Chapter 10: Sense of Betrayal

Petra stood rooted to the ground, eyes gazing about wonderingly. Spread out before her, past the glass double doors, was a long, artfully decorated lobby. The walls were painted in a soft, neutral beige colour, with pieces of modern art hung about the room. Accent lights were set over each painting, bathing the canvases in their own separate glow. The polished hardwood floor was dotted with pairs of lounge chairs arranged around small tables. There was a strong, almost overwhelming scent of some flowery perfume filling the air. The source of some of that scent undoubtedly came from the left side of the room, where a shallow alcove hosted some kind of odd plant arrangement, the likes of which Petra had never seen before. Layers of leafy plants, flowers and vines worked their way up the wall, halfway to the ceiling. There was a steady trickle of water from a small fountain that tumbled its way down to the floor. The light burbling of falling water made an airy, almost whimsical music designed to sooth frazzled nerves and impart a sense of peaceful tranquility.

Panning her head around to the other side of the room, Petra found another pair of glass doors almost directly across from her, tinted gold and etched with a pattern of bamboo and overlaid by the internationally recognizable 'Vitruvian Man' by Leonardo Da Vinci. At the far right-hand end of the room, there was a plain, utilitarian reception counter of white-washed wood and black granite top. Behind and slightly above the counter were several rows of shelves, loaded down with a wide selection of creams, lotions, shampoos and other assorted beauty products. A bright-eyed, smiling young woman stood behind the counter, watching Petra and Yurik enter the room. Her glossy black hair was pulled back into a tight bun set on the back of her head and she was dressed in a stark white coat, like the kinds worn by doctors. She visibly perked up at the sight of them, smile broadening even wider. "Buonasera Signore Balašev. Might I assume you're here for your nine o'clock appointment?"

Striding confidently up to the counter, Petra dragged along at his side, Yurik intoned strongly in an equally bright and cheerful voice that echoed in the small room in spite of all the acoustically absorptive materials. "Buonasera Maria and yes, indeed I am. I trust everything is ready for me and my lovely companion?

"One moment sir, while I check to make sure." The young woman Maria lowered her gaze to a computer screen hidden behind the counter, the sound of clicking and typing audible to Petra's ears. "Ah yes, here it is Signore Balašev. I have you down for a massage, facial and manicure-pedicure treatment for both you and your friend. If you would please wait one moment, I'll just check to make sure everything is ready for the two of you. Please feel free to relax here in the lobby in the mean-time."

Yurik bobbed a quick nod of assent and appreciation. With a bounce in his step, he led Petra over to one set of chairs near the wall of plants. Petra was feeling a growing sense of nervousness. She was not a complete stranger to the spa experience, Sandro having treated her a few times. What had her on edge though, was the thought of having to be naked, leaving her dress, and the hidden microphone, behind in the change room. There was also the possibility of the dye used to tan her skin and lend her the appearance of a full-blooded Italian woman would streak and run, revealing her deception and alerting Yurik that something was wrong.

"So this is the surprise you had in mind," Petra said while easing herself down into one of the chairs. Despite the anxiety she was feeling, she managed to keep any of it from showing in her voice. She shot Yurik a sly, coquettish look. She wanted him focused solely on the prize he believed awaited him at the end of the night, rather than risk him noticing just how nervous she had become.

Her ploy seemed to be working, as Yurik beamed broadly over at her, his eyes twinkling with clear delight. "Indeed it is. What do you think of it? A nice, full body massage followed by a reinvigorating facial sounds like a wonderful way to relax after a meal, don't you."

"Do you hear me complaining?" Petra teased. She reached up to idly twirl one dangling raven lock around her finger, staring enticingly into Yurik's eyes. "I'm just a little curious now about what else you might have planned for tonight. I mean: a five-course meal at a gourmet restaurant, followed by a spa treatment; it's going to be hard to improve upon what you've already done."

"Oh ye of little faith, Signorina," Yurik laughed, patting her arm in a soothing, placating gesture. "I aim to please and I intend for this night to be one you will carry fondly in your memories for a very long time."

"Well you certainly have me interested," Petra cooed softly. Reaching out, she laid a hand gently, teasingly, against Yurik's wrist. She both saw and felt him twitch at the touch, his pulse racing wildly beneath her fingertips. A faint flush entered his face as sweat began to bead along his face and neck. Through Petra's enhanced senses, she could tell that his heart and respiration rate were beginning to soar. Her touch, her look, the sultry tone of her voice, they all wove together to send Yurik spiralling into heady heights of anticipation and arousal. A part of Petra was disgusted with how the man was reacting, as if she had promised him the world and more with but those three simple elements. Another part of her, however, goggled in amazed wonder that something so small, something so seemingly insignificant, could elicit such a profound reaction. It was a part of what Sandro had trained her for, the ability to enchant and seduce a man into exposing his deepest and most fatal flaws and weaknesses. After nearly three years of working together, she was very good at it. However, that small part of her never stopped being amazed at what she could do with but a touch, a look and a few words.

Only a short time later, the receptionist called out, informing them that everything was indeed ready and that they could head into the spa proper. She gave them quick, simple instructions on how to navigate their way through the spa; though Petra gathered from Yurik's distinct lack of reaction and rather bored, disinterested expression that the directions were more for her benefit than his.

The change room, when Petra had made her way to it, was simply yet elegantly furnished; utilitarian in its design and arrangement but still carrying that same level of refined elegance that Petra had come to expect from the hotel. The soft pastel tones and gentle lighting conveyed a sense of tranquility and peacefulness, even here. Long, bamboo benches ran between rows of lockers painted powder blue. The sound of running water filtered out from where Petra assumed the showers must be. Glancing about, she noticed faint, trailing wisps of steam curling and licking at the ceiling. The sauna must be over there too, Petra thought to herself. The air was heavy and oppressive with humidity and sweat immediately popped out of every pour and started running down her face, back and arms.

Snatches of conversations reached Petra's ears, alerting her to the fact that she wasn't alone in the room. She could hear the soft, pattering sounds of feminine footfalls and could make out the words of idle chatter and the tinkling, musical chimes of giggling laughter. The sounds all echoed off of the walls, making it virtually impossible for her to place the source of each noise. Unable to pinpoint the location of her fellow changers, and unwilling to be caught standing just inside the threshold, like some shy, fearful child undergoing her very first experience of a public changing room, Petra strode quickly and purposefully over to one locker. Sitting down, she unbuckled the straps of her high-heels and slipped them off. The warm, damp air hit the soles of her feet and she gave a small, contented sigh. It wasn't that her feet hurt; with her artificial limbs, Petra wasn't really able to feel any significant amount of pain, but the shoes were uncomfortable and discomfort was a sensation she was capable of feeling in abundance.

Flicking a quick, searching glance in either direction, Petra reached between her breasts, fondling the hidden microphone. She tugged it up, as close to her mouth as possible so that she wouldn't have to speak too loudly to be heard. "Petra to surveillance team, be advised that I am about to go out of contact. I repeat: I will be going completely dark. Unable to confirm when I'll be able to re-establish communications." With those words, a swarm of sparrow-sized butterflies erupted within her stomach. That sense of nervousness, always lurking in the background, returned with a vengeance, clamping down tightly on her mind. She had to fight to swallow the sudden lump in her throat.

Reaching behind her head, Petra unclipped the clasp on the neck strap. As she let go, the dress slowly slipped down her body, the silk sliding across her skin. It felt like the tenderest of caresses; almost sensual in the way the material glided across every curve and sent tiny shivers of pleasure rippling through her.

Stepping out of the dress, which was now pooled on the floor at her feet, Petra hung it up in the locker and began undoing her hair. The raven-coloured locks cascaded down, tumbling to just below her shoulder blades. Slipping out of her underwear, Petra pulled a large, fluffy white towel from the locker's top shelf and wrapped it tightly about herself. The light pink bathrobe went on over that and with a final sigh, she set her purse into the locker, closed the door and put the key into the pocket of the robe. She was now completely and totally on her own. She felt horribly exposed and not just about her state of undress. Her sidearm was in her purse, now locked away, beyond reach.

For God's sake Petra, get a hold of yourself, she mentally berated herself harshly. You're a state-of-the-art, multi-million Euros combat cyborg. You are perfectly capable of taking care of yourself without a gun. With that thought steeling her resolve, Petra turned smartly on her heel and padded out of the room. With renewed conviction, she made her way deeper into the spa facility, following the receptionist's directions. Through a door and around a broad, tall privacy screen, she entered into a large, brightly-lit room. A silvery name plate mounted beside the door named the room as the "Group Relaxation Center". There were the sounds of soft, lilting music drifting on the warm, slightly steamy air and the strong scent of fragrant oils tickled at Petra's nose. A row of manicure chairs occupied one wall of the room, with several sets of chairs and tables placed nearby in a kind of small lounge. There was even a gas-fed fireplace tucked into the corner to further add to the relaxing ambiance.

Petra turned at the sound of a woman's voice calling out to her and found one of the spa's therapists slowly approaching. The young woman looked to be no more than twenty years old, her plumply-pretty face set in a beaming smile. Corn-yellow hair was swept back into a long pony-tail placed high on the back of her head so that it bobbed and waved with every small move she made. She was dressed all in white, the shirt and pants closely resembling hospital scrubs. Petra suspected that the receptionist and therapist were both dressed identically, so the garments were obviously what passed for a kind of uniform here in the spa. "Buonasera Signorina," the woman said in cheerful greeting, coming to a stop a few feet away. "My name is Trisha and I will be your relaxation therapist for this evening. If you would like, I can take you over to the salon and begin your facial treatment."

"Actually," Petra cut in, forcing out as much casual arrogance as possible, "I think I'd prefer to skip the facial. I just got one done a few days ago, so I shouldn't need another one so soon."

Trisha blinked in mild surprise, having pulled up short at Petra's unexpected comment. She slowly nodded in understanding and assent. "Oh, I see. Yes, that would be a good idea then. Excessive facial treatments can actually end up damaging your skin, so thank you for mentioning that." Trisha paused then to consider for a brief moment, one long slim finger pressed to her full, pouty lips, before continuing on. "In that case then, I suppose we could skip right to the massage, if that's all right with you?"

"Why yes, a massage sounds simply wonderful," Petra replied, putting on a bright, eager smile. Trisha returned the grin, bobbing her head in a quick, shallow bow.

Turning smartly on her heel, she led Petra to another area of the relaxation center. Up, onto a large, screened-in porch area, the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the entire back wall looking out on the hotel's spacious back lawns. Several massage tables sat in the middle of the porch area, all of them currently empty. The porch was flanked on either side by trios of doors that led into private massage parlours and it was through one such door that Trisha led Petra.

