Nadja: The Huntress Secret

“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.” — Dr. Seuss

[-]

The rain was a cold, relentless drizzle. Nadja moved through the narrow alleyways of the Belgrade slums, her silhouette blending into the shadows of a crumbling country. Every breath was a battle. A bullet had torn through her left shoulder, and another had grazed her abdomen, leaving a jagged, burning trail across her skin.

Her steps were staggered. She paused at every corner, glancing back through the mist to ensure the hounds of the Syndicate weren't at her heels. The stench of open sewers and rotting refuse bit at her nose, but she was numb to it.

She reached a derelict warehouse. The lock was already mangled; she threw her weight against the door, collapsing inside as it groaned shut.

Darkness swallowed her. With trembling fingers, she pulled a small flashlight from her pocket. The beam cut through the gloom, dancing over stacks of rotting wooden crates. She was pale, her clothes soaked through with a mixture of rainwater and a terrifying amount of blood.

A hospital was out of the question. In 2001 Serbia, a woman with gunshot wounds was a lighthouse for the police. Besides, she had no money—only a set of skills that had finally failed her.

She limped toward a small office in the corner. Her vision was beginning to tunnel, the edges of the room blurring into a gray haze. Find it. Find it or die, she hissed to herself.

Her hand hit a metal box. Bingo.

She fumbled it open to find expired antiseptic and yellowing gauze. It was pathetic, but it was all she had. She bit down on a piece of discarded cloth, took out her penknife, and began the grisly task of digging the lead from her own flesh.

The pain was white-hot, piercing straight to the bone. A muffled scream died in the cloth between her teeth. As the bullet finally clattered to the floor, she swore a silent oath in Serbian: If she survived the night, she would make them pay.

[-]

Three Hours Earlier

Jergen Petrović was supposed to be just another name.

The dossier on Nadja’s phone described him as a "disposable politician." At twenty-five, Nadja Romanov was the Syndicate's most efficient killing machine, a product of an orphan "school" where she had been raised alongside eleven others to master the arts of assassination. She didn't have a past; she only had targets.

She had vaulted the porch of the Petrović residence with the silent grace of a predator. Inside, the family was gathered for dinner. Nadja felt a flicker of cold satisfaction—the targets were all in one place.

She was about to move when a small voice broke the silence.

"What are you doing?"

A six-year-old girl stood in the hallway. Before the child could scream, Nadja snatched her up, using her as a shield as she burst into the dining room.

The scene frozen in time: Jergen’s wife shrieked, and his teenage son, Zoran, lunged forward before being held back by his father.

"Let go of my sister!" Zoran roared.

"Quiet!" Jergen snapped, his face pale but his eyes steady. He looked at Nadja’s gun, then at his daughter. "If I have to die, kill me. But please ... spare my family."

Nadja’s finger hovered over the trigger. She looked at the table—watery soup, a single crust of bread. It was the same meager ration she had been fed as a child.

"Why are you a target?" Nadja found herself asking. It was the first time in twelve years she had spoken to a mark.

Jergen reached for a document on the sideboard. "I found proof," he whispered. "The funds for retired soldiers, the subsidies for the poor—the Syndicate is stealing all of it. I’m trying to stop them."

Nadja glanced at the papers. She saw the familiar logos of her employers. Something in her icy resolve cracked. She let the little girl go.

"You have ten minutes," Nadja said, her voice raspy. "I’m going to burn this house to cover your escape. If you're still here when the cleanup crew arrives, you're dead. Move!"

As the family fled, Nadja doused the house in gasoline and struck a match. But as she climbed over the back fence, a shadow blocked her path.

"Since when did you become a guardian angel, Romanov?"

It was Katya. Her "sister" from the orphanage.

"I'm done being a puppet, Kat," Nadja said.

"There is no 'done'!" Katya screamed, her face contorted with fear for them both. "They'll hunt us to the ends of the earth!"

"Then let them."

Katya raised her gun, her eyes filling with tears. "I’m sorry, Nadja."

She fired. Katya was fast, but Nadja was a master of the draw. Nadja dived, firing a non-lethal shot that caught Katya in the abdomen just as a barrage of gunfire from hidden Syndicate snipers erupted from the tree line. Nadja bolted into the darkness, leaving a trail of blood behind her.

[-]

The Present

Nadja finished binding her wounds with the yellowed gauze. The pain was a dull roar now, pushed aside by the adrenaline of survival.

She checked her watch. The 2:00 AM freight train to the border would be passing the yard in five minutes. If she could make it onto one of those carriages, she could leave this cursed life behind forever.

With a grunt of agony, Nadja stood up. Her thigh muscles screamed, and her vision swam, but she began to run. This wasn't just a mission anymore. It was a race for her soul.