The Los Angeles Fencing Club required a five-figure membership fee just to walk through the door. It was quiet and meticulously clean.

  Dressed in traditional whites, I stood on the main strip, checking the flex of a French-grip foil. Fencing was one of the few modern hobbies I cared to maintain. It was civilized violence.

  "Mr. Raizel?"

  I finished testing the blade first, letting the steel snap back into a straight line before turning and lifting my mask.

  "Natalie Rushman," I said.

  She stood by the equipment rack, looking exactly as she did in the SHIELD files. Red curls, professional attire, and a manufactured air of harmless helpfulness designed to disarm powerful men. Her posture, however, gave her away. Her weight rested perfectly on the balls of her feet, perfect for sudden movement.

  "Pepper sent me," she said, holding up a tablet. "She needs your signature on the Stark Expo insurance riders. She said you'd be here."

  "Pepper is efficient," I said, tucking my helmet under my arm. "But you are not just here for a signature."

  Natalie offered a fake shy smile. "Well, I admit, I was curious. The mysterious shareholder. You're harder to find than Mr. Stark."

  "I prefer a low profile."

  Walking over to the bench for a towel, I felt her eyes tracking me. She was calculating heart rate, gait, muscle density, and threat level, tearing my movements apart to find a blind spot.

  "I used to fence," Natalie mentioned casually, running a hand over a sabre on the rack. "In college. I was... okay."

  It was obvious bait. She wanted a physical test to see if mysterious person was capable, or just another rich man playing games.

  "College fencing," I mused. "Aggressive. Lots of lunging."

  "Is that a criticism?" she asked, a playful challenge in her voice.

  "It's an observation." I picked up a spare foil and offered it handle-first. "Care for a bout? Unless you're in a rush to return those papers."

  She timed her hesitation perfectly to sell the assistant persona before shrugging. "Why not? I could use the cardio."

  Ten minutes later, we were hooked up to the scoring box.

  Dressed in club gear with her mask on, the shy assistant vanished. Her posture completely become obvious.

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  "En garde," I said softly.

  "Prêt? Allez."

  She closed the distance fast. This was far from collegiate sport fencing; it was efficient, professional movement disguised as a game. She tested my high line, feinting a thrust to the chest before disengaging to snap at my flank.

  Holding my ground, I absorbed her momentum with a simple rotation of my wrist. Clink. My blade caught hers, guiding it two inches to the right so her tip missed my jacket by a fraction of a millimeter.

  She recovered instantly, resetting for a faster, compound attack- feint, feint, lunge.

  Taking a single, measured step back, I let her blade extend fully until the tip stopped an inch from my heart. Tapping her steel down, I stepped into her guard and placed the tip of my foil gently against her throat protector.

  Buzz.

  The light on the box flashed green.

  Stepping away, I lowered my weapon. "One-zero."

  Natalie tilted her head. Her face was hidden, but the frustration rolling off her was obvious. She expected resistance, a clash of force. Instead, I gave her nothing solid to strike.

  "You're fast," she said, her voice a fraction tighter.

  "I'm economical," I corrected. "Wasted movement is wasted life."

  We reset.

  This time, the Black Widow bled through the disguise. Her speed spiked as she launched a flèche attack designed to completely overwhelm an opponent. It was violent, flawless, and blindingly fast to an ordinary human.

  To me, she was moving underwater. I watched her muscles contract, reading the shift in her weight before she even pushed off her back foot.

  Waiting until she was mid-air and fully committed, I let her close the gap. At the last possible fraction of a second, I shifted my torso three inches to the left.

  She sailed past me. Without even looking, I extended my arm behind my back and flicked my wrist.

  Thwack.

  My blade tapped her back.

  Buzz.

  "Two-zero," I said, turning around.

  Natalie stopped at the end of the strip and pulled off her mask. Her hair was messy, and her chest heaved slightly. She wasn't genuinely fatigued, after all she was an Olympian-level athlete. But she was flushed with irritation. She stared at me, trying to calculate the physics of the exchange, realizing my SHIELD file was missing a massive chapter.

  "You aren't even sweating," she noted, eyeing my dry forehead.

  Pulling off my own mask, I kept my tone casual. "It's climate-controlled in here, Ms. Rushman."

  I walked to the table, signed the insurance riders she had left there, capped the pen, and handed the tablet back.

  "You have excellent balance," I told her, holding her gaze. "Your footwork is.....perfect. Russian, perhaps? They favor the saber."

  Her pupils contracted just a fraction, a micro-expression of alarm. I hit the nerve. I let her know I saw right through her without dropping the polite facade.

  "I did a semester abroad," she answered smoothly, the mask sliding firmly back into place. "In Kiev."

  "A beautiful city," I agreed. "Dangerous, though. Lots of history buried in the snow."

  I wiped my face with a towel out of habit, though there was no sweat to clear.

  "Tell Pepper the riders are signed. And Natalie?"

  She paused at the door.

  "Don't worry about Tony. I'm keeping an eye on him. You don't need to work so hard."

  Natalie looked back. For a split second, the assistant persona vanished entirely, leaving only her raw personality. She gave a single, sharp nod.

  "Understood, Mr. Raizel."

  She walked out.

  Listening to the door click shut, I hung up my foil. "SHIELD is getting anxious."

  My phone buzzed on the bench. A text from Tony.

  Wine is working. Tastes like dirt, but working. Need you at the Expo. Hammer is presenting.

  I let out a sigh. Justin Hammer. The only thing worse than an assassin was a cheap salesman.

  "Time to go to work."