The small, rectangular room was dominated by the large, lushly padded massage table. A coat rack stood in one corner of the room, next to the door that Petra used to hand up her robe. Two of the room's walls were line by a series of shelves, drawers and glass-fronted cabinets. Most of them, Petra assumed were filled with the multitudes of oils, creams and lotions used in the various types and styles of massages that the spa offered. There was even a small warming oven for heating up the stones used in hot rock massages. What Petra found truly surprising, however, was that the cabinets all sported good solid locks on them. Darting a quick, appraising glance over the cabinets' contents, Petra found that nearly all of the bottles and tubes kept locked within bore clearly identifiable medical labels. If the therapists at the spa were licensed to proscribe and dispense medications, then it certainly explained why everyone she had seen was dressed in hospital scrubs.

When directed, Petra hopped up onto the table and laid down on her stomach, her face cradled by the thickly cushioned hole at the head of the table. Trisha began in on the treatment almost immediately, pausing only long enough to slip on a pair of nitrile gloves and pull out a selection of massage oils. Starting at the shoulders and working her way down to the fingertips in long smooth motions, Trisha began be massaging Petra's arms and upper back.

Despite the young woman's expert ministrations, her fingers gently kneading deep into the muscle tissue, Petra was finding it impossible to relax and enjoy the experience. The very thought of this strange woman running her hands up and down her essentially naked body had Petra feeling very uncomfortable. Her inability to express this discomfort, the need to keep it bottled up and hidden so as not to blow her cover only exacerbated the feelings. Aside from Sandro, who she loved, the only other people to see and touch her while naked were the agency's medical staff, who really didn't count. They were doctors and technicians; it was their job and she was Conditioned to not care about their routine poking and prodding. Besides, to them she was more a piece of cutting-edge technology than a teenaged girl.

After only a short while, Petra's discomfort began to be superseded by a growing sense of intrigued curiosity. She was starting to notice a clear sense of concern and frustration from Trisha, the pressure from her hands slowly increasing. Quickly realizing that the pressure Trisha was applying was approaching the point a normal person would find painful, Petra began to make small noises of growing discomfort. Trisha noticed this and immediately apologized, expressing her concern. "Oh, I'm sorry." She fell silent, but from Trisha's unsteady breathing pattern Petra could tell that the young woman was debating on whether or not to say more. "I don't mean to pry, but is everything all right with you?"

"Yes, why?" Petra answered hesitantly, knowing immediately what the problem was. Her mind churned furiously, seeking some plausible explanation that she could feed to Trisha and have her accept it and be satisfied.

"Well, it's just that your muscles are the stiffest and tensest that I have ever felt and that is a clear sign of extremely high stress loads building up within the body."

"Oh, well, I am in fashion design school and it is pretty competitive. I mean, just last week, another girl totally screwed up a costume design assignment by making a mid-Victorian period dress when we were clearly supposed to make an early-Elizabethan period dress. It still looked okay, but the teacher was super mad. This was her third mistake and so he kicked her out of the program right then and there, can you believe that? Not that I really care; she was a total bitch anyway and that just makes one less person fighting for the internship spots." Petra rambled on and on inanely, flicking her hair back over her shoulder and speaking in a voice dripping with haughty disdain.

"I…I see," Trisha said flatly, once Petra had run down and fallen silent. "Either way, I strongly recommend that you make an appointment with your doctor to get this looked at. Stress at these levels can lead to serious and potentially life-threatening health problems."

Petra let out an astonished gasp, lifting herself far enough off the table to twist around and stare back at Trisha. "Oh my God, really?"

"Yes really," the young woman replied with emphatic seriousness. "Uncontrolled stress can wreak absolute havoc with the entire body."

Petra bit at her lower lip nervously, an anxious fear shinning in her eyes. She pitched her voice to a weak, breathy whisper that cracked and stuttered from the shock. "Wow, I…I had no idea. Y-yeah, I'll definitely do something about it right away." At Trisha's sharp, simple nod of acceptance, the young woman returning to the task of massaging Petra's legs, Petra felt a surge of supreme self-satisfaction. She had succeeded in diffusing what could have been a disastrous situation. If Trisha had discovered the real reason for the unnaturally stiff density of Petra's muscle tissue, she would likely now be dead, with Petra frantically searching for some place to stuff the body. That would have opened up a whole host of new problems, the least of which being the almost certain failure of the mission. Besides which, Petra hated having to kill innocent bystanders. It was all just so unfair to Ferro and her people. They did so much work cleaning up after her and the other girls, smoothing things over and taking care of all the myriad little details that made each mission run as efficiently as possible. It just didn't feel right to Petra, giving them even more things to deal with that they shouldn't have to.

Puffed up by her feelings of accomplishment, Petra was finally able to relax somewhat and actually start to enjoy the massage. Even better was that, in her more comfortable state of mind, Petra was able to pay closer attention to exactly what it was that Trisha was doing and how exactly she was doing it. She was silently memorizing each motion and technique, already eagerly awaiting her chance to try some of it out on Sandro. She just knew that he would be delighted at the idea of receiving a nice, relaxing massage from her.

All too soon, however, the massage was over and Petra was peeling herself off of the table and slipping back into her robe. A faint flush of embarrassment crept up into her face as she was forced to pause for a moment with one hand on the table's edge. Her legs felt as if they were made of half-congealed gelatine and she had to force them straight to keep from collapsing to the floor. Trisha offered her an indulgent, sympathetic smile, understanding how Petra was feeling. The massage had ended up being slightly more effective in relaxing her than Petra had anticipated.

When she was steady and sure that she wouldn't fall down, Petra retrieved her robe and allowed herself to be led back out into the group relaxation center and to the salon with its row of manicure chairs. They arrived to find Yurik already there, seated in one of the chairs near the fireplace, a glass of red wine in hand. He turned from the magazine he was leafing through as Trisha and Petra approached, treating them both to a broad, winning smile. His face seemed to glow from the after-effects of his facial treatment, the skin looking softer and suppler than before. Grinning, his eyes flashing with mirth as he set the glass down on the table, he called out teasing, "You seem to be a little weak in the knees, my dear. I'm thinking that means you enjoyed your massage?"

Adjusting her robe so that it deliberately gaped open ever-so-slightly, giving Yurik a quick flash of lightly-bronzed inner thigh every time she took a step, Petra responded with a light girlish giggle. "Well it sure seems to have done the trick. I feel all loosened up and relaxed."

"I am glad to hear it," Yurik replied happily as he took up his wine once more. There was a slight hitch to his voice that belied the fact that he had indeed noticed the tantalizing view being presented to him. Whether he took it as a deliberate act or a happy accident, Petra wasn't sure, though in Yurik's present mental state – not to mention his physical state, Petra noticed with some amusement – she doubted that he cared. She watched him carefully as she mounted the chair that Trisha led her to, trying to gauge his reactions. To her surprise, he seemed flustered and embarrassed upon noticing his current…predicament and began shifting awkwardly in his seat, plucking at his robe and rearranging it over his lap in an effort to minimise its obviousness.

This display of almost juvenile shyness shocked Petra. The man had a reputation as something of a womanizing scoundrel, spending most nights out socializing at the local nightclubs. From everything that Petra had heard about him through Sandro, as well as her own observations of him during their meeting, she had had no reason to doubt this assessment of the man's character. Now, however, she was being force to further re-evaluate her opinion of him. Clearly the free spirited playboy persona that Yurik displayed was nothing more than a carefully constructed mask, hiding the true man within. Petra found this fact strangely endearing and couldn't help but ponder on what other personal secrets lurked in the shadowed recesses of Yurik's mind and soul?

"So let me guess," Petra said while Trisha hovered at her side trimming, buffing and polishing her fingernails. "You used to date the head masseuse, right?" She flashed a sly, teasing grin over at him, head canted to one side and resting in the palm of her free hand. He stared back at her oddly, as though she had suddenly sprouted horns. "This lovely spa treatment," she said to clarify, lifting her head enough to wave her hand about to indicate their surroundings. "You used your friendship with Francois to get us that dinner reservations, so I assume you must have had some kind of connection to get us this little after-hours treat as well."

Understanding dawning within him, Yurik titled his head back and laughed heartily. Lowering his gaze back down, he shook his head sadly and let out a theatrically overemphasized sigh. The façade was back in place. "Ah, if only my dear. Actually, there was no need to call in a favour. The Palace Merano is a world class resort, remember. Some of their guests keep rather abnormal schedules, so the spa remains open twenty-four hours a day in order to accommodate them." Petra nodded slowly, his explanation making sense. Sandro had told her about the nature of the hotel's guest list and how it included celebrity actors and music stars. Those kinds of individuals, especially the music stars, were used to a more nocturnal schedule. Some of them very well might enjoy a nice massage or dip in the Jacuzzi after returning from a night out on the town.

The hour-and-a-half Petra spent having first her hands and then her feet fussed over and pampered was spent in easy, light-hearted conversation with Yurik. Another therapist arrived with a glass of Champaign shortly after Trisha began working on Petra's nails, which she sipped at contentedly over the course of the hour. As before, at dinner, much of the conversation revolved around Yurik's continued regaling her with stories of his past, intermittently broken by Petra's contributing of the odd hastily thrown-together anecdote or two. Most she kept silent, nodding at his words and laughing at the appropriate points. Again, as before at dinner, there was far less acting required.

"Well if that's the case, then why aren't you and your brother as close anymore?" Petra commented at one point, observing the faint, almost wistful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and casting a shadow of emotion across his face. He had been speaking of how, after his brother Dmitri moved to Italy with his family, they had begun to drift apart and how this distant relationship still pained him at times.

"His wife and I…we don't get along very well," said quietly. His gaze was fixed on the dark ruby contents of his glass, which he was idly working back and forth in his hands. "The three of us, we grew up together and when she married Dmitri I…did not take it well."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Petra replied, surprising herself somewhat at the amount of genuine sympathy she felt for him. Yurik nodded his thanks and seemed to brighten then. The past was beyond reach, he claimed and if the brothers were not as close as they once were, they still spoke often and fondly.

Against all odds and her initial misgivings, Petra was enjoying herself immensely and was quite disappointed when it the pampering came to its end. However, as the old saying went: "All good things must come to an end" and eventually Petra found herself seated in the passenger seat of Yurik's Mercedes. Pulling out of the hotel's parking lot, Yurik merged onto the main boulevard that ran along the front of the hotel and headed deeper into Merano's heart. "So Yurik, the night is still young; what's next on the list of things to do?" The digital clock on the dashboard consol read as only a quarter to eleven, which still left hours yet for any further night-life activities. Petra glanced over at the man, reclining back into the plush leather-wrapped bucket seat. She had her hands folded simply atop her purse, which was nestled snugly in her lap. A faint, teasing grin was all that disturbed the mask of calm composure that she presented to him.

Dividing his attention between her and the road, Yurik cast quick, fleeting looks across the car. "You're right Renata; the night is indeed still young. I was thinking of spending the next portion of it out at a nice nightclub I go to sometimes. You do like to dance, I hope?"

