Close Range

M finishes swiping his selection of tops to one side of his closet. After a groan of frustration, he starts swiping the shirts back in the other direction, searching again for that shirt that's "just right" for the occasion. When he reaches the other end yet again, he realizes he has a decision to make. M has dress shirts and suits a plenty. He also has a large selection of non-descript t-shirts with no logos or branding. Neither seem appropriate for the evening. After methodically narrowing his choices down to two contenders, he chooses a plain gray t-shirt, hoping that the nice leather jacket he will put over it will help.

He dresses hurriedly once his selection is made. After he's dressed he tucks a few essentials inconspicuously into his clothing. M checks his watch, confirms that he is now running slightly behind, and curses his overanalytical brain for stumbling over every little decision, casting aside for the moment that it is this same mind that makes him good at what he does.

For obvious reasons, neither M nor the party he's meeting with were given an exact meeting location. Instead M was given an intersection to be at at a designated time. He arrives at the intersection five minutes past the time he's supposed to. M notices with relief that the street is busy, already filled with patrons from the shops, bars and restaurants that line the street on both sides. M puts his back to a wall and scans the street, hoping to spot the other party before they can spot him. Before he can give the street more than a brief glance the phone in his pocket buzzes. He looks at the phone, scans the name of the place he's going to and starts walking down the street in search of it, casually flicking the phone into a trash can that he passes.

M spots a sign with the name GENEVA printed on it in tasteful block letters. He stops at the peering through the double glass door entrance. It looks like a bar, one that is a bit too pretentious for his personal tastes but at least it's well lit and there's a respectable crowd already seated and dining, something that M marks in its favor. After scanning the metallic plaque embedded within the glass door that displays Geneva's various food and spirit offerings, M takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.

"Just one for the evening, monsieur?" asks the maître' d as M steps inside. M throws a glance over his shoulder and then turns his attention back to the man. Looking directly at the man triggers an alert in M, it's small but it's definitely there. The premature alert is nothing tangible at the moment; the man just looks out of place, as if he's not really a maître' d but playing one at the moment. M forces himself to appear relaxed. If his suspicion is warranted, letting the man know that he knows is his worst course of action.

"Monsieur?" the man repeats. M steps up to the podium.

"No, I'm meeting with someone." M answers, looking past the man's shoulder into the bar. He scans the room from left to right and doesn't spot what he's looking for, however when he scans from right to left milliseconds later he sees a woman sitting in a booth alone, taking a sip from a wineglass. "There she is. Excuse me." says M, and walks past the podium before the other man can respond. As he gets closer to the woman and the booth he takes in a better look at her. She's very pretty, but not dazzling, which isn't a surprise to M. Dazzling people of either gender were rarely, if ever found in this line of work. Such people had a tendency to draw and capture wandering eyes in rooms. The woman has light brown hair, cut to shoulder length and and is wearing a slim cut denim jacket with a black t-shirt underneath, free of logos or branding just like his own.

M arrives at the booth and summons the best smile he can muster. "Hello. C?" he asks.

"You must be M." the lady says, a very light southern drawl flavoring her words. The pair stare at each other for a moment. M looks down at the table and sees a glass of what looks like Merlot sitting on the side of the table opposite from her.

"Have yourself a seat, M." the lady says, offering him a polite smile of her own. M throws another glance over his shoulder at the entrance and then looks back at C.

"Actually, do you mind if I..." he says, stopping the sentence short and gesturing at her side of the booth. Her smile widens (he could really get to like that smile) and she scoots to the far end of her seat, making room for him. He picks up the glass of from his side of the table and carries it with him as he slides into the booth with her.

M at his glass when he sits down. C picks up her glass and takes another sip. M moves his face even closer to the glass, turning it on the table and inspecting the contents. When C sets her glass down on the table M switches the glasses in front of them. "You know I drank out of that one already, right?" says A.

"Yeah, but you understand." M replies. This is a statement, not a question.

"I do. I'd have done the same thing." C says, picking up her new glass and taking a sip from it as well without being asked. M nods his appreciation at this gesture and drinks a heftier sip from his glass to catch up with her intake of wine thus far.

Much later, when both of them look back at this first date (although neither of them refer to it as that) the next string of moments are the ones that each of them remember the most fondly. Sitting side by side, sipping a fine Merlot and silently watching the entrance to Geneva like a pair of perched, paranoid hawks while sneaking in the occasional appreciative side glance at the other person.

After awhile, M goes to take another sip from his glass and discovers it's empty, and sees that C's glass also has just a tiny remnant of liquid in the bottom of it as well. "Another?" he asks. C nods, and he signals for the server. When the server returns with two fresh wine glasses M once again switches them.

"Really? How would I have...?" C begins to ask, but before she can finish M takes a sip from his glass first and grins at her.

"Set it up beforehand? Not impossible," he says. Another handful of moments pass and they continue to sip and watch.

"You look a little tired tonight, C," The words are out of M's mouth before he remembers that somewhere along the way, a female friend or colleague had told him that telling a woman she looked tired was not ranked much higher than a direct insult as far as communications with the fairer sex go. To his relief, C doesn't interpret his statement as such.

"I am. It's not my fault, it's jet lag. I just got in this morning," says C.

"Where from?" asks M. C looks over at him with a grin.

"Budapest. Sofia. Berlin," she says.

