Interlude: She Who Hunts Monsters

Gertrude took a languid sip of her gin, the ice cubes clinking softly against the glass as she leaned back in the plush recliner of the private jet. The low hum of the engines was a comforting constant, a white noise that helped her focus on the task ahead—or at least, avoid thinking about the absurdity of being pulled away from Chuck's birthday party for another clandestine operation. The fact that she agreed at all was a testament to how lucrative this particular job was. For Gertrude, as long as the paycheck was substantial and the mission legitimate, she rarely asked too many questions.

Across from her sat two men with noticeably different dispositions. Mark, the Interpol liaison, looked tense, his posture rigid as he scanned the tablet in his hands. Meanwhile, Pierre, a high-ranking officer from French Intelligence Services, exuded the kind of calm confidence only decades in espionage could grant. His tailored suit was unwrinkled despite the hours they'd been airborne, and his dark eyes sparkled with intrigue.

"Thank you once again for coming on such short notice, Ms. Verbanski," Pierre said with a gracious nod, his French accent lending a polished air to his words. "Your reputation precedes you, as always."

Gertrude tilted her head slightly, a wry smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "No need to butter me up, Pierre. I'm here because you wired me twenty-five percent upfront. Sentiment doesn't pay the bills. And, if I'm being honest, leaving my favorite student's birthday party wasn't exactly part of my plan tonight."

Pierre arched an eyebrow at her statement, his curiosity piqued. "Your favorite student? He must be quite the up-and-coming agent in your country."

Gertrude's smirk deepened, and she swirled the remaining gin in her glass lazily. "Ah, quite the opposite. He'd make a terrible spy—too honest, too obvious. But," she paused, the slightest hint of warmth creeping into her voice, "he's got a mind like no other. Knows gadgets and technology like the back of his hand. He's the kind of guy you can't help but keep around. Like a stray you find on the side of the road and decide to bring home."

Pierre chuckled softly, amused by the uncharacteristic affection in her voice. "He must be quite the man, to earn such high praise from you."

Mark, however, seemed less entertained. "You do realize," he interjected, his tone clipped, "no outside contact is allowed during this mission. Security protocol requires complete radio silence."

Gertrude's eyes narrowed, her smirk vanishing as she leaned forward, her voice dropping an octave. "Easy there, big guy," she said, her tone laced with warning. "You're my client, not my boss. Let's not get confused about who's calling the shots here."

Mark flinched slightly under her gaze, but Pierre raised a hand, his expression diplomatic. "Now, now," he said smoothly, "let's not let protocol ruin the camaraderie, shall we? After all, we have a long night ahead, and I'm certain Ms. Verbanski's expertise will be invaluable."

Gertrude leaned back again, her smirk returning as she took another sip of her gin. "You're damn right it will be. Now," she said, her eyes gleaming with interest, "why don't you tell me exactly what mess you've dragged me into this time? Because I'm not here to exchange pleasantries."

" Does the name Victor Federov rings a bell Miss Verbanski?" Mark asked in a pointed tone.

Mark's question hung in the air like a lit fuse, and Gertrude's frown deepened as she set her glass down with a deliberate clink. She crossed her legs, the smirk slipping from her face as her sharp green eyes locked onto Mark's. "Victor Federov," she said slowly, the name rolling off her tongue like a curse. "Now there's a name I thought I wouldn't hear again."

Pierre and Mark exchanged a glance, one of them hesitating to break the silence. It was Pierre who finally leaned forward, his voice low and measured. "So you do know him, then?"

Gertrude's gaze didn't waver, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Yeah, I certainly do," she replied, her tone flat. "Russian oligarch, one of the wealthiest and most dangerous men in Eastern Europe. Ties to the mob, arms dealing, money laundering—your basic criminal starter pack. Oh, and let's not forget that little plot to overthrow Parliament. A busy man."

Mark adjusted his tie, his expression stiff. "And… you were acquainted with him personally?"

Gertrude's laugh was cold, the sound devoid of humor. "'Acquainted' is putting it mildly. We were an item back when I was in the KGB." She shrugged, as if discussing an old high school boyfriend rather than one of the world's most notorious criminals. "Long before he climbed the ladder to oligarch status. Back then, he was just a talented operative with big ambitions and a bigger ego."

Pierre raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "And what ended your… association?"

Gertrude's gaze flicked to him, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Oh, you know how it goes. I got tired of his power plays and his tendency to see people as pawns on a chessboard. Plus, it's hard to maintain a relationship when your boyfriend thinks betrayal is a viable love language."