Petra's teasing smile froze on her face at Yurik's words. It felt as if something deep and powerful was churning inside of her. Memories stirred from within the shadowy recesses of her mind. Something about…dancing; why did that sound familiar? Why did the notion of dancing seem so important to her?

As the stirred memories fell away, unclaimed and slipped back beneath the buried surface of her subconscious, Petra gave herself a vigorous mental shake and snapped back to awareness. Yurik was still watching her expectantly, awaiting her answer. Her beaming smile lit up the whole interior of the car and she replied in delighted surprise. "Why yes, actually, I love to dance."

The air was clean and crisp in Petra's lungs as she and Yurik strode up to the heavy oak door to Club Sketch, an up-scale martini lounge that catered almost exclusively to the town's wealthiest residents and out-of-town visitors. Each breath was marked by a softly billowing cloud that curled away, trailing up into the night sky. The sound of Petra's heels clicking against the chilled concrete sidewalk echoed off of the brick buildings running along either side of the narrow road. The rhythmic thumping of Yurik's own footfalls provided a steady cadence as the pair walked arm-in-arm.

As late into the evening as it was, the line of people waiting to get in was less than a half-dozen long. Even so, this dwindled stream of prospective patrons failed to dull the attentive focus of the burly, muscle-bound man standing firm beside the door. Wrapped in a thin black windbreaker that bore the emblem of a private security company large on the left breast, meaty arms folded across a hard barrel chest, the bouncer ran an intense, critical gaze along the meagre crowd.

Ignoring the gathered men and women, who were clustered together in pairs against the cold, Yurik walked confidently up to the bouncer with one hand extended in pre-emptive expectation. The hard, thin line of the bouncer's mouth curled upwards ever-so-slightly at the sight of the other man and he unfolded one arm to clasp the offered hand in greeting. "Good evening, Signore Balašev. I was starting to wonder if maybe you weren't planning on coming out tonight."

Yurik laughed in response, shifting his grip on Petra so that his arm was wrapped snugly about her waist, hugging her close to his side. "I'm afraid I had other plans that kept me busy most of the night, Roberto."

The bouncer, Roberto, eyed Petra up and down, taking in her silk dress that appeared to practically shimmer and glow in the moonlight. "So I can see, Signore." Stepping slightly to one side, the heavy-set man reached behind him to pull open the door, dipping his head slightly and waving them inside. "Enjoy your evening."

The bar's interior was done up with strong surrealist design elements. The lighting slowly shifted between a deep rose and vibrant blue. A mirrored wall bisected the main room, providing some small amount of privacy to those who wished to sit and perhaps enjoy a meal picked out from the club's minimal menu offerings. There was a modest-sized stage at the far end of the room, with the floor space immediately in front cleared out for dancing. There was a band currently playing on the stage, a trio of performers whose music sounded like a blend of indie rock and blues, with a heavy jazz influence. The vocalist stood behind a small electric keyboard, with a drummer and guitarist providing the accompanying music. All three were young, in their mid-twenties, Petra guessed, with lean builds and dressed all in black. The singer, his thin, high cheek-boned face clean-shaven and with short black hair gelled up into a myriad of thorny spikes, was just finishing up the song's third verse as she and Yurik walked into the bar.

"Sleep in peace, when the day is done.

And this old world is a new world

And a bold world

For me."

The guitarist and drummer immediately launched into a short, heavy musical interlude right on the heels of the singer's last words, playing him into the start of the fourth verse. His voice was almost hauntingly smooth, the high notes sending chills down Petra's spine. A large number of the club's patrons were on their feet, whistling and cheering appreciatively as the last notes of the song faded away, leaving the band members smiling and nodding in thanks.

The bouncer's words ended up proving to be almost prophetic. Half-way through the night Petra was finding it increasingly difficult to muster up the willpower to keep from enjoying herself too much. Her digestive tract had been augmented with extra absorptive layers designed to help her safely metabolize various toxic compounds in order to neutralize their effects upon her and alcohol was one of those compounds. There were, however, limits to just how much she could safely process and after a steady flow of cocktails lasting well past two hours long, Petra's bloodstream was nearing the point of over-saturation. Her head felt loosely packed with cotton and a faint buzz seemed to vibrate through her entire body. She finding it hard to focus clearly on individual objects and her equilibrium was badly distorted. In short: she was drunk.

Things would have been fine, if not for circumstances depriving her of control of the situation. Upon entering the bar, they had been almost immediately greeted by several of Yurik's close associates, who had insisted upon introductions being made. The rest was a whirlwind blur of fruity-flavoured vodka drinks, interspersed with desiccated, bone-dry gin martinis. Every time she had tried to slow down and space the drink out, one of Yurik's friends would egg her on and, to the cheers and promptings of the crowd, she would be forced to suck another drink back, her glass finding itself refilled almost before it left her lips. To attempt anything less would have been to break with her cover and expose herself to suspicion.

Leaning sharply forward, hands braced to either side of the sink, Petra sucked in air through tightly clenched teeth and fought the waves of dizziness and disorientation assailing her. Ice-cold water slid down her cheeks and dripped from the tip of her nose. Looking up into the mirror, her bleary-eyed reflection glared back at her sternly. All around her the bathroom dipped and spun crazily and if not for her death-grip on the sink, Petra was certain that she would have been sent sprawling to the tiled floor.

Reaching out hesitantly, she managed to scoop up a small amount of the water held within the porcelain basin and bring it up to her lips. Letting the cool, refreshing fluid trickle down her throat, Petra sighed wondrously. Her tongue felt swollen to twice its normal size and wrapped in fur besides. The water helped sooth both it and her burning throat.

A sudden knock on the bathroom door made her jerk and spin in alarm. Instantly the entire world exploded into a madman's nightmare of swirling colours and glaring, piercing lights. All sense of balance evaporated and Petra felt herself teetering over sideways. The blessing of her super-human reflexes was all that saved her from ending up having to peel herself off of the floor and even then, she stumbled to her knees before managing to catch and right herself.

"Renata, are you alright in there?" Yurik called out, revealing himself to be the source of the mysterious banging noise reverberating around inside Petra's skull. "You have been in there for ten minutes."

Ten minutes? Had it really been that long already? And why was it proving so difficult to focus on anything? Yurik's voice sounded strangely distorted, almost as if she were listening to him through a screen of water. Oh yes, now she remembered: she was drunk. Drunk? How had that happened? Petra knew she had more self-control than that. She was a professional; she didn't go out and get drunk. Certainly not while on a mission. Was she on a mission? Yes, of course she was. That was why she was all dressed up in such a pretty dress. It was a pretty dress too, all shiny and smooth beneath her fingers. Sandro would be so amazed at how pretty she looked in it. Or had he already said so? She couldn't remember for some reason. Why couldn't she remember? What was going on? Oh yes, that's right, now she remembered: she was drunk. Wait, drunk? How had that happened?

"Renata?" Yurik repeated, letting forth a second series of thunderous poundings upon the door.

"This water tastes so good," Petra called out in reply, bursting out into a helpless fit of giggling. Madre de Dio, now I'm giggling like an idiot! Damn it all Petra, get a hold of yourself!

"Renata?"

"I'm…I'm fine," Petra said, stumbling back from the sink. She had to gulp in air, swallowing reflexively as her stomach churned nauseously. "I just…I need to pee." Turning on one heel, she managed to work her way across the narrow divide and collapse onto the closed seat of a toilet. Closing the stall door, she fished around inside of her purse for a small, flattened metal case. Pulling open the lid, she withdrew a tiny syringe the size of her pinkie finger, along with a sterilized needle and a small glass phial. Connecting needle and syringe, she jabbed it into the phial's lid and extracted a measured amount of the clear fluid within. Then, setting her purse aside and hiking up the hem of her skirt until it was bunched up around her waist, Petra slammed the needle home into the crease of her leg, where thigh met hip. Stabbing down on the plunger with her thumb, the quarter-shot of pure Conditioning medication roared through her veins.

Petra shot up straight as the drug cocktail took almost immediate effect, burning away all traces of intoxication. A wealth of sensory information flooded into her brain as her senses sharpened to inhuman levels. She could make out the grain structure of the wooden door to the stall beneath the pastel blue paint. She could hear the piercing hum of the electricity flowing through the wires and sharp buzzing of the florescent lights. Inhaling, her nose suddenly wrinkled in disgust. Most unfortunately, she could also smell the overwhelming odour of disinfectant that didn't completely mask the underlying scent of stale urine, faeces and vomit.

Nevertheless, it was a vast improvement and, letting loose a deep sigh of relief, Petra packed away her self-medication kit and stood back up. The world steadied around her, everything snapping back into sharp, crystal-clear focus. Standing before the mirror once more, she turned on the water and let it run so that Yurik would think she was washing her hands. Inspecting her reflection critically, Petra made sure that her face bore a mask of inebriated stupor and that she was staggering and wavering suitably as she made her way over to the bathroom door. Yurik would be expecting her to be completely plastered and it wouldn't do for her cover to come out stone-cold sober.

Pulling open the door, Petra found Yurik standing just on the other side, an expression of mild concern creasing his features. She stopped short, blinking in surprise and wobbling slightly. Then, looking up at him, she broke out into a broad, ear-to-ear grin and giggled drunkenly. "Hi Yurik. What are you doing here? This is the lady's bathroom silly; you can't go in there."

"Are you all right? You were in there for a while."

"Of course I'm all right," Petra scoffed, waving away his concern and inadvertently slapping and almost knocking over a plaster sculpture that Yurik managed to grab and set back upright with a muffled curse. She affected not to notice at all. "I told you: I needed to pee. Why? You didn't think I was in there throwing up, did you? Silly man, I can hold my liquor better than that."

Chuckling now in renewed good-natured humour, Yurik nodded sagely while wrapping one arm around Petra's shoulders to steady her. "Oh, I can assure you that there won't be anyone questioning your ability to hold liquor after tonight Renata. I know a few grizzled old soldiers and sailors who would have walked away, humbled and humiliated in comparison to your performance."

Oh God, Petra thought, eyes widening slightly. How much alcohol did I actually drink? For the life of her she couldn't remember. If not for the surge of Conditioning medication dampening and restricting her emotions, Petra would have been nearing a panic attack. She knew that there were distinct physical limitations to the human body's ability to metabolize alcohol, based upon a person's individual height, mass and relative metabolism. What if Petra had exceeded those limitations? Should she be able to stand? Should she even be conscious? Yurik didn't seem suspicious though, which was good. Perhaps his own inebriation was clouding his judgment and impairing his ability to think rationally. It was certainly something to be hoped.

Steering her back to their seats, Yurik left Petra standing beside the table and took up his coat. "Now then, my dear, if you're feeling refreshed, what do you say we head out? It's getting late and Emilio is about ready to start closing up. Besides," he added with a roguish grin, "I still have some plans for how we can spend the rest of the night."

"Oh, sounds like somebody has something naughty in mind," Petra purred, deliberately spoiling the effect by once again breaking into giggles.

