The nameplate on the gold bracelet that circled her wrist read Natasha. She winced at the sharp pain that split the back of her skull as she moved into a seated position and twisted the shiny chain, searching for something—anything—that might provide a clue as to what she was doing lying by the side of the road with a gun in her hand.
A gun! She scrambled backward in the dirt, leaving the weapon behind. A rumble in the distance told her a car was headed her way. Should she leave the gun there or throw it into the ditch?
Where am I? It felt as though her entire head was on fire, and black spots clouded her vision when she turned to try to take in her surroundings. What little she could make out didn’t help: a long road, grass on either side, trees along the edge of the grass. She sniffed the air but didn’t smell anything beyond lingering exhaust fumes, dirt and copper. Copper?
Warmth blossomed along the right side of her temple, a thicker and more concentrated heat than the sun’s rays beating down overhead during this unusually warm afternoon. Where was she? What day was it? What month, for that matter? No one with any sense would be lying outside midday in the heat and humidity, regardless of the location or time of year. She lifted her hand to the side of her head and touched something hot and sticky. Alarm shot through her insides as her fingers pulled back, slick with deep, crimson blood.
It’s not bright red, she thought. I’ve been here for a little while, at least.
But she had no idea how she’d gotten there. Or why. Or if she should even trust the bracelet around her wrist. Natasha? It sounded vaguely familiar, but felt strange as she rolled the word around on her tongue. She needed to get back to the city and ask... Ask who? What city?
Panic rose as her brain refused to recall important details. How did she get here? Did anyone know where she was, and would anyone miss her? Where did she work? Where did she live?
Her breath grew shallow as the lack of details increased in scope, and while some part of her cerebral cortex recognized the danger in hyperventilating while already injured and lying out in the sun, she couldn’t quell the sense of terror that threatened to send her consciousness retreating back into darkness. The black spots in her vision grew larger as the roar of the engine grew louder.
I should move, she thought, but her limbs refused to budge. I should get out of here, away from the gun. What if I’ve done something terrible?
A large shape passed by, and the vehicle engine cut out. The shape came into focus between the black spots at the same time as she heard a car door open and footsteps crunch across the side of the road toward her.
“Ma’am? Are you all right?”
She couldn’t respond. She didn’t know how, and her voice refused to cooperate. The person became clearer as he moved closer—a man with dark hair and a tanned complexion, bearing the broad shoulders of a weight lifter. She knew that because she lifted weights, too.
She did? She did!
I remember that, at least.
“I’m Special Agent Chris Barton of the FBI, and I’m here to help.” The man crouched, entering her field of vision. “Looks like you could use a ride to the hospital.” His gaze flicked down, concern blossoming across his features. She followed his line of sight, confused...and then remembered a gun sat only a few feet away from her. “Hang on... Natasha? Natasha Stark?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“Who that is.”
His eyes widened and cut sideways, toward the gun. Her stomach lurched as his hand slipped inside his pocket. Was he going to arrest her? “And that’s not mine. I think.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know.” She pressed the heels of her hands against her temples, trying to quell the throbbing, but the motion only sent a fresh wave of ache through whatever wounds marked her head and face. “I’m not sure. I don’t remember. I can’t remember anything.” She looked up at him and stilled a gasp of surprise at the sudden wave of familiarity that washed over her. She couldn’t place him, but she didn’t automatically flinch as he reached for her, brushing his fingers across the top of her head.
A hiss escaped from between his teeth, and she pulled away in alarm.
“Sorry,” he said, inching closer in his crouch. “You’ve got a nasty gash and growing goose eggs on different parts of your head. When you say you can’t remember anything, what do you mean? Your name? Where you are? How you got here? Who I am?”
She shrugged, her eyes becoming hot with tears. She blinked them away—this was no time to let emotions take over.
She couldn’t remember, and everything hurt. “All of the above. I mean that I can’t remember anything.”
“Nothing at all? You’re sure you don’t recognize me?”
She tried to shake her head, but the motion caused a spark of pain to rocket through her temple. She sucked air through her teeth instead of offering a response. What had he called her? Natasha? Like the bracelet, she thought. My name. It must be my name.
“Okay, okay. That’s not ideal. Look, I’m going to make a call and get an ambulance and the local police down here,” he said. “It’s going to be all right, but I don’t want to hurt you further.” He pursed his lips as he looked at her, brow furrowed.
Natasha couldn’t help but stare at his arms, flexed and tense as he rested them on his knees as he crouched. Well-defined muscles stood out in all the right places, and his dark brown eyes shone with kindness and concern. “What is it? Should I recognize you? Have we met?”
“It’s okay if you don’t remember right now. Don’t exert yourself—we can discuss it later. Hang on a sec.” He stood and ran back to his blobby vehicle—her vision still hadn’t cleared up enough to make out a proper shape—and returned with a water bottle and holding a dark blue shirt sporting the bright yellow letters FBI. He uncapped the bottle and poured a splash of water on it. “This should help. It’s a little cold, but that will probably feel good. You’ve got a lot of blood and dirt on your face. You can use the shirt to wipe it off if you want, but you might also need this to stanch any bleeding that starts up again.”
“Is that likely?”
“I have no idea. I’m an FBI agent, not a doctor.”
What did she have to lose? She ran the garment across her face. The water was chilly and refreshing, which momentarily diverted her attention from the pain that kept leaping from one side of her skull to the other. She rubbed the shirt gently across her forehead and back, wincing as the fabric came in contact with the place where she’d drawn back sticky fingers minutes earlier.
“Let me help,” he said, reaching for the shirt as she pulled it away from her face. “I can