your worst nightmare," she smirked. "A woman with real brains, real strength,
real blonde hair, and real breasts." Holding her gun in one hand, she used the
other to yank him out of bed. His pale, flabby body contrasted sharply with
her tanned, muscular one.

Even as his mouth was opening, her arm was moving. Her karate chop struck him
hard in the throat. His mouth continued to open and close, but no sound came
out.

"I've just taken out your vocal chords. Wouldn't want you waking the
neighbors. Not that your bodyguard could have helped you anyway. I've already
killed him."

Rommerdahl's eyes began darting from side to side. Shockingly and shamefully,
despite being about to die, his cock began to get hard! She shook her head.
Guys like him couldn't help thinking with their little heads even in life or
death situations. He probably had a girls with guns fetish, she thought to
herself with a smirk as she continued looking at his rod. It rose until it had
reached its pathetic maximum length of four inches. Natalya laughed right in
his face as he reddened in shame, then pointed her gun at him.

He dropped to his knees, pleading with his eyes and hands, then pointed to the
safe on the wall, a look of desperation on his terrified face.

She smashed the butt of her gun across his jaw, breaking it. "You're a
bloodsucking parasite who's made your dirty money by selling weapons to
terrorists. Then you come in with your security companies and make even more
dirty money off of people's fears. You think I can be bought?" She hit him
with the weapon again, opening a large, bloody cut on his cheek.

She stood over him dominantly, like a tigress would with a rat. "Now I'm going
to show you why they call me the Bonebreaker Queen." Savoring the fear in his
eyes and the cold sweat dripping down his face, Natalya kicked out hard,
shattering her male victim's right kneecap. She threw her gun aside, gripped
his right arm in a tight hold and jerked, breaking it, then shattered his left
arm by firing a palm strike into the bone. Grabbing his left leg, she bent it
the wrong way at the knee until she heard the snap. She threw him back onto
the bed and cartwheeled onto it after him. Landing behind him, she grabbed him
by the neck. "Finishing time."

With that, she snapped his neck, then calmly walked across the room and picked
up the brown leather briefcase lying on a nearby table. Looking at the code
lock, she set the numbers to 0764, Rommerdahl's birth month and year, and
smirked when it clicked open. "For a criminal mastermind, he sure was dumb,"
she thought. She peeked inside and nodded in satisfaction, then closed the
briefcase and prepared to leave.

Victor and Bruno walked into the room. "Hey!" said Victor, upon seeing the
dead bottle blonde. "Why'd you have to do her like that?"

"Yeah!" added Bruno. "We could have had some fun with her before we bumped her
off."

Natalya rolled her eyes again. "That's not what we're here for. The mission's
done. Rommerdahl's dead, and I have the case." She pressed a button on her
radio. "Natalya here. Main target neutralized, and we have the goods."

"Excellent work," came the voice of the Local Director. "Now sink the ship."

"What?! That wasn't part of the briefing!"

"I said no witnesses, remember?"

"And there aren't any. We've taken out Rommerdahl, his bodyguards, and his
lieutenants. We have the briefcase, and with the information inside we can
dismantle his organization from the top down. Everyone else on board is asleep
on the lower deck. They'll never know who we are."

"That's right, because you're going to sink the fucking ship."

"But there are cooks and waitresses and cabin stewards on board! They're not
part of Rommerdahl's criminal empire! They're just innocent people trying to
make a liv..."

"Well, looky here," Victor interrupted. "Is the girl going soft?"

"Maybe she should leave men's work to the real men," smirked Bruno.

Natalya whirled, glaring at them. "What the fuck would you two know about
being real men, considering how small your penises are? That's right, I know."
Bruno and Victor, red with shame and in fear of her combat skills, shut their
flaps.

"That's enough, all of you," came the Local Director's voice. "Natalya, you're
one of our best agents, but there's a limit to how much backtalk I can take
even from you. Sink the fucking ship. No witnesses, no survivors. If any one
of them is able to talk, they could finger us and bring the whole Network
down. Then the Max Rommerdahls of the world will have a lot easier time of it
than they did when we were around. We can't afford to take the risk. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," she said with a sigh. "Over and out."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" said Bruno. "Let's do this." He slapped a
fresh magazine into his submachine gun.

"Right," sighed Natalya reluctantly. "Okay, let's go."

They made their way down to the lower deck, starting with the guest cabins.
Natalya kicked down a door, crossbow at the ready. A middle-aged man and woman
were lying in bed together, asleep.

The woman suddenly sat up, her eyes flying wide open, and stared at Natalya.
The blonde assassin fired. The bolt pierced the woman's heart and she died
without even a murmur.

Natalya performed a front tuck somersault to take her to the bed. Just as the
man stirred and his eyes began to open, she rammed her knee upward, into his
forehead. Propelled by her powerful thigh muscles, the blow split the front of
his skull open, brain matter leaking out from the crack.

She looked closely at the couple. Clearly, they were rich, and invited on this
yacht for some reason. Whether they were truly evil at heart and on board with
Rommerdahl's actions, or simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, she
didn't know. She would never know.