Shrugging into his overcoat, Yurik circled back around the table and slipped Petra's arm into his and walked her to the door. Outside, the chill in the air had deepened, leaving the windows frost-rimmed and the surrounding roofs dusted with white. A blue and yellow taxi cab sat waiting for them, the engine running and exhaust smoke pluming up into the sky. Shivering in the cold, Petra made a mad-dash for the cab, jumping into the back seat and revelling in the sudden blanket of warmth that enveloped her. Yurik was close behind on her heels, sliding in and shutting the door. The driver had obviously already been given the address of Yurik's small villa on the North-Eastern edge of Merano, as he immediately threw the car into gear and drove away.

Few words were shared between the pair during the drive. Growing anticipation for what was soon to come kept them both wrapped in silence. They each knew what was about to happen, though Yurik's expectations were wildly different from what Petra had in mind. Eventually though, Yurik decided to venture forth and break the silence, feeling that allowing it to continue would only foster the growth of an awkward tension that would only hamper with the remainder of his planned…festivities. "So you seemed to have enjoyed yourself."

"Oh my God, yes!" Petra exclaimed exuberantly. "I had so much fun! This whole night has been amazing! And you have such nice friends. They all kept buying me drinks all night long; they were so nice!"

"Well I'm glad you liked them," Yurik laughed. "They certainly liked you."

"Why wouldn't they like me?" Petra inquired drunkenly, flopping over to lean against Yurik's shoulder. She twisted her head around to stare up into his face. The angle presented him a perfect view down the front of her dress and she purred slightly as he shifted, his bicep rubbing up against the side of her breast. "Everybody likes me! I'm an infinitely likeable person."

Yurik chuckled, shaking his head slowly in wonder. "That you are, my dear; that you are."

Staring down into her eyes, Yurik's pulse raced wildly. His blood roared in his veins, drowning out all other sounds, drowning out thought. With painful slowness, he brought his head down, lowering his face to hers. Petra titled her face up slightly to meet his, their lips brushing together ever-so-slightly. Darting just the tip of her tongue out, she licked at his lower lip, probing, teasing. His one hand came up to cup the side of her face, drawing her forward into him. Their mouths met, lips parting, twisting and locking together. Their tongues swirled and danced over and around each other. His other hand slowly slid up Petra's waist, gently massaging her hip and side. It slid around to rub at the bare skin of her back, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of her dress to tickle and tease at her ribs.

Petra's nose was filled to overflowing with the mingled scents of vodka, cognac, the sharp pungent musk of Yurik's cologne and the underlying odour of Yurik's own body. She sent up profound prayers of thanks for the Conditioning cocktail circulating through her bloodstream and keeping her stomach from rebelling in disgust and shame. It had nothing to do with Yurik; in fact she found the tantalizing blend of his cologne mixed with his natural odours to be mildly pleasant. But he wasn't Sandro and Sandro was the only man she wanted to experience such an intimate embrace with.

Not a moment too soon as far as Petra was concerned, though she doubted Yurik felt the same way, the taxi pulled up to the front gate to his villa. Forced to pull away from one another, they both exited the vehicle and after Yurik paid the driver, punched in the key code that unlocked the gate and escorted her onto the property. The cobblestoned driveway led up to a large, detached double garage. A narrower cobblestone pathway split off and rounded a well-tended garden of carefully pruned shrubs and led up to a broad set of stairs that in turn led up to the front door. The property and the villa were not overly large, at least not in comparison to some of the places Petra had seen, but they were both well cared for and spoke of a quiet dignity that was, for the most part, mirrored in their owner.

The covered veranda opened out into a narrow main hall that ran to the center of the house, where it opened up to accommodate a grand, curving staircase leading to the second floor. To Petra's immediate left was an open archway, with the main living room visible beyond. To her right was a heavy wood door that she guessed might lead to a small library or formal sitting room.

Yurik led Petra into the living room, which was tastefully furnished in a chic, modern style. The furniture and artistic accent pieces were all very masculine and she could practically smell the testosterone oozing out from the walls. Plopping down on the sofa, Petra reclined back into the thick cushions, bending down to unbuckle and remove her shoes. She folded her feet up underneath her, reaching down to massage them gently. Yurik tossed his coat across the back of a chair and then, walking around behind the sofa, reached out with both hands to tenderly cup Petra's face. Titling her head back until she was looking up directly into his eyes, he leaned down to plant a soft, fleeting, almost teasing kiss to her slightly parted lips. He then pulled away sharply, leaving Petra faintly flushed and blinking. "I'm going to go upstairs to change. Make yourself comfortable. The kitchen is at the end of the hall, on your left. There's wine in the chilling rack and there should be vodka, gin and rum in the fridge; feel free to help yourself."

Petra put on a show of having to swallow reflexively several times before managing to find her voice again, working out only a weak, breathy croak once she did so. "Sounds great; thanks." Yurik flashed her a charming grin, bobbed his head shortly and was gone.

Listening to his footsteps trailing up the stairs, Petra waited for the sounds to fade before giving a slow twenty count and then sprang into action. Her hand was inside her purse and digging out the tiny USB flash drive that Lucretia had given her what seemed days ago now. Pausing, she fingered the concealed microphone until it was scant centimetres from her mouth. "I am inside Yurik's villa and am beginning my search for his primary computer. I repeat, beginning mission phase two; stand by for stage three and extraction."

Making her way back out into the hall, padding along softly on bare feet, Petra first checked the door to the right of the entranceway. It was indeed a formal sitting room, with the heavier furniture bearing a more classical style that hinted at an old world, gentlemanly sophistication. There was a faint odour of cigar smoke and fine liquor hanging on the air, odours that likely had permeated the wood long ago to the point where they had become a permanent part of the room's natural atmosphere.

Around to the far end of the hall, past a linen closet and Petra hit upon her target. The combination office/private library was of decent size, richly furnished in dark wood. A heavy mahogany desk sat in front of a bay window overlooking the south side of the property. Numerous books on a multitude of subjects filled the shelves, their leather bindings crisp and smooth and bearing not a trace of having ever actually been read more than once or twice. Petra frowned as a fleeting thought skittered across the surface of her mind. Claes would be appalled at the notion of using such tomes as mere…decoration pieces.

Crossing swiftly to the desk, Petra searched through it with mechanical, practised precision. The contents of the first two drawers were quickly rifled through, coming up with nothing of value. The third bottom drawer was of course locked, but a few seconds spent with a pair of hairpins had the lock popped and the drawer open before her. Again she came up empty though, having to stifle a flare of disappointment and irritation. The files held within the drawer were all of mundane, everyday financial transactions; nothing with any connection to Yurik's arms dealing business. Closing and re-locking the drawer, Petra gave the room a quick sweep just to be thorough before moving back out into the hall. It was obvious to her that Yurik kept his personal computer upstairs, likely in his own bedroom. That would certainly complicate matters.

Resigned to the fact that she would have to wait until she got upstairs, Petra went to the kitchen and fetched two tall-stemmed glasses and a bottle of wine. She could hear Yurik's footsteps approaching the stairs and she quickly darted back to the living room, setting glasses and bottle down on the glass-topped coffee table and curling up on the sofa just as the man entered the room. He had changed out of his formal suit, donning instead a nice pair of designer jeans that perfectly accentuated the strong lines of his legs. His striped, blue and grey silk shirt was left un-tucked, the top two buttons undone to show off a thick mat of curly black hair that was heavily sprinkled with grey. The renewed scent of cologne tickled Petra's nose, almost masking the scents of toothpaste and soap. Tiny beads of moisture still clung to Yurik's face and neck.

He didn't sit down immediately, instead detouring to a small Blackwood table positioned up against one wall. He fiddled with something there for a moment and soft music filled the room, wireless speakers mounted in the corners causing the sound to surround and envelop them. Next, he withdrew a tiny controller from the table's drawer, aiming it towards the sleek, modern styled fireplace set in the middle of the room's inner wall. The fireplace sprang to life, the gas-fed flames dancing and wavering. The lights dimmed down low until those flickering flames were the only significant source of illumination. Only then did Yurik join her on the couch.

Accepting the glass that Petra offered, Yurik sank back into the couch's cushions, twisted around with one leg folded up so that he could look directly at her. They spent some time just chatting amiably, Yurik clearly content to just relax and enjoy her simple presence. For the most part, Petra was happy to indulge his desire for quiet conversation; anything to delay the moment where the inevitable had to happen. She had already gotten a taste of what was to come in the taxi cab and she was beginning to dread it. The need of the mission, however, come before personal qualms and before long she felt the weight of duty pressing down upon her and she was left with no choice but to surrender to her professional responsibilities.

"Yurik stop," she said abruptly, cutting him off in mid-sentence. She toyed with her half-empty glass, rolling it around in her hands and squirming awkwardly. She pointedly avoided meeting his eye, glancing away as if she were embarrassed. "This whole night: dinner, the spa, the bar, everything…it has been so wonderful. I've had such a great time and you've been so nice to me. You've been a perfect gentleman, something I never would have thought even existed before meeting you. But…but you know how nice guys finish last? Well, it's true. And as great of a guy as you are, us girls only have so much patience, you know? We're only willing to wait around for so long before we have to move on." She turned her face slowly, head still lowered so that she had to peer up through her eyelashes to look up at him. His face was frozen, lips parted and eyes wide. He hardly seemed to be breathing as he waited expectantly for what she was about to say. "Yurik, we both know what this evening is all about; why we're both here. So why don't we just cut to the chase and do what we both came here to do?"

The moments of silence that dragged on afterwards hung thick in air, slowly tightening into a constricting wall of heaviness that pressed tight around Petra's chest, choking off breath as she waited for Yurik's reaction. She could make out the minute flickers of muscle movement in his face that told of conflicting emotions sweeping through him. However, in the end, rather than the indignant outrage that she was half-expecting from him, rather than the sudden, explosive burst of lust and desire, Yurik shocked and surprised her by instead tilting his head back and start laughing!

Had she thought that he was laughing at her, Petra would have more than mildly upset. However, she could make out the tones of dry, self-deprecating humour in his soft chuckles and it was instead curiosity that filled her, not anger. "What's so funny?" she asked flatly, her voice tight to give the impression of loosely restrained annoyance lurking just beneath the surface.

"I'm sorry, it's nothing," Yurik replied, lowering his head. There was a slightly wry twist to his mouth and he stared at the sofa cushion between them, his gaze inward and withdrawn into reflective thought. "It's just that…well…this isn't exactly how I pictured this evening turning out, to be perfectly honest."

"And what's wrong with how things have gone?" Petra asked mildly, now allowing her genuine curiosity to creep into her voice. "I think things have gone wonderfully."

"Oh they have, I assure you. I honestly haven't enjoyed myself this much in…years, to be honest. But…well…" he grew slightly uncomfortable then, glancing away in embarrassment and shifting around awkwardly. "To be blunt, Renata, I was supposed to be the one seducing you. Not the other way around."

