Four months in the past …

The gun felt heavy in her hands, which trembled. Her palms were sweaty and her mouth was as dry as a martini with three olives. What she wouldn’t give for one of those right now. Natasha put her service revolver in her left hand and wiped her other palm against her black fatigues. Soundlessly, she sucked in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before slowly letting it out. She gripped her gun tightly in both hands again, swallowing thickly. Her bulletproof vest felt too tight. For just a second, she was tempted to grip the Velcro edges and tear it from her body, to turn and run. These wayward emotions scared the living shit out of her. This wasn’t like her at all.

Her focus was drawn back to the job at hand as Rogers gave the signal to say that he was about to enter the warehouse. He locked eyes with her for a second, and winked.

Asshole!

The nerve. It wasn’t like he winked at any of the other members of the team. This was typical Rogers behavior!

Natasha was at the rear. Her job was simple, catch any bad guys who tried to escape and stop any reinforcements trying to enter her team’s flank. In other words, she needed to stand there and look pretty while the men faced the real danger. There was no way a woman could actually handle herself in the thick of things during an operation like this. Right?

Her hands shook some more. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. At this rate, she was going to prove them right, even though she could do this. In fact, she could handle any one of the positions the team members had taken. She’d done it a million times in the past. Okay, maybe not a million but a ton of times. Enough to know what she was doing. Nothing was different about this time. Well, except … this time she had plenty to prove. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of her temple.

Natasha had been with the FBI for six months now. This was her first real sting operation. She had excelled during her time on the police force, which was where she had been prior to coming there. Natasha could shoot better, kick harder and outrun anyone in her division. It was the whole reason the Bureau had taken notice of her in the first place. Yet, since coming onboard, she’d been treated like a rookie. Like a girl. The worst part of it all was that she was starting to buy into the bullshit.

She couldn’t help it that she was only five foot four and curvy ‒ make that very curvy, despite trying to hide under two tight sports bras. She also couldn’t help that, in spite of being a little on the plump side, she was considered to be attractive with long glossy black hair and big brown eyes. Natasha even had a beauty spot like that well known model … Cindy something. For the life of her she couldn’t remember the woman’s name.

She’d heard the guys joking with one another about how they’d like to have a little one-on-one session with her. Or how they’d like to show her their ‘big gun’. Hell, they’d even been rude to her face on too many times to count. The way they leered at her boobs and ass was sickening. Natasha knew it wasn’t so much about what she looked like, but was more of a dominance thing. She’d show them. Screw them all. She could do this. She lived for this. Had given up on marriage and kids for this.

She sucked in a deep breath as Rogers entered the building, followed by several others. A small team would also be entering the rear of the building. Natasha widened her stance and forced her grip on her gun to ease. She flinched as the first round was fired.

No way! She was becoming soft. Since when did she flinch at gunshot fire? Never.

Natasha had been shooting since she was twelve. Her dad had taught her everything she knew. Her first gun had been a Winchester. She remembered waking up the morning of her twelfth birthday and tearing the wrapping paper open. The excitement that coursed through her when her nose caught the telltale scent of gun oil. She still had that shotgun. Her first. It was lovingly wrapped in in a storage bag and placed on the top shelf of her gun safe.

Her collection had grown substantially over the years. Another gunshot rang out. Focus, Walters! That second shot sparked a whole lot more. Round after round. There was screaming, something crashed.

Just as the commotion was dying down. Just as her heart-rate began to normalize, the window next to her shattered and someone flew through it. They rolled a couple of times in a shower of glass.

Then the person sprung up, gun in hand and turned to her. It was him. The guy. The one they were hoping to capture. Richard Montgomery, AKA the drug lord himself.

His eyes narrowed on her and his hand tightened on his weapon.

“Drop it,” she instructed, her voice steady even though her heart raced.

His eyes narrowed some more, his gun lifted an inch in her direction.

“Drop it now.” The jerk was going to shoot her and make a break for it. Instead of complying, the gun lifted an inch more. His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened. Adrenaline surged, her years of training kicked in. Her body acted as if on remote control.

Two shots, both to the heart. Richard Montgomery was dead before he even hit the ground. His eyes open and staring.

Rogers burst out of the warehouse door, his eyes flashed left and right, his gun aimed ahead. He cursed as his gaze hit Montgomery. Rogers ran to the downed perp and felt his pulse, unnecessarily. He cursed again. Harder this time.

“What the fuck happened?” he snarled, his blazing eyes locked with hers.

“H-he was about to o-open fire on me.” She sounded like a blithering idiot.

“I thought you were a sharp shooter or something. You’ve won awards, haven’t you? You shoot clay birds or some shit.”

Natasha nodded. The evidence of her abilities was lying dead on the ground.

Rogers sighed heavily. “What was the brief?”

“Well, it …” Shit! Shit … shit … shit! “It was …” She chewed on her bottom lip.

“We were supposed to bring him in alive, Walters. As in heart beating and breathing. Alive!” he shouted. “He was supposed to sing like a bird. We almost had the ring leader of this whole operation!” This time he shouted so hard that spittle went flying.

“He was going to shoot me … I reacted … I … my training kicked in …”

“Your training?” He looked at her in disgust. “This was over a year’s worth of work. That scum,” he pointed at the dead body on the ground, “was supposed to give us names. We were this close …” he held up his thumb and index finger just an inch apart, “to catching the head of the biggest drug operation in this whole goddamn country and you fucked it up.”

“He aimed his gun at me.” Her voice was shrill. Her argument weak. Truth was, she could’ve nailed him in the arm or shoulder. Her aim was so good that she could’ve taken off both his ears, leaving him standing. Instead, she’d gone for the kill. Her face felt hot. It was what she’d been taught. It had been drilled into her. When faced with death go for the kill shot.

“I don’t give two fucks, Walters. You should have used your fancy training and shot him in the shoulder or something. You should have disabled the perp, not killed him.” And there it was. He was technically right! Screw her training, you always follow the brief. She was mortified.

It just wasn’t in her to ignore her training though. “His gun was aimed at my—”

“What part of ‘I don’t give a fuck’ don’t you understand? In that case, you should have taken the bullet. You fucked up, Walters. You fucked up in a bad way.” He looked down at the corpse at his feet and shook his head. “This puts us back years.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Save it.” He holstered his weapon. “I’m sure there’s a desk somewhere with your name on it. You don’t belong in the field.”

Maybe he was right.

No, he wasn’t. Then again, what if he was?

This might be just what they needed to get her out of the FBI. The head of her division had been out for blood from the start. He might just win in the end. What the hell had she done?