MARIEL

12~ Location Not Determined ~

The secret holster, high upon her thigh, had its knife. The AR-15, semi-automatic rifle was loaded and just underneath the bed. With the silencer connected, her small, off-duty handgun rested beneath her pillow. Inside of her bathroom, another small knife in the medicine cabinet. Michael's black case: underneath the bed.

In the kitchen, many knives and, of course, a large pot of Tefteli, Tira's favorite Russian meatball dish. Tonight, however, it did not smell appetizing. While she had definitely recovered from the food poisoning much faster than she believed she would, she still felt the aftermath of the nausea she had experienced earlier that day. After the interview, most of her day had been spent in the bathroom, suffering from the exodus of fluids.

Now, she stood applying lipstick in the bathroom, her wavy hair loose over her shoulders. Tira made sure she dressed well tonight... a red, form fitting gown and red stilettos.

Worn in a cage on a special February day in Russia. Weapons used: The human mind and wicked stilettos.

Rubbing her lips together, Tira looked one last time in the mirror. Although still somewhat pale, she was beautiful. The eye shadow she wore enhanced her green eyes even more than usual, if that were possible, and her red lips were full and inviting. It was a shame she had to waste them on the male species tonight. However, she was ready.

'Thinking kills. Don't think. Just do.'

Tira left the bathroom. She was tired of being in there.

The knock came slightly before their designated time of 7pm. A sinking feeling struck her intestines, somewhat due to the food poisoning, but she also had to admit to herself that she was slightly nervous. Tira knew that tonight could go one of two ways. Successfully, or disastrously.

'Is this all that you need?' The former agent Michael had asked as he secured the medium-sized case in her hand.

'I think so. I appreciate it. I'm glad you chose to remain in Chicago for awhile. I didn't realize I might be in this situation.'

Michael had chuckled. 'You'll be amazed how many 'situations' you'll encounter doing this job. I was in plenty and -' he had stopped, before leaving her doorway, as an inquisitive look formed on his brow. '- Miraculously, I managed to take care of all of the situations.' He looked at his feet, proud, but also a little ashamed. 'Alright. Call me if you enter a predicament.'

As Tira approached the door, she glanced at the monitoring system on her wrist. 'Heart beat is normal. Esther Caravan is fine. Good. Time to proceed.' Biting her lip, she opened the door.

Lt. Wilson stood in the doorway. A dumb, toothy grin crossed his face as he immediately molested her with his eyes, and he withdrew a single rose from behind his back. "Madam. I assume you like flowers. Most girls do." He winked, and Tira hated him.

Nevertheless, she reeled him in, taking him by the sleeve and turning her green eyes up to meet his gaze. "You know exactly what I like," she said, in a low, tremorous voice. Then, Tira smiled and pulled him into the hallway. "Come in, dinner is ready."

The internal affairs lieutenant brushed the back of his hand against her hip as he entered the apartment. "It smells great. What is it?"

Tira took his hand and led him to the dining room. "It's a meatball dish. Hopefully, you'll like it."

"Hmm. Russian?" He touched the side of her neck with a dry, prickly finger against her skin.

Tira forced the look of disgust from her face and winked. "I don't know. If I said yes, would you like it more?" She stopped in the dining room, turned towards him, and lifted her face to his. As Tira stopped her lips a mere inch from his, she saw his face redden, and she brushed her fingertips across the back of his neck. "Well?"