A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corners of Petra's mouth until she was grinning from ear-to-ear and before she could stop herself, she burst out into tittering, girlish giggles of pure, genuine mirth. Tears sprang to her eyes that she had to wipe away before she managed to regain control of herself. "Oh God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to…uh…step on your toes."

"Oh no, no it's fine," Yurik exclaimed quickly, waving away her own apology as unnecessary. "It was just unexpected, is all. I was surprised, certainly, but hardly upset by it. It is like you said earlier, at dinner: I too like a partner who knows what they want and are willing to reach out and take it."

"So you don't mind that I've been seducing you?" Petra breathed softly, inching over closer towards him.

"No, not at all."

"I'm glad to hear that." Petra's voice had taken on a sultry, husky quality to it and she gently ran her hands up Yurik's broad, muscular chest. She reached up to cup his face, drawing him down to brush her lips up against his. It was a fleeting, teasing contact, which she sprang away from and almost leapt to the far end of the couch, putting as much distance between them as possible without actually getting up and leaving.

Yurik was at first surprised and confused, but the teasing, seductive expression on her face and the unbridled look of lust burning in her eyes set his blood aflame and he had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. With agonizing slowness, Petra uncoiled one leg, extending it across the unfathomable gap between them. Gently, tenderly, she ran her bare foot up his thigh, stopping just short of his crotch. She teased him in this way for several moments, her toes slowly tracing circles up, over his groin, down one thigh, back up the other and then around again. "Come and get what you want Yurik," Petra breathed, lips curled into a small smile. "Reach out and take me."

It was too much for Yurik to bear. This sultry, olive-skinned Goddess, with her dark eyes of liquid fire and raven hair cascading in a glistening wave to tumble about smooth, flawless shoulders was on full display before him; presenting herself just for him. The hem of Petra's dress had hiked up slightly, giving Yurik a tantalizing view of immaculately smooth skin up to just past her knee. Her dress moulded itself perfectly to ever single line and curve of her body. He could just make out the hard, jutting nubs of her nipples poking out from the nearly paper-thin silk. His blood was boiling in his veins. Every fibre of his body screamed for her, demanded that she be his. He had known, the instant he had watched her swaying steps as she walked away from him and Armand, that she was perfect. A divine spirit given female flesh. And he could deny the voices roaring in his mind no longer; he could deny his urges no longer.

In a sudden, explosive burst of movement, Yurik did just as she had begged of him: reached out and claimed her. His hand snapped down and locked around her slim ankle. In one, fluid motion he pulled down on her leg, drawing her across the couch towards him, while at the same time rising and leaning forward so that he ended up crouched over top of her, gazing down into her eyes. She squealed and giggled almost like a little girl as she slid across the couch. The slight friction between microfiber and silk caused the fabric of her dress to ride up even further and Yurik felt his heart skip a beat as he gazed down at the expanse of silky-smooth thighs that were left exposed.

Melting into his embrace, Petra mewled softly, snaking her arms up to wrap around Yurik's neck and pull him further down on top of her. They were both panting as their mouths writhed, tongues once again dancing back and forth. One hand was pressed to the couch next to her head, bracing his weight. His right hand was working its way up and down her thigh, inching ever closer to her waist with each pass. In her mind's eye, it was Sandro's face hovering inches away from hers; it was Sandro's hand she felt caressing her body. Such internal fantasizing was the only was she could think of to stand what Yurik was doing to her without throwing up in his face.

"Yurik wait," she gasped, prying herself free from the vacuum seal his mouth had on her lips. He broke off the kiss, raising himself up slightly so that he could see her better. "Um…as lovely as this is, I don't think this couch is big enough for the both of us. Someone is going to fall off and hurt themselves."

"Ah, good point," Yurik chuckled. "In that case then, perhaps you would be interested in moving this to a more comfortable location; to the boudoir?"

"That sounds good to me."

Disentangling themselves from one another, they both rose and quickly crossed the room to the hallway and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Nervous anxiety had Petra's stomach roiling. The clock was ticking away slowly yet inexorably and she was running out of time. She needed to find his computer and secure it before sedating him or the largest part of the mission would be a bust. Interrogating Yurik would be useless without some concrete physical data to back up whatever information he provided.

Up the stairs and towards the master bedroom they strode, Yurik right behind her and with his hands resting gently on her hips, guiding her. Every now and then he leaned down to plant tiny, tender kisses to her bare shoulders and the nape of her neck, even occasionally nibbling at her earlobes. The feel of his teeth oh-so-gently scraping across the sensitive skin around her ears sent shivers coursing through Petra. Each time, her hands tightened convulsively on the strap of her purse, which she had retrieved from the floor and brought with her, ostensibly for the pack of cigarettes kept within.

Walking into the master bedroom, Petra was instantly struck by the blatantly obvious, undeniable fact that this was every inch a man's bedroom. From the pale brown walls to the darker oak furniture to the clean, modern lines, the room exuded an overwhelming sense of masculinity that Petra, accustomed to the understated, refined elegance of the agency compound and Sandro's own style of brutally plain utilitarianism, found shocking in its intensity.

Giving a quick, subtle sweep of the room as she strode to the foot of the bed, Petra felt her heart leap and her pulse surge in excitement. There was a desk pushed up into a small alcove niche on one side of the room and atop that desk was a laptop. Jackpot.

The heavy oaken door closed behind her and she could feel Yurik looming at her back. His hands caressed her shoulders, sliding up and down her arms. They curled around to glide along the exposed skin of her back, sweeping around to rub at the smooth, flat expanse of her stomach. Petra giggled and squirmed helplessly as that gentle rubbing turned into a playful tickling, his fingers spidering their way all across her stomach and ribs. All the while, Yurik continued to plant light, fleeting kisses to her neck and shoulders.

Yurik most assuredly knew what he was doing in regards to pleasing a woman, with many long years of experience under his belt. As much as Petra hated to admit it, a part of her was enjoying what was being done to her. Her mind still screamed and raged at the indignity, the betrayal of Sandro's love, but her body cared nothing for the wailing protests of her brain and Yurik's experienced touch was setting off a roaring Hellfire deep in the pit of her stomach.

She didn't feel his hands rise up to the back of her neck, fingers working at the tiny clasp. She was only dimly aware of her dress sliding down her body, leaving her all but naked beneath his gaze. The only piece of clothing left protecting her modesty was the skimpy black, lace-trimmed panties she wore. They weren't a part of the set she had bought earlier in the day. Those, she had adamantly refused to wear. The dress she might have been willing to wear for Yurik's benefit, but the lingerie she had been bound and determined to be for Sandro and Sandro alone.

Yurik's hands traced a dizzying maze of lines and swirls up and down her body, poking and prodding, ticking and teasing until she was reduced to a singular bundle of stimulated nerve-endings. She was finding it almost impossible to keep her legs from trembling and the fire growing below her bellybutton was rapidly approaching unbearable levels.

Lost in a daze of her own passions, Petra didn't even know she was moving until she felt the cool, silky fabric of the duvet against her bare back and she knew that she was on Yurik's bed. Glancing down the length of her body, she could see him kneeling on the edge of the mattress, shirt off and cast aside. Petra's eyes widened; his chest and arms were so big! So much bigger than Sandro's. And the hair! Yurik's entire chest was a mass of black and grey curls, even his stomach bearing a thin carpet of manly fur.

A sudden jolt of pure electric fire ripped up Petra's leg, stabbing directly into her brain as Yurik ran the fingers of one hand up the bare sole of her foot, the other pressed tightly down on her ankle to hold her still. She gasped loudly, her eyes popping open and bulging wide. Her back arched slightly and she burst out into a peal of wailing giggles. Thankfully, the teasing tickling lasted but that one, brief moment and then Yurik was trailing a line of kisses up her leg. Higher and higher, his gentle hands and lightly teasing fingers leading the way. Petra was helpless to suppress the deep, shuddering moan that escaped her. She knew that she was loosing herself to her own lusts and part of her didn't care. As much as it sickened her, she wanted this. So very, very badly she wanted this. If only it were Sandro and not Yurik.

Seconds stretched into hours as Yurik inched his way every closer to her groin. Her entire body was tingling, from the crown of her head down to her toes, she was aflame. He had arrived at the apex of her legs, but rather than dive straight in for the prize as so many younger men might do, he instead bypassed it entirely, choosing rather to slowly kiss his way back down her other leg. The frustration Petra felt as Yurik's lips got further and further away was almost soul-shattering. She wanted to cry from the unfairness. His hands were now softly rubbing at her sides and stomach, fingertips barely making contact with her skin as he circled one finger around her bellybutton.

As he reached her foot, Petra was expecting him to tickle her again and braced for it, but when he instead calmly began marching his way back up her leg she relaxed back into his tender ministration. As such, she was caught completely unaware when his fingers suddenly dug into her waist, kneading at the sensitive skin just above her hipbones. Petra wailed with helpless laughter, back arching sharply until only her shoulders and heels were still making contact with the mattress. Sandro had never used ticking as a part of their foreplay and for a cyborg who was used to not feeling anything more than the briefest prickles of pain before synthetic tissue and Conditioning washed it away, this new profusion of physical sensations inundating her body and mind was unlike anything she had ever experienced before. It was at once both torturously maddening and wondrously arousing.

Petra felt her leg twitch and spasm involuntarily and there was a muffled grunt as something hard connected solidly with her knee. All at once the tickling stopped, as did the tantalizingly arousing kisses. Blinking away the confused daze, her chest heaving up and down as she fought to catch her breath, Petra eventually found the strength to lever herself up onto her elbows to see what had happened. Instantly she felt panic storming through her. Yurik was crouched back, sitting on his heels and cradling his injured face with one hand. Already she could see a livid bruise standing out across his cheekbone and he winced as his fingers made careful, hesitant contact. "I think I'll take that as a sign that you don't like being tickled," he said wryly, gazing down at her with some amounts of amusement. "You have quite the kick for such a slim girl. If fashion school does not work out for you, perhaps you might consider a career in professional football?"

"Oh my God, Yurik, I'm so sorry. I…I didn't mean to kick you I just…well…reacted. I'm…um…not used to being tickled."

"So I gather," he replied dryly. He dispelled Petra's growing fear that he might suspect something was wrong with how hard she had managed to hit him but chuckling. He shook his head, waving his free hand to pacify her concerns. "Don't worry about it, Renata. I shall simply look on this a glorious battle scar; a badge of honour that I shall wear proudly." He smiled then, lowering himself until Petra had to stare down between her breasts to meet his eye. "But if it's all the same to you I think I will refrain from deliberately seeking out any further such wounds."

The momentary break in the constant stimulation being inflicted upon her helped clear the fog from Petra's mind, allowing her to think clearly for the first time in what was surely days. Yurik's laptop seemed to glow in her eyes and she needed to find some way to distract him long enough to plug Lucretia's device into the back of it. As Yurik began to resume his work upon her body, an idea came to her; a sudden spark of inspiration exploding to life within her mind.