"So all of those or do you not want to tell me?" M says. It's an honest question, and the earnest expression he makes while asking it makes C burst out in laughter.

"I'm going to go with... all of them. That sounds good," she says. M smiles at her, pleasantly surprised at her laughter.

"Well in that case, I just got back myself a couple of days ago. From Detroit, Tokyo and Istanbul." C takes a sip and sets her glass down, pushing it away from her slightly to indicate that she's taking a drinking break.

"It's hard, isn't it?" she asks.

"Which part?" M asks in return.

"All of it. Always moving, being on your own, not having any real friends," says C.

"Speak for yourself, madam. I'll have you know that I have lots of friends," says M with indignity that isn't genuine, and they both know it. C turns to look at him, staring. "I have one friend," M amends, and C just keeps staring. "I have a lonely 19 year old neighbor who occasionally invites me over to smoke weed and watch TV," M finally admits, looking down at the table in shame. C chuckles and reaches over to put a hand on his arm briefly.

"That was a sad, pathetic statement, and one that shouldn't have made me jealous but it very much did." C admits.

"You could join us some time. Gary hasn't seen a woman in real life... maybe ever. It would be a good learning experience," says M. C thinks about this for a moment.

"You know, I think I would really enjoy that." C says. Before the two can follow this thread any further, the server returns to their table, holding a round tray containing two more glasses of Merlot. M's radar spikes, and he looks down at his glass and then C's, both of which are more than half-full. M looks in C's direction to shoot her a warning glance but he sees there's no need, her hand is already in the process of snaking towards the inside of her jacket. In his peripheral vision, all of the patrons and staff of GENEVA are starting to move.

M picks up his glass, feigns as if he's going to take a sip and then tosses the contents of it into surprised server's face. As the girl (who couldn't be much older than 25, M notes somewhat sadly) stumbles backwards a step M flings his elbow into the tray she's holding, knocking it up and into her face while in the process revealing the pistol she was holding underneath it.

Before she can fully recover M drops himself off of his seat and lands underneath the table. As he attempts to get his bearings he feels a hand slam into his chest and he's flattened against the seat. To his right, two subtle pops go off, spaced exactly one second apart. He looks to his left and sees his would-be assassin lying on her side facing him, a black dot in the middle of her forehead. He looks over at C. The silenced pistol she's holding is still smoking. The two grin at each other for a beat and then M pulls his own pistol from his shoulder holster.

"I guess that answers my next question," says M

"Mine too," says C.

"Just out of curiosity, how much do you have on your head right now?" M asks.

"Who can keep track. A lot, probably," C answers with a shrug. "You?"

"All together? Around 20," says M

"Really?" answers C. The word comes out of her mouth elongated and silky.

M looks over at her in time to see her tongue flick over her lips. He tilts his head to one side.

"Do me a favor? Don't," he says

C looks offended. "I wasn't going to," she assures him.

"You so were. Table on 3?" he asks. C nods, sets her pistol down beside her and lifts her hands so they're flat against the underside of the table. Once she is securely in this vulnerable position M does the same. He counts to three and they both push upwards tossing the table up and over the far side of the booth. As a concert of reflexive gun fire goes off, M darts to the left and C to the right, both of them blind firing towards their assailants.

M reaches the bar and jumps nimbly over the top of it, dispatching the gunmen lying in wait behind it with two precise shots. C finds cover in the next booth over from their original one, but takes an unlucky bullet to the shoulder as she does. She places her pistol against the back of the seat and fires in the direction shots came from, hearing the all-too-familiar thump of a body hitting the ground. "M, are you alive?" she shouts.

"I am. How are you doing?" says M.

"Not perfect but I'll live," she says.

"Are you ready?" M asks.

"Sure." On 3..." says C.

Five minutes later, the two of them exit GENEVA through the kitchen and into an alley as the sound of sirens begin to wail from behind them. As they walk, C threads her arm through his. They reach the end of the alley and slow their pace, taking a right and blending into a crowd of normal civilians. M slows down just enough so that they fall behind the crowd and are out of earshot. C looks behind them and seems satisfied with what she sees. They continue walking.

M suddenly removes his arm from hers and lays it across her shoulders, pulling her close and covering the dark spot that is spreading across her left shoulder. "You're bleeding through your jacket," he says matter-of-factly. C gives him a tired smile. They reach the next intersection and stop. M scans the street for taxis.

"You don't need the hospital, do you?" M asks. "No. In and out. I stitch myself." C says. M notes with some amusement that her accent has switched from heavy American Southwestern to a light Russian. "I appreciate that," he says, not clarifying what he means because they both already know. A cab approaches and M raises a hand towards it. The taxi stops at the curb in front of them.

M Removes his leather jacket and drapes it over her denim one. As he adjusts the collar on it she leans forward and kisses his left cheek, then his right cheek and he feels her press something into his hand. "It was a memorable evening. Although, I'm afraid my handler must die now because of it," says C.

"Mine as well," M says businesslike coldness creeping into his tone. "You take care of yourself, C." Her hand finds his and she gives it a firm squeeze, before opening the rear door of the taxi and climbing inside. When she's seated, she gives him a last look and raises a hand. M raises his own in turn. As the cab carries her around the corner and into the night, M looks down at his hand.

C had slipped him a business card. M laughs and then holds the business card close to his face to confirm it's what it looks like. The card is completely blank.