She tried the next cabin. Empty. Across the hall, she heard screams. A few
seconds later, Victor and Bruno each came out from a cabin. Both had bloody
daggers in their hands, and both were laughing.

"Those two bitches never knew what hit 'em," laughed Bruno.

"Not till it was too late, anyway," added Victor. "Woulda raped mine, but she
was too old and ugly for me."

"Same here," said Bruno.

"Uh...guys?" said Natalya. She pointed. From the other side of the ship, from
the crew's quarters, men were pouring out, thanks to the noise Bruno and
Victor had caused. Some were wearing guards' uniforms and carrying guns, and a
firefight broke out.

Natalya, setting her weapon to full auto, killed three men before her gun
clicked empty. Ducking into an alcove to reload, she saw two men hiding there.
She lashed out with her boots, roundhouse kicking one man in the face and
driving her razor-sharp stiletto high heel into the second's chest,
penetrating his heart. She withdrew it with a squishing sound. The other man,
knocked down by the force of her kick, tried to get up, but she stomped on his
head with her heel, driving it into his brain.

She swiftly slapped a fresh magazine into her submachine gun and rejoined the
firefight. She mowed a couple more men down, then Victor and Bruno finished
off the others who had chosen to stand and fight.

"Come on," said Bruno. "Some of 'em have holed up in the crew cabins. Let's
finish 'em off."

The three assassins made their way forward. As they passed the galley, there
was a click from their left. Victor, who was nearest, froze when he saw a
woman in a waitress's uniform pointing an AK-47, appropriated from a dead
guard, straight at him. She was slender and dark-haired, and although she was
clearly frightened, her eyes were burning with anger.

Natalya tried to signal to Victor to just keep her distracted, but instead, he
said cockily, "Whatcha gonna do with that, bitch? You ain't got the balls to
shoot no one..."

The woman pulled the trigger. Four bullets slammed into Victor's chest and he
slumped to the floor.

"Cunt!" Bruno pumped a dozen bullets into the woman's face, then looked down
at his comrade. Victor twitched, then expired.

"Stupid fucking bitch!" roared Bruno. He ejected his magazine and loaded a
fresh one. Looking at Natalya and seeing her calm expression, he turned on
her. "What are you so cool about? Victor just fucking died!"

"I've got eyes. I can see that," she replied.

"Why aren't you angry?" Bruno exploded.

"Angry at what? Victor taunted someone pointing a loaded weapon at him. That
has a tendency not to end well for the taunter."

"But she killed him!"

"What do you think we do for a living? We're assassins! If you're going to get
mad at one of your targets for shooting back, you're a hypocrite! Now are we
going to finish this mission, or are you just going to stand there and bitch
and moan some more?"

"Fine. I'll finish the rest of these fuckers off," grumbled Bruno, in the mood
for revenge after watching his friend die. "You go to the engine room and set
the explosives."

"Fine by me," sighed Natalya, not wanting any part of executing stewards and
waitresses. She caught the plastic explosives that Bruno tossed at her and
headed aft towards the engine room.

Natalya quickly placed the explosives in four different places around the
room, connecting them to a central detonator and setting the timer for thirty
minutes. Just as she was finishing up, she heard a scream from the front of
the ship. Grabbing her gun, she hurried down the hall.

Stepping over corpses here and there, she found the door to one of the tiny
bunk-bed crew cabins open. Bruno was on the bottom bunk, struggling with a
woman in a half-ripped-off cabin stewardess uniform. The woman was bleeding
from several stab wounds in her side, and her thighs were clamped tightly
around Bruno's neck. Bruno's pants were down, his submachine gun was leaning
in a corner, and his bloody knife was on the floor nearby, just out of his
reach.

"Natalya! Thank God. Help me. Shoot this bitch," said Bruno.

Natalya looked at the woman more closely. She was Southeast Asian, with long
black hair and dark brown skin. Her thighs were muscular, as if she was a
gymnast or dancer. Bruno was turning rather blue.

"Please! Natalya! I can't breathe! I don't have much time..." gasped Bruno.

"That's right. You don't," she replied, shouldering her gun.

A look of fear and horror appeared on Bruno's face. "You traitor! We were
supposed to be on the same side..."

"You tried to rape this woman. You deserve everything she's giving you. You're
just as much of a parasitic cockroach as Max Rommerdahl." Ignoring Bruno's
screams of rage, Natalya then turned to the stewardess. "Now twist your hips,
like you do when you're dancing. You dance a lot, right? You're strong enough
to snap his neck. Go on, you can do it."

"No..." Bruno's cry was cut short when the woman twisted her hips sharply, a
full 180 degrees. With a CRACK, Bruno's head swiveled permanently to an odd
angle, his dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. She released the corpse to
fall to the floor.

Natalya looked at the bright red arterial blood flowing from the woman's
wounds. The stewardess looked up at her, speaking with a slight accent. "I am
dead."

"No, no, you're..."