She leaned back in her seat, swirling her glass of gin thoughtfully. "To be fair, I've never been great at picking boyfriends. Not in Russia, not in the NSA. My track record is… colorful, to say the least." Her smirk twisted into something more self-deprecating. "Although, if we're grading on a curve, my favorite student is probably the closest thing to a decent guy I've ever met. Not that it matters. He'd probably be too freaked out by the idea of having any fun with me, though I wouldn't mind." She waved the thought away with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "But that's beside the point. The real issue is Federov knows this face too well. If he sees me, it's game over."

Pierre tilted his head, a thoughtful gleam in his eye as he studied her. "And if he didn't recognize the face?"

Gertrude raised an eyebrow. "What are you getting at?"

Pierre's expression shifted into a confident grin. "What if we… took your face off?"

Gertrude froze, her hand tightening around the glass as she glared at him. "Excuse me?" she said slowly, her tone cold enough to freeze the air between them.

Pierre didn't flinch, his grin widening as he leaned forward. "There was an agent in French Intelligence who passed away a few years ago. Tragic, really—car accident while on assignment. But she happened to share your facial structure and bone structure almost exactly. With the right surgical procedures, we could give you her face. Federov wouldn't recognize you. It would give you the upper hand."

Gertrude blinked, her jaw tightening as she processed his words. "You're suggesting I let some surgeons play Dr. Frankenstein with my face?" Her voice was calm, but there was a dangerous edge to it, like the calm before a storm. "Have you completely lost your mind?"

Pierre's smile didn't waver, though Mark shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's not as invasive as you think," Pierre said smoothly. "The technology is cutting-edge. Minimal recovery time. And the benefits are clear—you'd be unrecognizable to Federov and his men. You'd have complete anonymity."

Gertrude set her glass down with a deliberate clink, leaning forward so that Pierre could see the fire in her eyes. "Let me get this straight. You want me to go under the knife, change my entire face, and become someone else just to fix your screw-up?" She leaned back, crossing her arms. "Not happening."

Pierre's grin faltered slightly, but he held his ground. "Miss Verbanski, I understand your hesitations. But you must see the strategic value in this. Federov knows you too well—your appearance, your mannerisms. This is the only way to ensure success."

Mark cleared his throat, his voice hesitant. "It would only be temporary, Miss Verbanski. Once the mission is complete, you could—"

"Don't," Gertrude interrupted, holding up a hand to silence him. "Don't even try to sell me on the idea of 'temporary.' I know how these things work. You say it's reversible, but the moment I agree, it's out of my hands. And frankly, I like my face the way it is."

Pierre sighed, leaning back in his chair. "You're being short-sighted. This isn't about vanity; it's about survival. If Federov sees you—"

Mark, who had been silent for most of the exchange, suddenly leaned forward, his hands clasped tightly on the table between them. His expression was a careful mix of desperation and calculated persuasion. "We are willing," he said, his voice steady but firm, "to add a few zeros to your consultation charges. Consider it hazard pay for the procedure."

Gertrude tilted her head, her sharp green eyes narrowing as she studied him. The fiery indignation in her gaze dulled slightly, replaced by a flicker of curiosity. "How many zeros are we talking about, exactly?" she asked, her tone as casual as if they were discussing a car lease instead of surgically altering her face.

Pierre shot Mark a surprised look, but the liaison pressed on, clearly sensing an opening. "We're authorized to offer an additional 1.5 million for the operation and the mission combined." His voice carried a note of triumph, as though he were confident this offer would close the deal.

Gertrude raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking into a small, almost amused smile. "1.5 million, huh? That's a lot of gin and vacations," she said, leaning back in her chair. She took a leisurely sip from her glass, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably before setting it down. "But I don't think you understand something, gentlemen."

Pierre and Mark exchanged wary glances, the air between them tense.

"See," Gertrude continued, her voice dropping into something lower, more menacing, "this isn't about the money. I don't need you to pad my bank account to make me feel better about my job. I'm already the best at what I do—and I charge accordingly." She leaned forward, her gaze locking onto Mark's like a laser. "You're not just asking me to risk my life, which I'm used to. You're asking me to give up my identity. My face. The thing that makes me me. Do you know how much that's worth?"

Mark opened his mouth to respond, but Pierre held up a hand, silencing him. "And what, precisely, would make it worth your while, Miss Verbanski?" Pierre asked, his voice calm but laced with curiosity. "If not the money, then what?"

Gertrude's smirk deepened, though her piercing green eyes remained as cold as ice. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the table as she spoke, her voice calm but laced with steel. "Leverage, connections, influence," she said, the words rolling off her tongue with deliberate precision. "And preferential treatment over my... fellow contractors."