Reaching down with one hand, Petra pressed one fingertip to Yurik's forehead, pushing back gently to lift his face away from the base of her ribcage. She was very much aware of the feel of his fingers sliding back and forth along the crease of her legs, her thighs pulled apart just wide enough so that he could circle his thumbs around to tease the underside of her rear-end while still avoiding all contact with her crotch. "What's wrong?" he asked, blinking in confusion.

"Nothing is wrong," Petra replied in soft whisper. She gave him her best seductive smile and watched as his breath quickened noticeably. "I just thought of something to replace the tickling with, is all."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

Now Petra's seductive smile turned to one of playfully devilish, mischievousness. "You wouldn't happen to have any whip cream, do you? The kind in the can?"

A knowing smile slowly broadened across Yurik's face and he chuckled; a low, husky growl emerging from deep in his throat. He pulled back, climbing up to his feet. "I do believe I might. Don't move an inch; I'll be right back." Almost like a little kid, he scampered to the door. Stopping on the threshold, he stopped to turn back, his eyes sliding over her sweat-slicked body. A shudder seemed to pass through him and it was as if he had to physically tear himself away from the sight of her in order to finally leave.

Petra waited only until he was out of sight before springing into motion. She was on her feet and digging into her purse in a flash. Finding the flash drive, she darted over to the laptop and, fishing about for an empty USB port in the back, plugged it in. There were no flashing lights or electronic beeps to signal that the things was working, so Petra had to leave it up to faith and trust that it was doing what Lucy had said it was supposed to do. Fortune seemed to finally be smiling upon her, as Yurik's shirt had landed atop the laptop when he had discarded it. The garment provided the perfect means of concealing the flash drive, which even while plugged into the back, was still rather obvious. Arranging the shirt so that it hid the tiny device, Petra then darted back to the bed and withdrew the thumb-thick auto injector. Stuffing the plastic-wrapped syringe underneath the pillow, she clambered back onto the bed and arranged herself just as she had been before Yurik left.

She wasn't a moment too soon either, as Yurik returned only seconds later. He must have leapt down the full flight of stairs and flown back up to have made the trip so quickly. But in his hands he clutched not only a canister of whipped cream, but also a bottle of chocolate sauce and a jar of maraschino cherries. "I got down there and inspiration struck me," he said in response to her slightly wide-eyed look. "Variety is the spice of life, after all. And besides," he added, drawing himself up in a show of mock indignation. "What's the point of having whipped cream without having a cherry on top?"

Giggling gleefully, she arched her leg, waving him over with one bare foot. He happily complied. Setting canister, jar and bottle on the bedside table, Yurik climbed up next to her. Titling her face up, he kissed her passionately, tongue snaking its way inside. He reached behind him blindly to grab the bottle of chocolate sauce. Flicking up the cap, he tipped the bottle over and drizzled an ample amount down the center of Petra's body, stopping to let an extra dollop collect inside her navel. He then eagerly leaned down and began lapping it up, suckling at her skin and spreading small smears of chocolate across her chest and stomach. She giggled as he reached her bellybutton, squirming and laughing as his tongue darted into the tiny hollow and wriggled around.

"H…Hey! That's…no…f-fair," she squealed between giggles, gritting her teeth and digging her fingers into the sheets. "You…you p-promised no more t-tickling!"

"Sorry about that," he said teasingly, not a single trace of remorse present in his voice. He then went back to work, utilizing both chocolate and whipped cream in ample amounts. Petra felt as if he were turning her into his own private ice cream sundae. Fluffy white cones encapsulated her breasts, bright red cherries plunked almost comically on top. Another thick line of whipped cream ran down the length of her body, between her breasts to her navel. A trio of cherries were spaced evenly at the top of her chest, just below her sternum and at the hemline of her panties. Chocolate sauce had been liberally drizzled across the entire confection and she could feel it tickling as it slowly oozed its way down her ribs and the sides of her waist. That familiar fire was beginning to build up within her once more and Petra knew that she would have to act soon; else she ran the risk of once again becoming consumed by her own physical desires.

Starting at her waist, Yurik licked at her body, lapping up the cream and chocolate. As he came to each cherry, he took the stem in his teeth and shifted forward until the tiny red fruit dangled above her lips. Arching herself up, she parted her lips to take the cherry between her own teeth, prying it free and eating it. Sometimes he would pull back, forcing her to arch even further forward to the effort to claim the prize he proffered. Finally he reached the cherry planted just below her collarbone and Petra felt the moment was right. His head was lowered to her chest, his mind completely engrossed in the task at hand. Reaching above her, she grabbed the auto injector. If Yurik heard the click of the plastic cap popping free, then it failed to register in his mind, as he didn't so much as flinch. Not willing to wait one more second, Petra brought the tube down hard, jabbing it into his skin where shoulder met neck. She hit the plunger and heard the hiss as compressed carbon dioxide discharged the chemical payload directly into Yurik's bloodstream.

Letting out a scream that was more from shock than pain, Yurik recoiled, hurling himself off of her as his hand flew to his neck and clapped tight to the pinprick wound. His eyes were wide, disbelief and confusion paramount among the multitude of emotions visible within them. As his mind slowly caught up and processed what had just happened, realizing what she had just done to him, confusion turned to anger and he glared at her accusingly. "What…what did you…?" Already the sedatives were taking effect, his words sluggish and heavily slurred. He stumbled back, slipping and tumbling from the bed to lay splayed out on the floor. He managed to struggle up to his knees and attempted to crawl to the nightstand, no doubt where he kept a gun. With pathetic ease, even without taking her superior strength into account, Petra was able to shove him back.

The cherries capping her breasts fell to the floor as Petra wiped away the remainder of the whipped cream, climbing to her feet to stand before Yurik. Reaching out with both hands, he clawed ineffectually at her ankles, failing to make any impression upon the now focused and deadly-serious cyborg. Her face was cold and impassive, ruthless in it clinical efficiency. She picked him up under the arms and slung him up, onto the bed. His eyes rolled wildly, bloodshot and drooping. Anger and accusation still burned fiercely, but they were slowly fading into the background as his eyes filled with a deep, bitter sadness. She had betrayed him. He had reached out to claim his Goddess and just like Icarus reaching for the sun, he had been burned for his audacity and cast from the skies.

"I'm Sorry Yurik," Petra said quietly, feeling the need for some reason to say something, to offer up some explanation for her actions. "It's nothing personal; it's just my job. If it's any consolation to you, I wasn't lying when I told you I enjoyed myself tonight. I wasn't expecting to, I certainly wasn't planning to, but I really did. It's just too bad that you're a terrorist, because otherwise, I think I could have really liked you." All of this was delivered a cold, dispassionate voice. There was no trace of any emotion at all. Her face might as well have been chiselled from stone for all the expression it gave. His breathing slowed, his eyes slid closed and he slipped into unconsciousness. Petra took a moment to check his pulse to ensure that he really was only unconscious. His heart rate was slow, but steady and strong. He was asleep.

His stable condition confirmed, only then did Petra retrieve her dress. Working the material between her hands, she brought the microphone up to her mouth. Her voice came out loud and clear, the need to whisper secretively now passed. "I have secured both targets. Yurik is sedated and ready for pick up. I repeat, both targets are secure and I am awaiting extraction." Without any way for them to answer to let her know they were coming or how long they would be, Petra had to find some way to pass the time. Instantly she knew what she wanted to do.

Tossing her dress across the end of the bed, Petra padded into the attached, ensuite bathroom. Like the bedroom, Yurik's private bathroom was dripping with masculine styling. The shower was elaborately and expensively tiled in deep, earthy tones, the clear glass doors affording her a perfect view of the seven shower heads. Seven shower heads! There were two one each of the three tiled walls, set one above the other at chest and knee height. The seventh showerhead was mounted in the ceiling, arranged to send water cascading directly down upon the person standing beneath. Petra shook her head in amazement.

With the mission all-but over, the Conditioning was releasing its hold on her mind, allowing her own emotions and personality to completely reassert itself. This proved a double-edged sword; one honed to razor-sharp keenness as, without the comfortable buffer of duty and single-minded focus standing between her and her inner thoughts, all of the feelings she had shoved aside and ignored for the sake of the mission came crashing down upon her. Her knees buckled under the weight of her shame and she collapsed, sobbing piteously, to the floor. Curling up into a tight ball, knees drawn up to her chest, she sat up against the bathroom vanity and wept.

Humiliation, self-loathing and bitter rage swept through her in successive waves, scouring at her soul. How could she have allowed herself to betray Sandro like that? Not only had she allowed Yurik to touch her, to gaze upon her virtually naked body and achieve a level of intimacy with her that no-one else but Sandro was supposed to be permitted, but she had actually enjoyed it! Her body had responded to his expertly experienced hands and mouth and she had wanted more. Body and mind as one had been begging him to send her spiralling over that edge of euphoric ecstasy. Like a drug addict pining for a fix, she had craved that final, ultimate sense of physical fulfillment. If Yurik had not tickled her, had not caused her to accidentally knee him in the face, than nothing would have stopped her from being utterly consumed by lust and desire. Nothing would ever change the fact that, in that final moment before he had stopped, she had wanted him to claim her. To the depths of her soul, she had wanted to be his. He could have done anything he wanted to her body and she would have begged him for more. It was the ultimate betrayal of her feelings for Sandro. She had cheated on him not only physically, but spiritually and emotionally. For the briefest of moments, he had stopped existing for her.

Then there was the rage. How dare he do this to her? This was all Sandro's fault! He had sent her into this, forced her into Yurik's arms with the orders to seduce him. He had to have known, had to have at least suspected that something like this might happen. She was barely nineteen years old, with the sum total of her sexual experiences confined to their stealing kisses in shadowy corners of the agency compound or in empty, unused rooms over the course of more than a year; their slow, tender make-out sessions where Sandro would caress her body lovingly but ultimately stop short, leaving her supremely frustrated and unfulfilled. It had been less than eight months since Sandro had finally broken down and agreed to take her to his bed and share with her the ultimate expression of physical love. None of that had prepared her for the animalistic fury of her own desires that Yurik had been able to unleash within her. And it was all Sandro's fault!

Uncoiling from the floor, Petra hurled herself towards the toilet as her stomach rebelled. Pain exploded inside her skull and she just barely managed to tear the seat up in time to vomit into the bowl. Again and again she heaved, even after there was nothing left to bring up. Almost her entire body was a fiery mass of pain, from her clavicle down to her groin and she groaned, fresh tears coursing down her face. Her stomach felt as it were being torn apart, the muscles of her abdomen and sides throbbing from the convulsive spasms that continued to wrack her. Black flecks floated in her vision from her inability to draw in enough air to breath properly. She had to gasp desperately between each round of vomiting and even then, her lungs were starting to burn from lack of oxygen.

