"God, will you shut up?" Susan snaps, trapping Rayna in the space between bar stools and pressing her up against the bar itself. "I thought you wanted to live, but this is great! Why don't you just announce my fucking name already and tell everyone why we're here?"
"Well perhaps if you learnt the meaning of stealth, we wouldn't be in this position." She rests her hands on Susan's shoulders and gently pushes her back, giving herself room to manoeuvre. There's not enough space to get out, but perhaps if she straddles Susan's thigh and pivots on one leg, she'll be free to leave. "I told you I could close the deal."
"I know how to do my job."
"And what's that entail? Collecting my laundry? You, my dear lonely spy," Rayna says, patting her on the shoulder, "have been rendered obsolete, now watch and learn."
Susan says nothing as Rayna lifts one leg and attempts to clamber over her, but when the target walks into the bar without any warning from Ford — he's probably knocked himself out again — she takes the initiative and moves, landing on a stool and sliding Boyanov onto her lap.
The kiss that follows silences them both while Susan holds Rayna flush against her. It's hot and nasty, there's a little too much tongue, the taste of her overly lemony citrus cocktail lingers on her lips, and a string of spit connects them when they finally part.
"Obsolete, huh?"
"I may have . . . judged you prematurely."