Mark visibly tensed at her words, his brow furrowing as he exchanged a quick glance with Pierre. The Frenchman, however, remained unfazed, his expression shifting only slightly to one of mild amusement. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

"Preferential treatment, you say?" Pierre's tone was light, almost playful, but there was a sharpness to his gaze as he studied her. "You'll need to be more specific, Miss Verbanski. What exactly are you asking for?"

Gertrude tilted her head, her smirk curling into something more predatory. "Let's not play coy, Pierre. You and I both know how this game works. Contracts, alliances, resource allocation—it's all about who gets to the top of the food chain. I'm not interested in being just another name on your Rolodex. You want me to go under the knife and risk everything for this mission? Fine. But I expect to be at the top of your priority list from now on."

Mark's lips thinned, his discomfort evident as he shifted in his seat. "That's… highly irregular," he said, his voice tight. "We have protocols for a reason, Miss Verbanski. Granting you preferential treatment would create complications with our other operatives and contractors—"

"Then maybe you should hire someone else," Gertrude cut in smoothly, her gaze snapping to him like a whip. "Oh wait, you can't. Because none of your other operatives have the skills—or the nerve—to do what you're asking me to do." She leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. "So spare me the lecture on protocols. This isn't about fairness; it's about results. And if you want results, you'll give me what I'm asking for."

Pierre's lips twitched in what might have been a smile, though his eyes remained sharp. "And what would this preferential treatment entail, exactly?" he asked, his tone measured. "What are you hoping to gain?"

Gertrude shrugged, her demeanor as casual as if they were discussing dinner reservations. "Priority access to classified intel. First pick of high-profile missions. Direct communication with decision-makers—no middlemen slowing me down. And," she added, her smirk returning with a wicked edge, "a say in how the spoils are divided when we're done. I don't just want to be a tool in your arsenal, Pierre. I want a seat at the table."

Mark opened his mouth to protest again, but Pierre silenced him with a raised hand. He regarded Gertrude for a long moment, his dark eyes assessing her with a mixture of respect and wariness. Finally, he nodded slowly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Ambitious," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine admiration. "But then, I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Miss Verbanski. Very well. I believe we can accommodate your… terms, provided you deliver on your end of the bargain."

Mark looked as though he wanted to argue, but Pierre's tone left no room for debate. Gertrude's smirk widened slightly, satisfaction glinting in her eyes.

"Good," she said, leaning back in her chair. "Then we have an understanding."

"Indeed," Pierre replied, his gaze steady. "But let me be clear, Miss Verbanski—this arrangement is contingent on your success. If you fail, all bets are off."

"Fair enough," Gertrude said with a casual shrug. "But let me be clear, Pierre—failure isn't in my vocabulary."

Pierre chuckled softly, though there was an edge to his laughter. "Then I suppose we'll see just how fluent you are in success, won't we?"

Gertrude raised her empty glass in a mock toast, her smirk firmly in place. "Cheers to that. Now, let's get on with it. Time's wasting, and I've got a rogue oligarch to deal with."

Pierre nodded, his expression inscrutable as he reached for his tablet to begin outlining the mission parameters. Mark, still visibly uneasy, muttered something under his breath before turning his attention to his own device.

As the jet hummed steadily toward its destination, Gertrude allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction. She had pushed the envelope, demanded more than most would dare—and she had come out on top. Now all she had to do was make good on her promises.

And if there was one thing Gertrude Verbanski never did, it was disappoint.

The steady hum of the jet engines filled the cabin, a constant reminder of the mission ahead, but Gertrude's mind wandered to the photo in her hand. It was old, edges frayed and slightly torn, but she couldn't bring herself to let it go. The image was of a boy, barely sixteen or seventeen, his face lit with an innocent smile that tugged at something deep inside her. Sasha Verbanski. Her brother.

She traced her fingers over the faded picture, her sharp green eyes softening as memories surfaced—some sweet, most bitter. Sasha had been everything she wasn't: kind, trusting, and full of dreams that didn't involve espionage or violence. He had loved books and numbers, spending hours buried in equations and theories. His greatest dream had been to become a teacher, to share his love of knowledge with others.

But their father, a staunch nationalist and high-ranking KGB officer, had other plans. He saw emotions like kindness and trust as weaknesses, traits unbecoming of the Verbanski name. He had thrust Sasha into the crucible of the special forces, demanding that he "man up" and uphold the family's legacy. The pressure had been relentless, unyielding. Their father had turned Gertrude into one of the world's most lethal operatives by the age of fifteen, and he had expected nothing less from Sasha.

But Sasha wasn't like her. He wasn't built for a life of shadows and blood. He was too pure, too untainted by the darkness their father reveled in. Gertrude had tried to protect him, but it hadn't been enough. The weight of their father's expectations had crushed him, and one day, Sasha simply… disappeared.

