Author's Note: Hi folks! Yeah, I'm back…for now. I was considering a sequel for Game Changer for a while and this scene was just stuck in my head so I had to get it out. Hope you all enjoy =)
It was snowing in Stockholm. The street lights glowed warm gold across the city. Samantha admired the view through the bay window of a two-story café. The clink of cutlery and murmur of other customers permeated the background like radio static. She would have been perfectly content here if she were not working. Since the events of last year and her dealings with Moriarty, Samantha had been in the proverbial dog house with her employer. Thoughts of work and Moriarty rarely strayed from her mind, particularly when she was trying to sleep or relax in general. She needed a holiday for the sake of her sanity.
A tall woman joined her at the table sitting across from her. She was somewhere in her forties and had a lean upper body, sharp features with cat-like blue-green eyes, and dark blonde hair pulled back in a French braid.
"Sorry about that," she spoke in a strong Russian accent, "Some days I just want to burn my phone. It never rings but at times inappropriate."
"I take it I have your full attention then?" Samantha replied politely.
"Certainly," the woman replied with a patronizing smile.
A waitress appeared then with two coffees, placing the hazelnut mocha with whipped cream in front of Samantha. Her line of work meant she needed to keep trim but she indulged whenever the opportunity arose.
"Tack sa mycket," she said to the waitress handing her some money, "Halla andringen."
The waitress thanked her for her generous tip and returned to her shift.
"Now, then," Samantha glanced back at her companion, "Nika Abramovich. Your name keeps popping up wherever I go. You're quite a person of interest to my employer."
Abramovich made an expression of surprised amusement.
"I'm not very interesting," she replied dismissively, "I'm just a single Russian woman travelling Europe. Nothing interesting unless you're into tourism."
"Don't be so modest," Samantha cooed. She sipped her mocha before pulling out her tablet and opening the files she had on Abramovich.
"The log of your travels my employer compiled is incredibly intriguing. For example-" Samantha tilted the tablet so that the woman could see,
"Here's a picture of you with a VKS 12.7 sniper rifle. Here's another one of you chatting to one of the most wanted organized crime leaders in central Europe. And then there was that little bombing in Afghanistan just as you happened to be flying out of the country. Care to regale your own tales of misadventure?" She brought her drink to her lips again, studying the Russian woman opposite. She was an exceptional gun-for-hire. The agency needed her for her talents.
"I think you've heard them all," Abramovich replied deadpan.
"I think I have," Samantha replied, "The thing is, you've been just a teensy bit sloppy. The authorities have your scent. They're closing in on you."
"That is not possible," the woman retorted and then with some consideration, "You are not authority?"
"No," Samantha answered. She paused a moment, feeling a mild headache coming on. "I'm here to offer you a job contract."
"I have a job," the woman replied in disinterest. Samantha sighed. This was the problem with most criminals. They were so distrustful.
"A permanent one," she added, "No more waiting around for a phone call from whoever happens to pick up your CV."
Abramovich leaned forward, her elbows on the table.
"It is permanent," she replied, her voice low, narrow eyes showing mild annoyance.
"With us you'll have full immunity," Samantha said jovially, trying to ignore her headache, "Evidence of your existence on any official documentation will be erased. You won't have to fear being placed behind bars."
"I can't leave my current employer," the woman replied simply, leaning back in her chair again.
Samantha rubbed the side of her head, the pain slowly increasing.
"Oh, we'll take care of that," she said.
"No, he will find me and he will kill me. And then he will more than likely kill you too."
"And who exactly…" Samantha shut her eyes tight, the pressure building in her skull, "is your employer?"
"Are you alright?" the Russian enquired.
"Just a headache," she responded, "As I was saying…" Samantha shook her head. What was she saying?
"The contract…" the rest of the sentence failed to materialise in her brain. She couldn't focus. Her vision began to blur. Something tugged at the recess of her mind like some distant alarm bell. Her gaze snapped to the Russian woman who was watching her, lips stretched tight as if suppressing a smile.
"What did you put in my…?" But Samantha had lost consciousness before she could finish the sentence.