Eventually though, her body calmed, the convulsion easing, the vomiting stopping. Slowly the pain began to fade, until it was just a dull throb that, while it still made her whimper and sniffle, was just barely manageable. Scrubbing the back of her hand across her face to wipe away the tears, Petra slowly clambered up to her feet. She couldn't let Sandro see her like this. It would be just too much for her to bear. It was bad enough that she had betrayed him, and she would carry that shame with her for the rest of her life, but to let him see her in this state, having him know how she was feeling and what it obviously meant…it was too much. She couldn't do that to him.

Padding over to the shower, she peeled out of her panties, which were by this point damp with sweat, saliva and, to her flame-faced mortification, certain other bodily fluids. With a dejected sigh, Petra resigned herself to the fact that she would have to burn the pair once she got back to the agency compound. There was just no way she would ever be able to wear them again without feeling utterly humiliated at her own weakness.

Climbing into the shower, she turned on the water and set it to a temperature that was just a hairsbreadth shy of scalding. She scrubbed madly at her body, desperately working to wash away the feel of Yurik's hands.

Loosing track of time, she didn't know long she spent standing under the blistering spray. She had ended up just standing there, unmoving as the water beat at her. She had adjusted the showerheads so that the six wall-mounted ones thick, pulsing jets meant to massage sore muscles. With the force of the water pressure behind them, the multitude of jet felt like physical blows raining down upon her, like thousands of tiny fists beating at her as felt she deserved.

Shutting off the water, she eventually stepped out feeling marginally refreshed. The agency's Conditioning was ironically coming to her aid once again. She knew that the tactical response teams would be arriving soon and she needed to be ready for their arrival. She fished out a large, fluffy towel from a mahogany cabinet, towelling herself dry before returning to the bedroom. Retrieving and climbing back into her dress, Petra felt for Yurik's pulse once more just to double check that he was still all right. She then silently padded down to the living room to wait.

She hadn't even fully descended the stairs before a heavy knock on the front door alerted her to the teams' presence. Sending up a tiny prayer of thanks that she wouldn't have to spent any more time in Yurik's villa than necessary, she darted to the front door and flung it open.

"Thank God you're here, Yurik is…" she broke off as her eyes focused on the black, gaping maw of a gun barrel pointed directly into her face. Shifting her eyes slightly, she picked out a second gun, further away, also pointed at her. Three men stood at the door, all of them dressed in tight-fitting black clothes. Two of the men, hard-bitten faces fixed in cold scowls, she didn't recognize. The third man, however, hanging further back from the other two, she did recognize. It was the man from the trattoria; the one she had spotted lurking on the edge of the patio pretending to read the newspaper! What was he doing here?

"Who the fuck are you?" one of lead men barked, stepping back slightly to steady his hold on his pistol and gain some room to manoeuvre and react in case she decided to attack. "Where's Balašev?"

"I…I…" Petra stammered weakly, eyes flicking from one man to the other. What the hell was going on? Who were these men?

"I asked you a question," the man barked again, raising the pistol's barrel until it was aimed square between her eyes. At that range, Petra doubted that even her cyborg speed would have saved her a bullet to the skull. Not that there was much chance of a nine millimetre slug penetrating the CFRP lining. The second man, however, was packing what looked to her to be a SPAS-12 shotgun and with the relatively light armouring common to the second generation cyborgs, Petra was fairly confident that a burst of twelve-gauge buckshot fired from less than three feet away would prove more than capable of tearing right through her.

"Y-Yurik is…is asleep," she muttered, adopting an expression of meek submission and wide-eyed terror. "Who…who are you? W-what do you want?"

"We want you to go wake Yurik up," the third man, the man from the restaurant, snapped fiercely. "I have some business to discuss with him." With the shotgun trained on her, Petra allowed herself to be shoved back, into the entrance hall by the man with the pistol. The trio quickly stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind them. Again the man from the restaurant spoke up, pulling a pistol of his own from a holster at his waist. "Now I want to know who the hell you are and what you're doing here."

"I…I'm just…"

The second man, the one holding the shotgun, retorted sharply, his eyes never leaving hers and his hands never wavering by so much as a hair. Petra didn't know who the third man was, but the first two were obviously professionals. "Leave her alone, Antonio. Look at her: she's just some pretty little slut that Balašev picked up at the bar. Who she is isn't important. Now take us to Balašev or I'm going to have to ruin that gorgeous dress your wearing."

Swallowing nervously, Petra nodded and slowly turned her back to the men. The trio followed close behind, though she could sense that the lead man, the one with the pistol, was hanging back a few feet beyond her reach. Yup, definitely pros.

"Check the side room," pistol-man ordered. "She might be lying about Balašev being asleep." Without a word, shotgun-man broke off to check the living room. Now was her chance, with only one of two of them behind her and both only sporting handguns that would be all-but useless against her.

Timing things out, Petra came abreast of a small side table. There was a tall, thin vase of thick, glazed ceramic atop the table, with just a single long-stemmed orchid inside. Moving faster then normal human eyes could process, Petra snapped up the vase and spun around. Her feet were still damp from her shower, providing the perfect lubrication on the tiled floor and accelerating her spin. Arm sweeping up into a horizontal chop, she brought the vase smashing into the lead man's skull. The vase shattered, spilling water all over the floor as the man began to crumple in a heap. Before his legs had more than begun to buckle, however, Petra lashed out with both hands, slamming them into the his chest and shoving him violently backwards, crashing into Antonio and spilling both men to the ground.

Shotgun-man heard the commotion and darted back into the hallway with his SPAS-12 ready. Petra was already moving and she pitched herself into a forward roll, ducking beneath the hot, vicious spray of lead that exploded from the mouth of the shotgun and tore a head-sized hole in the wall. Even encumbered by the floor-length dress, Petra managed to close the distance before shotgun-man had time to ready himself for a second shot and by the time he was, it was too late. Petra slammed her shoulder into his midriff, knocking all of the air from his lungs and causing the shotgun to drop from suddenly nerveless fingers. Snaking her arms around the man's waist she heaved up, picking him completely up off of the ground in a tackle that would have made an NFL linebacker proud. Drywall crumpled as Petra slammed him back, into the wall with bone-crunching force. The man's head rebounded off of a wooden stud, directly into the path of Petra's fist. Again the man's head rebounded off of the stud, now smeared with red and Petra slammed her other fist into the side of his skull, feeling bone shatter and buckle inwards under the force of the blow.

Focus shifting away from the corpse that slumped sideways to the ground, Petra darted back towards the other two men. Pistol-man was out cold from the vase, but Antonio was clambering unsteadily to his feet. Frantically he aimed and squeezed the trigger and Petra felt the sharp bite of the bullet that slammed into her, dead-center on her chest. It would have been an instantly killing blow had she been normal, but normal she was not and the chest cavity was the one place on her second generation cyborg body that was armoured comparably the same to her elder first-gen sisters. The shocked horror that filled Antonio's face as Petra ignored the gunshot wound and kept charging forward was supremely satisfying to her. He barely had time to register the impossibility of what he was seeing before Petra's full-armed punch took him square in the face. Bone shattered to instantaneously pulverized fragments and his face collapsed in on itself. His jaw dropped down to hang loose against his chest, shattered on both sides from the speed and force of the blow.

Her second blow caught him in the sternum, smashing in the ribcage and sending razor-sharp spears of snapped rib bones lancing deep into lungs and heart. That left him staggering, gasping for breath as his mouth filled with blood. He took one step, stumbled and then crumpled to the ground. His eyes were already glazing over in death.

Chest heaving with exertion, adrenaline surging through her veins, Petra stood there for a time just panting and staring at nothing. Then, grabbing the hidden microphone, she screamed into it angrily, "This is Petra to all response teams: where the Hell are you people?"

Sandro was the first one through the door to Yurik's villa, despite the fervent protests of Giorgio and the other Tactical Response team members. Enzo and Lucretia were close on his heels, however, just ahead of the Tactical team, with Michele and Kara bringing up the rear. His handgun was drawn and held at the ready, index finger twitching from pent-up desire to shoot something. Inside, he found the aftermath of Petra's short but brutal and bloody battle with the three men. Two corpses were on the ground, blood and bits of bone splattered all across the floor and walls. A third man was slumped up against the wall; bound hand-and-foot with a thick wad of cloth stuffed into his mouth and tied in place. He was just beginning to stir, wincing at the mind-numbing headache he was undoubtedly feeling. Half-congealed blood made a fan down the side of his head and the whole left half of his face was obscured beneath a massive bruise.

Of his cyborg herself, however, there was no sign and that set a sudden pang of anxiety constricting his chest. "I swear to God Enzo, if she's hurt," he growled, kicking open a door into a formal sitting area that he rapidly swept and instantly dismissed as empty.

"Don't you try to pin this on me, Ricci," Enzo snapped back, his Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun slung loosely across his chest, ready to be snapped up into position at a moment's notice. "How in the Hell can you expect me to have known that was going to happen? Amadeo said that he had taken care of the problem."

Behind the two men, his MP5 swivelling back and forth, Amadeo paused in his methodical sweep of the living room, drawing himself up indignantly to shout back. "Oh, so now it's my fault the senile old bitch actually called the police and had us checked out? To Hell with the both of you!"

"All of you knock it off!" Michele barked in an uncustomarily harsh and commanding tone. "We've been out of contact with Petrushka for nearly an hour and we have no idea what we might be walking into. Those three might have brought friends, after all. Giorgio, take your team and secure the upper level. Amadeo, finish securing the ground floor. Sandro, you go find Petra and make sure she's all right." Everyone began splitting off to accomplish their assigned roles, Sandro nodding in silent, grim-face assent.

Moving deeper into the villa, he called out frantically, darting into the dining room and finding it empty. "Petra? Petra, where are you?"

In the kitchen, he found a heavy oaken door that had been left slightly ajar. Easing it open with the tip of one foot, he peered into the darkness at a set of stairs leading down into the basement. Making his way down the old, creaking steps, he found himself in a large, stone-walled room. Floor-to-ceiling dominated the room, every one packed full of cardboard boxes, wooden crates, glass jars and assorted random pieces of junk scattered all around. Two doors led off from the main chamber, one to utility room, the other to a wine cellar. To his eternal relief, he found Petra in the wine cellar, sitting at a small sampling bar in the corner with a glass of wine in hand. Her legs were crossed casually at the knee, one bare foot idly bobbing up and down. His eyes drank her in, savouring the welcome sight of her alive and unharmed. Well, relatively unharmed. As she turned to face him, he noticed the thick pad of folded-up paper towel taped to the center of her chest. The towelling was stained red.

"Hi Sandro!" she chirped cheerfully, her eyes unfocused and her worlds slightly slurred. Next to her on the counter, an empty bottle of red wine sat beside a second half-empty one. From the fresh look of the tears in the tinfoil wrapping, Sandro guessed that both bottles had been unopened prior to her arrival in the cellar.