She had found him hours later in their childhood room, the quiet boy who loved science and math now lifeless. That was the day Gertrude snapped. She had packed her things and left the KGB, defecting to the United States in search of something—anything—different. She eventually joined the NSA, hoping it would be the fresh start she desperately needed.

But the NSA had been no sanctuary. It was the same beast, just wearing a different mask. If the KGB had its brutal initiation rites, the NSA had the Red Test—a cold, dehumanizing system that turned people into tools, just like her father. Operatives were taught to see themselves as nothing more than bullets, fired wherever their handlers deemed necessary. Gertrude refused to be anyone's tool. She would be the one pulling the trigger, not the weapon itself.

Leaving the NSA hadn't been easy. It meant cutting ties with everything, including the one man who had ever truly matched her. Her partner—her lover—had been her equal in every sense. Together, they had been unstoppable, their chemistry in the field matched only by their intensity behind closed doors. But he, too, was a fanatic, driven by blind loyalty to a system she could no longer stomach. In him, she saw shades of her father, and that was something she could never reconcile.

And then there was Chuck.

Perhaps that's why she had taken him on as her "student," despite his complete lack of spy instincts. He was pure, almost painfully so, a man whose soul reminded her of Sasha's. Teaching him, guiding him, felt like redemption—a chance to save someone when she had failed to save her brother. And maybe that was why she could never say no to Chuck. She couldn't bear to let him down, not when he represented everything she had lost.

Gertrude shook her head, forcing the thoughts away. Now wasn't the time to dwell on the past. Her mission was clear: Victor Federov, a monster from her past, needed to be neutralized. She tucked the photo back into her jacket, steeling herself for what was to come.

Her focus was interrupted by the sudden vibration of her phone. Frowning, she pulled it out of her purse and glanced at the screen. Sarah Walker. Gertrude raised an eyebrow, surprised. It wasn't like Sarah to call without good reason.

Before she could answer, Mark's voice cut through the cabin, laced with smug authority. "Miss Verbanski," he said, gesturing toward the phone with a knowing look. "You know the rules. No outside contact allowed. I thought you had already deactivated that number."

Gertrude's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed like she might ignore him entirely. But then she glanced back at the phone, her thumb hesitating over the answer button. Mark wasn't wrong—this mission required her full attention, and Federov wasn't the kind of man who allowed distractions.

With a scowl, she powered down the device and shoved it back into her purse. "Happy now?" she muttered, her tone dripping with disdain.

Mark allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "Victor Federov is an important target, Miss Verbanski. We can't afford any distractions."

Gertrude leaned back in her seat, her fingers curling around the armrests as she glared at him. "Listen, Mark," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "You might be the one funding this little operation, but don't forget who you're talking to. I've taken down men far scarier than Federov without needing some pencil-pusher lecturing me about protocol. So why don't you focus on doing your job, and I'll focus on doing mine?"

Mark paled slightly but said nothing, opting instead to bury his face in his tablet. Pierre, who had been quietly observing the exchange, chuckled softly.

"Still as fiery as ever, I see," he remarked, his tone amused.

Gertrude shot him a look but said nothing, turning her gaze back to the window. The clouds outside seemed endless, stretching into the horizon like an ocean of white. She took a deep breath, centering herself. Whatever Sarah had called about would have to wait. For now, her mind needed to be sharp, her focus unbreakable.

Pierre's chuckle lingered in the cabin, but Gertrude's sharp gaze silenced him before he could push his amusement further. She turned her attention to the window, watching the endless sea of clouds below. The serene view did little to quiet the whirlwind of thoughts in her mind.

Her thoughts drifted to the arrangement she had made with Sarah Walker, entrusting the younger operative with an unspoken task: to look after Chuck. It wasn't an official agreement, nothing formal. It was a quiet understanding between two women who both knew what it was like to live in the shadows. But Sarah—damaged, emotionally restrained, and still wrestling with her past—wasn't exactly the most stable choice for such a responsibility.

There was no denying that Sarah admired Chuck. It was clear in the way she looked at him, the subtle softening of her usually guarded features, and the rare moments of vulnerability she allowed herself in his presence. But admiration wasn't love. And admiration, Gertrude knew, wouldn't be enough to keep someone like Chuck from being blindsided by Sarah's inevitable missteps.

Sarah's emotions were a minefield—volatile, complex, and poorly managed. Years of espionage and betrayal had left their mark, the scars invisible but ever-present. She still carried the wounds of rejection from her former partner, a man she had loved not as a spy but as a woman. That loss had cut deep, leaving her vulnerable in ways she refused to acknowledge. And Chuck? Chuck wasn't the kind of man to play games, much less be someone's emotional Band-Aid.

