She should have been cold. The StealthSuit she wore was microns thin. She felt like she was naked and covered in a dusting of black powder. The Techs bragged that light slid off of the suit like water off a duck. The black body stocking was so sheer and felt so insubstantial that Natasha felt naked and exposed.
Natasha had laughed when she first saw the suit. It was no bigger than a Barbie Doll's costume. Yet it easily stretched to cover her 5'4", 120 pound body. The Tech who had helped her suit up hadn't been shy about staring. In the bright light of the TechLab, Natasha's nipples poked proudly through the fabric. The suit was so form-fitting that it was evident that the curls covering her pubic mound had never known the touch of scissors or razor. One could even see the slight ridge of the knife scar across her shoulder. But in the dim moon glow on the roof of the offices of CogicSystems, Incorporated, Natasha was as invisible as catshadow. She scraped frost from the skylight window. She should have been cold.
The mission couldn't have been simpler; slip into a CogicSystems office, enter a command into a computer and get out without leaving a trace. Simple. Insulting, even, for an agent of her caliber. But she didn't question her orders. Didn't even bother to ask the whats or whys. She just chewed on her frustration.
The mission was only the matter of a few hours, but they were hours that would not be spent in pursuit of the elusive Greystoke. Trapping that mercenary had been her primary operational objective for three years now, yet she felt no closer to him than she had that first night, as she sat in her office studying his dossier, and he was there, impossibly, miraculously, under her desk, the tip of his switchblade against her femoral artery, his tongue on her swollen clit. Or that night in an alley in Madripoor, protecting her undercover identity as a streetwalker, sucking Greystoke's cock as three piggish policemen looked on laughing, her knowing that they would arrest and torture them both if they suspected that they were anything but hooker and john. Or that night in her flat; Greystoke bound to her bed, only to escape, leaving behind a puddle of cum on her sheets and a red rosebud on her pillow.
Her controllers were growing frustrated with her, tossing these make-work assignments on her desk, knowing they kept her from the very mission they were impatient for her to complete.
Natasha touched a button on the edge of the sleek goggles she wore and they took on a yellow, cat's-eye glow, gathering the pale moonlight on the deserted rooftop. Bypassing the alarms and picking the locks had been the work of minutes. The building was not guarded, except for a sleepy rent-a-cop in the lobby. There was apparently nothing to steal, but she was there to leave, not to take. Slip inside, turn on a computer (even a secretary's would do) enter a few memorized keystrokes, then vanish into the night. She dropped through the skylight, landing as quietly as a cat. She slid down the row of cubicles like a shadow, choosing one far from the windows. She chose a cluttered desk, covered with papers and envelopes and a Dilbert coffee mug stuffed with pens and pencils.
She slipped the goggles down around her neck and pulled off the StealthSuit's hood. She ran her fingers through her close-cropped hair. A nudge of the mouse brought the computer screen to blue life. Its desktop photo was a picture of a tropical beach. A few tek tek teks on the keyboard and she was done. She paused at the desk, staring at the ocean waves breaking over the white sand, and the naked, tanned bodies glowing in the sun. Was it time? She had stashed away enough money in enough untraceable accounts to allow her to live out her days in comfort, if not opulence. Maybe it was time to walk away.
"You'd be bored to tears inside of a year," said a low, musical voice from behind her. Her spinning back-kick was on its way before she really even registered the voice. It had connected before she recognized it. As she settled into a fighting stance, she saw him, sprawled on the carpet, rubbing his chin. He was, as usual, dressed all in black; trench coat, suit, shirt and tie. A shaved head and a red goatee. A rosebud in his lapel. Greystoke. He smiled up at her.
"I always forget how quick you are," he said.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed.
"I came to stop you, though it appears I am too late."
"Stop me? Why?"
"Why? My, my, little spy. You don't even know what it is that you've done, do you?"
"What are you taking about?" she said.
"Mindless little agents, running here, sneaking there, do this, do that, kill him, blow up them. And never once ask why."
"I'm asking you."
"And I'm not telling. No matter. It will only take me a week or two to unmake the mess you've made. Time I would have rather spent on a beach in Tahiti, but such is life," he said.
Natasha's mind raced through her options. None of them were good. To protect the mission, she needed to eliminate or capture Greystoke. She had no doubt that her fighting skills were superior to his, but he was a foot taller than she and outweighed her by about 120 pounds. Any fight between them was sure to cause damage, and she was under orders to leave no trace of her incursion. She carried no weapons or restraints. She had no back-up. If she left him here, he might easily undo whatever it was she had done. She had already been inside too long. She needed to leave, and she needed Greystoke to chase her.