Hopping off of the stool, Petra slipped and stumbled, knocking over the empty wine bottle and spilling the remaining contents of her glass. "Oops," she giggled, taking exaggerated care in righting the bottle and setting her glass down. Swaying side-to-side, she staggered over to where Sandro still stood frozen in the doorway. Halfway there, she tripped over the hem of her dress and if he hadn't jumped forward to catch her, she would planted herself face-first into the floor. "The s-stupid f-floor keeps moving on m-me," she muttered darkly, casting an angry glower at the offending tiles. She stomped down, the heel of her foot cracking and shattering the ceramic. "Ha! That'll teach you to try and trip me."

She seemed to come aware of Sandro again, as she gave a surprised start at finding herself in his arms. Her face then lit up into a broad, beauteous smile that made her eyes glow with an inner radiance. "Sandro; there you are! Oh, you have n-no idea how happy I am to…to see you." Closing her eyes, she leaned forward, her mouth seeking his hungrily. Sandro managed to shift her around enough that he was able to hold her at arm's reach. The powerful, cloying reek of alcohol on her breath was almost enough to get him intoxicated off of the vapours alone.

"Jesus Petra, are you drunk?" he exclaimed, being careful not to speak too loudly lest someone else hear them. He doubted that Jean would be happy to learn that one of the agency's cyborgs had gone and gotten herself plastered. For that matter, Chief Lorenzo and Minister Petris likely wouldn't be too pleased either. "What the Hell is wrong with you?"

"Hey!" she snapped angrily, drawing herself up to her full height and fixing him with a fierce, outraged glare. Suddenly she didn't sound or look anywhere near as drunk as she had seemed only a moment ago. There were unshed tears glistening in her eyes and her lower lip trembled slightly. "You have no idea what I had to suffer through tonight. I've earned the right to a little inebriation!" Then she spoiled the moment by bursting out into giggles and slumping up against his chest. "Now come her and kiss me, you pretty, pretty man. And tell me you love me."

"Hey Sandro, did you find Petra? Is everything all right?" The sudden sound of Enzo's voice coming from the top of the stairs and drawing closer had Sandro spinning around in alarm. He couldn't let the other man find Petra like this; he had to protect her. Maybe Sandro could appeal to Enzo's feelings as a fellow handler, but he wasn't willing to risk her wellbeing on that hunch. Moreover, there was no guarantee that Enzo was alone and Sandro was almost certain that any of the TRT members would report her to Jean or Lorenzo.

Acting swiftly, he pried Petra free and gently eased her down to the floor, leaning her up against the wall. He then darted for the door, managing to get halfway across the main basement room before coming to a halt in front of Enzo. As he had suspected, a pair of TRT members were at his back, assault rifles slanted loosely across their chests. Lucretia was at Enzo's side, her own Beretta PM12 submachine gun held at the ready. Her soft blue eyes were swivelling constantly; running a continual sweep of the surrounding area despite the villa's having been secured.

"What's going on?" Sandro asked simply. His voice was calm and neutral, his face a carefully composed mask. Deception was a game that Sandro excelled at above any other and he was plying the full depth of his skills.

Enzo launched into a quick, brief overview of what had happened in the few minutes since Sandro had dashed off in search of his partner. "We found Balašev unconscious, upstairs in his bedroom. We've secured him and his laptop." His eyes darted to the open door to the wine cellar and Sandro felt a nervous prickle between his shoulder blades. "Is Petra in there?"

"Yeah, she is but…" Sandro's mouth squirmed, his eyes shifting in mild embarrassment. "Well…she's having a 'Conditioning' moment. Do think you could give us some privacy while I calm her down?"

Enzo's eyes momentarily widened in surprise and alarm, before settling into a knowing frown of understanding and shared commiseration. "Oh, I see. Yeah, no problem; I'll steer everyone away from here so you two can be alone."

"Thanks," Sandro nodded, swallowing a profound sigh of relief.

"Is Petra okay?" Lucretia asked, pausing in her constant surveillance long enough to fix Sandro with a look that spoke of sympathy and worry for her cyborg-sister.

Smiling down at the much shorter girl, Sandro nodded, giving her a faint smile. "She'll be fine, Lucy. She just needs a few moments to collect herself. Okay?" The girl nodded in mute acceptance of his reassurances, returning to her critical study of the room.

With that, the three men and one cyborg turned around and departed, leaving Sandro standing alone. He could feel beads of sweat sliding down his back and chest and his face was starting to hurt from the effort of holding it still. He quickly turned away and headed back to the wine cellar and his girl.

Petra was still on the floor where he had left her, but she had drawn her legs up and was hugging them tight to her chest. Her head was resting on her knees, shoulders shaking as she sobbed silently into the fabric of her dress. Sandro remembered seeing a coffee maker on the kitchen counter near the sink, the type that used those self-contained packets to make single-cup servings. Practically running back upstairs, he found where Balašev kept the packets and popped one in, searching around in the cupboard for a mug. It was only a few seconds before the machine groaned, hissed and spat out a stream of dark, aromatic French roast that Sandro carried back down to Petra.

Easing himself down next to her, he wrapped one arm around her shoulders and just held her. He said nothing, did nothing, just held her silently while she cried. When she was ready, she would open up. He was content to wait.

"I'm s-so s-sorry S-Sandro," Petra sniffed, not lifting her face from her knees. "I tried s-so h-hard, but it was j-just t-too much f-for me. I didn't w-want to, you've got to b-believe me, I swear I d-didn't but it just…"

"Petra stop," Sandro said, cutting her off in mid-stream. She looked up at him, her face puffy and swollen from crying. Her cheeks and chin glistened with tears and her eyes held a look of such unbridled desperation, fear and sadness that it very nearly crushed his heart inside his chest. "I don't care. I don't care what you felt or what you thought or what you did; none of it matters. The only thing that's important is that I love you and I know that you love me." He was lying through his teeth, but letting her know that would have been beyond pointless. In truth, Sandro was furious. If his suspicions were correct, and he was one of the best judges of character probably in the world, then what Balašev had done to her, made her think and feel…

Petra was silent for a long time, so long that Sandro began to wonder if she had even heard him. He was about to open his mouth and ask if she was all right when she spoke, her voice a soft whisper, barely audible. "Tell me you love me."

"I just did," Sandro replied lightly, giving her shoulders a squeeze and smiling down at her.

"Then tell me again."

Leaning in, Sandro kissed her. It wasn't a deep, passionate, forceful kiss of lust and desire, but just a gentle caress of his lips brushing up against hers ever-so-softly; a lover's kiss. "Petra, I love you. I will always love you; no matter what this horrible, filthy, disgusting job may demand of either of us." That was the pure, honest truth.

"You…you really mean that?"

"Yes."

Petra sniffed back her tears, reaching up to wipe at her face. She seemed to visibly brighten and steady herself, some of her normal bubbly exuberance taking hold once more. "Thank you Sandro. I…I really needed to hear that. Is that coffee?"

"It is. You want it?"

"Oh God, yes, please. My head is killing me!" He handed her the cup, which she accepted gratefully into both hands. She took a careful, tentative sip, before proceeding to down the entire contents in four long swallows. "Oh wow, that was so good," she breathed afterwards, resting the empty mug on her knees and leaning her head back against the wall. Sandro couldn't help himself and burst out laughing. After staring at him for several seconds, Petra quickly joined him and soon they were both laughing and shaking, having to hold onto one another for support.

"Hey Sandro?" she asked after their respective chuckles had died down. "Am I drunk?"

"A little bit, yes."

"I thought so," Petra replied in complete seriousness, nodding slowly. "That explains why everything looks so funny and swishy. Am I in trouble then? I don't think I'm allowed to get drunk."

"Don't worry about it; we were listening to what went on in the club and we know you had to…overindulge a bit in order to maintain your cover. We'll just say that you're still drunk from back then. Jean will probably be upset, but he's always upset. Can you walk?"

"I…I think so. Just watch out for the tiles; some of them are mean and try to trip you when you walk. I think I got one of them but I just know that there are others."

Sandro chuckled softly, helping Petra to her feet, keeping his arm wrapped around her for support. "Don't worry Petra; I'll keep an eye out for those evil tripping-tiles." They made their way out of the basement, back up into the kitchen. Slowly and carefully, they picked their way across the room. Petra kept her gaze riveted to the tiled floor, eyes narrowed suspiciously for any sign that one of the tiles was about to jump up and try to grab her by the foot and trip her.

"Hey Sandro?" she asked suddenly, once they were out into the hall.

"Hmm?"

"Now that the mission is over, do we have to head back to Rome right away?"

"Not necessarily," Sandro replied carefully, glancing sideways at her. She wasn't looking at him, instead staring far away, off into space. "There are probably a few things that will need to be taken care of and wrapped up before we pack everything up and leave. Why?"

"No reason," she said, shrugging her shoulders dismissively. "I was just wondering if we could still go back to the apartment before we left."

"Of course we can. We have to. We've both still got all of our things there that we need to pack up, remember?"

"Oh yeah, that's right." Petra's airy exclamation of dawning realization and wonder made Sandro chuckle wryly. She was definitely still drunk. "I forgot. That's good then; I really wanted to go back to the apartment first."

"And why's that?"

"Why? Because I've spent the past eight hours flirting with some smelly Albanian arms dealer, who spent the past eight hours flirting with me and we were both trying to seduce each other, only I did a better job of it. Then he started kissing me and touching me and making me feel all funny, only he wasn't you and I like it when you make me feel all funny but he wasn't you so I didn't like it."

"Ah, I believe I see where this conversation is going," Sandro said. He leaned in close so that he could whisper into her ear. "Yes Petra, we can go back to the apartment and I would be delighted to make you feel as funny as you like."

"Oh good," she giggled playfully. She then turned a suddenly serious look on him, making him slow his pace and frown in concern. "There's just one thing you have to make real certain of, okay?"

"Okay, what is it?"

Petra bit her lips, shifting her eyes back and forth as if searching out secret listeners hiding in the shadows. "You have to make sure that you don't…tickle me." Sandro's jaw dropped open, sudden shock making him blurt out a strangled "what?" in incredulous confusion.

"No," she cried, eyes wide with alarm. Her expression was one of complete earnestness and grim determination. "I mean it Sandro. You have to make certain that you don't tickle me. Otherwise, I might accidentally kick you in the head. And with my strength, I could break your face."

Members of Ferro's cleaning crew glanced up in alarm at the sudden, booming sound of Sandro's surprised laughter, quickly resuming their work. Amadeo strode over to see what was going on, but the other man quickly waved him away. Sandro lowered his voice, pitching it to ensure that only Petra heard him. "Okay Petra, I'll make sure that I don't tickle you. Happy?"

"Yes!" she chirped. A sudden spring entered her step and she happily strode along beside him.

Every eye in the villa suddenly snapped towards the pair, the faces of cleaning crew and Tactical team members alike fixed in stern disgust and disapproval as Petra cried out cheerfully, "Now let's go home and have sex!"