Gertrude sighed, running a hand through her dark hair as her gaze lingered on the clouds outside the jet's window. Sarah saw Chuck as something better, someone who stood apart from the shadows she'd grown so used to living in. That's why she craved his validation, why she sought out his company with an almost desperate intensity that bordered on dangerous. It wasn't just attraction or respect—it was a need. A need to remember what it felt like to be cared for genuinely, deeply, without ulterior motives.

But Sarah would want that care on her terms. She would cling to Chuck for comfort, allow him to touch her, to be close—but never too close. She'd never let herself feel too much. It was the classic spy's coping mechanism: intimacy without vulnerability, affection without true connection. It was how people in their line of work survived without losing themselves entirely.

"Maybe I made a mistake," Gertrude sighed to herself inwardly, her gaze unfocused. She could imagine Chuck cursing her to the heavens right now, questioning why she'd ever think entrusting him with Sarah was a good idea. He had every right to be frustrated. But then again, younglings—no matter how sharp or skilled—were always unknown variables.

Sarah and Chuck were more alike than they realized. Strip away the layers of their different origins, and you had two good, strong, and fundamentally honest kids. Gertrude had seen enough in her line of work to know that kind of decency was rare. Maybe, just maybe, something good might come of their collaboration.

That's why, despite her reservations about Sarah's emotional baggage, Gertrude had entrusted her with Chuck's physical safety. That much, at least, Sarah could handle. Her instincts as an operative were sharp, her dedication unwavering. She would protect Chuck with her life if it came to it. And as for the emotional complexities? Gertrude allowed herself a small, almost imperceptible smile. If there was one thing she knew about Chuck, it was his ability to surprise. He had a way of cutting through the noise, of finding the best in people—even when they couldn't see it themselves. He would make the right choice in the end. He always had, and she believed he always would.

Her mind shifted briefly to herself and her past, drawing comparisons she didn't care to dwell on. Chuck and Sarah weren't her and… him.

The man who had once been her partner in the NSA. The man who prided himself on being the "angel of death." But in the end, he had been nothing more than a bullet, and Gertrude had been the hand that pulled the trigger. That's why she'd left the NSA and left him. His arrogance, his ego, his willingness to sacrifice humanity for efficiency—it had been too much. She didn't regret walking away. Not from him, not from the agency, and not from the life they had tried to force upon her.

Gertrude shook her head sharply, forcing the thoughts away. Now wasn't the time for nostalgia or regret. It was time to focus on the hunt. Her eyes flicked back to Pierre, who had been quietly observing her, his own thoughts a mystery behind his calm expression.

"So," Gertrude said, her voice cutting through the cabin's silence, "mind telling me the name of the poor chap whose face you plan on implanting onto mine?"

Pierre's lips tightened slightly, and for the first time, his easy confidence faltered. "Her name was… Ilsa," he said, his voice quiet, almost reverent. "Ilsa Trinchina."

The name hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Gertrude arched an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "And who was she to you, Pierre?" she asked, her tone cool but edged with genuine interest.

Pierre sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing a hand over his face. "She was one of our best operatives. A woman of unparalleled skill and determination. And… someone I cared for deeply." His voice softened, a rare crack in his professional veneer. "She died three years ago during a mission in Marseille. A car bomb meant for her target. We've never found the person responsible."

Gertrude studied him for a long moment, her sharp gaze dissecting every nuance of his expression. "And you think using her face will honor her memory?" she asked, her tone devoid of judgment but pointed nonetheless.

Pierre's eyes met hers, and for once, there was no humor in his gaze. "I think," he said slowly, "that she would have wanted to serve her country one last time, even in death. This mission is critical, Miss Verbanski. If I thought for a second she would object, I wouldn't suggest it. But I know her. She'd want to be part of this."

Gertrude nodded slowly, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful. "Fair enough," she said quietly. "But let's get one thing straight, Pierre—I'm not Ilsa. I'll do what's necessary to make this mission a success, but don't expect me to carry her legacy. I've got enough ghosts of my own."

Pierre inclined his head, a flicker of understanding passing between them. "Understood."

For a moment, the cabin fell silent again, the hum of the engines the only sound as the three operatives sat in their respective thoughts. Gertrude exhaled, her resolve hardening. Ilsa's face or not, this mission would be hers to win—or hers to fail. And Gertrude Verbanski didn't fail.

"Alright then," she said, breaking the silence with a sharp edge to her voice. "Let's get this show on the road. Tell me more about this plan of yours. If I'm walking into the lion's den, I want every detail."

Pierre nodded, leaning forward to pull up schematics and dossiers on his tablet.

"There is much to discuss, and your surgery is scheduled in Seoul, South Korea, in the next four hours. Time is of the essence, Miss Verbanski."