"Do not lie. We both know that I am dead. But at least before I died I got the
chance to snuff out a...a..."

"A cockroach?"

"Yes, that is a good word. I...I..." The woman's voice faded, and her eyes
closed. With a scream of rage, Natalya punched the wall, leaving a large hole.

She heard whimpers coming from the last room. Gripping her submachine gun in
one hand and picking up an AK-47 with her other, she approached the door.
Standing to the side, she pounded on it once, quickly withdrawing her hand.

A hail of gunfire greeted her, bullets passing through the door and into the
space she would have been in if she had been standing right in front of it.
She waited for the shooting to stop, then took aim with a gun in each hand,
firing both weapons through the door, having enough wrist and forearm strength
to control the guns one-handed. When they clicked empty, she tossed the AK
aside, reloaded her submachine gun, and kicked down the door.

Dead and wounded men and women filled the room. Near the front was a big man
in a cook's uniform, dead from several rounds to the chest. An AK-47 was still
clutched in his right hand.

Some of the wounded men and women looked up at her. Natalya found it difficult
to look back at them as she finished them off, hearing their cries gradually
go silent one by one.

She looked at the bloody corpses, at what she had done. All of her previous
missions had been "clean." Find target, kill target, get out. Every target had
been an evil person. Until today. She had crossed a line, and she could never
go back.

She looked at her watch. Twenty-six minutes. Taking a deep breath, she picked
up the briefcase and began making her way back to the submarine.

Her radio crackled. "This is the Local Director. Come in."

"Natalya here. All targets neutralized. Explosives are set to go in
twenty-five minutes. I'm on my way to the sub."

"How about Victor and Bruno?"

"They didn't make it."

There was a pause on the line, with just the sound of faint breathing. Then
the Local Director spoke again. "You don't sound too disappointed."

The blonde assassin said nothing.

"Your report will say that they died heroically in combat, killed by enemy
fire," came the voice over the radio. "If you stand by the former part of that
statement, I - and the Regional Director - shouldn't have any reason to
question the latter. Do we have an understanding, Natalya?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent. Congratulations on a mission well done, albeit with unfortunate
casualties. See you at the debriefing. Over and out."

"Roger. Over and out." Natalya sighed and shook her head one last time, then
hurried to get to the sub.

* * *

I looked over at Natalya, my mouth wide open. "I had no idea..."

"Of course you didn't. How could you have? I wouldn't have expected you to,
before I told you. We have so many secrets at The Network. Even from one
another. Especially from one another."

"Did they..."

"Oh, yes, they kept their promise. I'm here, aren't I? I think they were
secretly almost as glad as I was to be rid of Victor and Bruno. It's dangerous
having guys like that working for you. Unprofessional, cocky, greedy, high
risk of corruption. If I hadn't been there and Rommerdahl had offered them
money to switch sides, they may well have taken it."

I just sat there, still trying to take it all in.

"So you see, John, I'm not the assassin with a heart of gold that you think I
am. I'm just an assassin. I've executed innocent people in cold blood. There's
nothing romantic about what I do." Her voice had become sharper, and I turned
away.

Her tone softened, and she took my hand. "I used to be like you. I once
thought that I could go through life without compromising my morals and
values. But the real world doesn't work that way. At some point we'll all have
to make a hard choice between one evil and another, and decide which evil is
lesser. There is no magic escape button. The closest thing to that is suicide,
and yes, some Network agents have taken that route." I gulped when I heard
that, and wondered if it would have been better if I had just decided to flip
burgers at McDonald's.

"I don't think you would have been happy working at McDonald's, John," she
said.

"Oh my God. Did they give you secret mind-reading training too?"

"No, silly. You said that last part out loud."

"Oh." I felt myself turning red again. Trying to think of something else to
say, I remembered something I had read in an online article. "So that was you!
I remember reading about Rommerdahl's yacht mysteriously disappearing in the
middle of the Atlantic. In fact, there's even going to be an episode about it
on 'Unsolved Mysteries'." I paused. "It's kind of cool being one of the very
few people in the world who knows the truth about that."

"Yes," agreed Natalya. "You wouldn't have gotten THAT from working at
McDonald's."

"True." I nodded. "But the job would have been a lot less stressful."

"Stress comes with the terrirtory. I pay a heavy price for doing my duty,"
said Natalya. "My life is not like an Angelina Jolie movie."

"And if the price becomes too heavy...?" I asked.

"That may happen someday. And maybe it won't. I won't know until it happens,
if it happens. I do know that that's a bridge I don't even want to think about
crossing until I get to it."

I nodded slowly.

Natalya looked at her watch. "It's getting late. I think we'd both better get
home." She stood up. "See you at work tomorrow?"

I got up as well. "Yes."

She gave me a hug. "Good night, John."

"Good night, Natalya."

* * *

Well, there you have it. That's what happened. I feel a little better just
writing this all down. I might even be able to sleep tonight. I hope so. I
have to be sharp at work tomorrow.

I'll still dream about Natalya. I'll probably dream about her tonight. But my
dreams will be darker.

THE END