Gertrude's smirk faltered for the briefest of moments, replaced by a flicker of irritation that she didn't bother to hide. "Four hours," she echoed, her voice flat. "You're not giving me much time to savor the thought of someone slicing up my face, are you?"

Pierre's lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "If it's any consolation," he said, his voice tinged with irony, "the surgeons we've enlisted are the best in the world. Precision, discretion, and efficiency. You'll be in and out before you know it."

Gertrude let out a dry laugh, leaning back in her seat. "Oh, that's comforting," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Nothing like a high-speed face swap to inspire confidence."

Mark, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally cleared his throat, his discomfort evident. "Miss Verbanski," he began, his tone firm but uneasy, "I understand this is an… unconventional request, but it's the best way to ensure the mission's success. Federov knows your face. This procedure is the only way to get close without risking immediate exposure."

Gertrude's sharp gaze flicked to Mark, and she tilted her head, studying him like a hawk sizing up its prey. "Spare me the lecture, Mark," she said coolly. "I've been in this business long enough to know the stakes. I agreed to this madness, didn't I?"

Mark swallowed hard, nodding quickly. "Of course. I just… wanted to emphasize the importance of—"

"The importance of me doing my job?" Gertrude cut in, her smirk returning. "I got the memo, thanks."

Pierre chuckled softly, though the sound was more one of amusement at Mark's discomfort than anything else. "I think what Mark is trying to say," he interjected smoothly, "is that we appreciate your… flexibility, Miss Verbanski."

"Flexibility," Gertrude repeated, her tone dry as she crossed her arms. "Interesting choice of words for someone asking me to literally change my face. But sure, let's call it that."

Pierre inclined his head, his expression faintly amused. "Shall we move on to the details, then?" Without waiting for her response, he tapped on his tablet, the screen lighting up with a series of schematics and surveillance images. "The surgery will take place at a secure facility in Seoul. The team is already prepped and waiting. Once the procedure is complete, you'll have a 24-hour recovery period before we move on to the infiltration phase."

"24 hours?" Gertrude raised an eyebrow, her skepticism clear. "You're cutting it a little close, don't you think? I've had sprained ankles that needed longer recovery time."

"The surgeons assure us the process is minimally invasive," Pierre replied, his tone unyielding. "There may be some minor discomfort, but nothing that will compromise your effectiveness in the field."

Gertrude sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Minor discomfort," she muttered. "Spoken like a man who's never had his face surgically altered."

Pierre's fingers moved with practiced ease, swiping across the tablet to reveal a new set of images and documents. He didn't flinch at Gertrude's sarcasm, clearly accustomed to her biting remarks. The air between them crackled with an unspoken tension, but Pierre remained as calm and unyielding as ever.

"Following the procedure," he said, his tone professional, "you'll assume the identity of Ilsa Trinchina, a deceased French operative with direct ties to Federov's inner circle. Her appearance and background make her the perfect cover. Your mission, Miss Verbanski, will be to infiltrate Federov's operations and extract information by making him trust you. By making him fall for you."

Gertrude's sharp gaze flicked up from the tablet screen to meet Pierre's eyes. Her brow furrowed, the air in the cabin suddenly feeling heavier. "Fall for me?" she echoed, her voice laced with disbelief. "What exactly are you asking me to do, Pierre? Seduce the bastard?"

Pierre met her eyes unflinchingly, his expression unwavering. "Exactly," he said simply, his lips curling slightly at the corners. "You will run a fully-fledged honey trap. We need you to get close to him, infiltrate his most trusted circles, and gain his confidence. Use whatever means necessary. The information we need is locked behind layers of distrust and secrecy. He trusts no one—but he will trust you, Miss Verbanski. He always does with women like you."

Gertrude blinked, her lips pressing into a tight line as she processed the gravity of what Pierre had just outlined. "A honey trap?" she repeated, her voice a touch too flat. "That's your plan? You're sending me in to sleep with the target to get the intel?"

Pierre's expression didn't change. "It's not just about seduction, Miss Verbanski. You'll have to be more than a distraction. You need to get under his skin, manipulate him. Gain his trust, make him believe you're more than just a pretty face." He paused, his gaze flicking to Mark briefly before returning to her. "We've done our homework on Federov. He's a man driven by ego and desire. You'll be playing into that. But you can't be sloppy. The moment he catches on that you're using him, the game's over."

Gertrude sat back in her chair, her expression unreadable as she considered the implications of what Pierre was asking her to do. A honey trap was one of the oldest tricks in the book. She had used it herself, a few times, to extract information, to manipulate men into revealing what they didn't want to. But this—this was different. They weren't just asking her to sleep with the target; they were asking her to play the long game, to infiltrate his inner circle, to become part of his world.

The risk was enormous. If she failed, if Federov even suspected she was playing him, she would be exposed—no way to extract herself without the full force of his wrath bearing down on her. But the truth was, she didn't hesitate at the prospect. She was a professional. The stakes didn't scare her; the thought of playing a role like this, of manipulating a man like Federov, was almost second nature.

"So, let me get this straight," Gertrude said slowly, her voice smooth as silk. "You want me to seduce him, gain his trust, get close enough to infiltrate his operation, and then report back. All while pretending to be someone I'm not, someone he'll believe in his bed and by his side." She smiled, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "That's the plan?"

Pierre didn't flinch, the cold professionalism in his eyes never wavering. "That's the plan. And I expect nothing less than perfection, Miss Verbanski."

Gertrude's sharp laugh cut him off, cold and humorless. "A honey trap," she said, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms. "So your grand plan is to turn me into bait? Seduce Federov, make him fall for me, and hope he spills all his dirty secrets in the throes of passion?"

Pierre met her gaze evenly, unflinching. "Precisely."

For a moment, the cabin was silent, the hum of the jet engines the only sound. Gertrude's eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Let me make one thing very clear," she said, her voice low and icy. "I'm not some naive rookie you can dress up and throw to the wolves. I don't do honey traps. If you think I'm going to play femme fatale for your amusement, you've got another thing coming."

"It's not about amusement," Pierre replied, his tone calm but firm. "It's about strategy. Federov is a cautious man, but his weakness for certain types of women is well-documented. Ilsa Trinchina was one such woman—a figure of mystery and allure who disappeared before their relationship could fully develop. Reintroducing her into his life gives us an unprecedented opportunity to exploit his vulnerability."

Gertrude's glare didn't waver. "And if he sees through the ruse? If he realizes I'm not the woman he remembers?"

"That's where your skills come in," Pierre said smoothly. "You're not just any operative, Miss Verbanski. You have the experience, the intellect, and the adaptability to pull this off. Federov won't suspect a thing."

Mark shifted uncomfortably, sensing the tension rising between them. "It's a calculated risk," he offered hesitantly. "But one we believe is worth taking. You'll have support—we won't send you in blind."

"Support," Gertrude repeated, her tone dripping with disdain. "From the same people who think a face transplant and a little black dress are all it takes to bring down one of the most dangerous men in the world?"

Pierre allowed himself a small smile, as though her sarcasm amused him. "You'll have more than that," he said. "You'll have access to advanced surveillance equipment, encrypted communication lines, and a team monitoring your every move. And, of course, you'll have your own expertise. I wouldn't have brought you on board if I didn't believe you could handle this."

Gertrude leaned forward, her eyes blazing. "I'm not questioning whether I can handle it, Pierre. I'm questioning whether it's worth the risk. You're asking me to walk into the lion's den, not just as a spy, but as a woman Federov will obsess over. Do you have any idea what that kind of obsession can lead to?"

Pierre's expression softened slightly, though his resolve didn't waver. "I do," he said quietly. "Which is why I chose you. Because you're the one person I trust to turn his obsession into his downfall."

Gertrude studied him for a long moment, her sharp gaze cutting through the tension like a blade. Finally, she exhaled, leaning back in her seat. "Fine," she said, her voice resigned but firm. "I'll do it. But let's get one thing straight—this is my operation now. You might have hired me, but once I'm in, I call the shots. No micromanaging, no second-guessing. Agreed?"

Pierre inclined his head, his expression calm. "Agreed."

Mark looked as though he wanted to argue but wisely held his tongue. Gertrude smirked, her confidence returning as she picked up Pierre's tablet and began scrolling through the images and documents. "Alright, then," she said. "Let's get this show on the road. If I'm going to play the role of Ilsa Trinchina, I'll need to know everything about her—every detail, every nuance."

"Consider it done," Pierre said, tapping a few commands on his tablet. "You'll have the full dossier within the hour."

"Good," Gertrude said, her smirk sharpening. "Because if I'm going to seduce Federov, I'm going to do it my way. And trust me, gentlemen—he won't know what hit him."

The jet continued its steady course toward Seoul, the hum of the engines a constant backdrop as the vast stretch of ocean and land passed beneath them. The atmosphere inside the cabin had shifted—gone was the light banter, the forced pleasantries. Now, the air was thick with tension, purpose, and quiet anticipation.

Gertrude sat in her seat, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the window, though her mind was elsewhere. In the silent expanse of her thoughts, she was already several steps ahead—strategizing, calculating, dissecting the mission. The transformation that awaited her wasn't just physical; it was psychological. Ilsa Trinchina wasn't just an identity; she was a complete reinvention of herself, a mask to slip into with precision, and it had to be done flawlessly.

If Federov thinks he can outmaneuver me, Gertrude mused inwardly, he's in for a rude awakening.

The smile that tugged at the corners of her lips wasn't one of amusement. It was the calm before the storm—the predator's grin, knowing full well the hunt was about to begin. She could feel the familiar pulse of adrenaline beginning to rise in her veins. This wasn't just a mission. This was personal. This was the hunt.

And when Gertrude Verbanski was on the hunt, the prey was always bound to fall.

She shifted in her seat, the realization settling over her like a mantle. From this moment until the mission's end, Gertrude Verbanski would cease to exist. Her life, her past, every part of the woman she was would be wiped away. For all intents and purposes, Gertrude was dead. The woman who had spent years clawing her way through the shadows, carving a name for herself in the world of espionage, would no longer be.

There would only be Ilsa Trinchina.

The thought was as liberating as it was chilling.

"Miss Verbanski?" Pierre's voice broke through her thoughts. His gaze was piercing, a mixture of concern and curiosity in his eyes. "Are you prepared for what comes next?"

Gertrude looked at him, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in his expression. He was trying to gauge her, to read her—an understandable impulse. She was a weapon, after all, and a good operator was always calculating, always several steps ahead. But the truth was, Pierre didn't understand her. He couldn't. No one did. And that was fine. She didn't need anyone to understand.

"Prepared?" Gertrude repeated the word slowly, her lips curling into a thin, dangerous smile. "I'm more than prepared. I've been preparing for this my entire life."

She stood up, moving with a fluid grace that was almost predatory in its intent. Every motion was calculated, every step deliberate. She crossed the cabin and looked out the window, watching the changing landscape below. "You see, Pierre, the thing about becoming someone else, truly becoming someone else, is that it's not just about changing your appearance. It's about shedding every part of who you were and embracing the role you're meant to play."

Pierre took a small step toward her, his voice lowering slightly. "And Ilsa Trinchina? You think you can just… become her?"

Gertrude's gaze never wavered from the window. Her reflection stared back at her—her own face, but in a moment, it would no longer be hers. The Ilsa she would become was a woman who had never been Gertrude. She would slip into the skin of this new identity like a second skin, effortlessly, without hesitation. "I don't just become her," Gertrude said softly, her voice carrying an edge of finality. "I am her now."

Pierre remained silent for a moment, as if weighing her words. Then, with a quiet sigh, he nodded, accepting the cold certainty in her voice. "I trust you'll do what's necessary," he said.

Gertrude turned to face him now, her eyes flashing with something deeper than mere confidence. "I don't do things out of trust, Pierre," she said sharply. "I do them because it's my job. And if you want to succeed, you'll remember that."

Mark, who had been sitting in the corner, absorbed in his own thoughts, finally spoke up. His voice was quieter now, less brash, tinged with the growing sense of urgency. "We've got a solid plan," he said, his gaze flicking from Gertrude to the tablet in Pierre's hands. "The dossier, the surveillance—we've covered all the angles. We'll be monitoring every move you make."

Gertrude's lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "You can monitor all you want, Mark," she said, her voice low, almost purring. "But the truth is, the only one who can make this work is me."

There was no arrogance in her words. Only the brutal truth. This was her domain. And now, with the skin of Ilsa Trinchina waiting for her, she would make Federov's world fall apart. All she had to do was slip inside.

The tension in the cabin thickened as the flight continued, the clock ticking down to the moment when Gertrude would cease to exist. She stood by the window for a few moments longer, her thoughts drifting back to Chuck. A fleeting thought, but one that lingered. She had entrusted Sarah with him, the way she trusted few people with anything, let alone someone as precious as Chuck. It was a risk, yes. But Gertrude had learned long ago that everything was a risk. Life. Death. Love. The things you cared about.

And right now, her focus was razor-sharp. Chuck was safe. He would be fine.

"And when this is over," Gertrude said quietly to herself, her voice barely a whisper in the quiet cabin, "Federov will never know what hit him."

The transformation would be complete. There would be no trace of Gertrude Verbanski left—just Ilsa Trinchina. And Ilsa, like a shadow in the night, would bring him to his knees.

As the plane descended toward Seoul, the final pieces of her plan fell into place. Everything was set. All she had to do now was make it happen.

The hunt had begun. And Gertrude Verbanski, in all her lethal precision, was no more.

Only Ilsa Trinchina remained.

…XxxxxxX…..xxxxxX….xxxxxxxX …..

So I stop around nearly 7k. I guess it's enough long for a short yet timely update.

It's just an Interlude. We will get back to our main story soon XD