Life Before Project Iceworm - mini mission story continued

Chapter 3

They had Natasha locked in a waiting room guarded by two secret service looking blokes – black sunglasses, earpieces and all.   The two outside didn’t give us a glance but the couple inside stood straighter, trigger fingers twitching.  The room was 1980s drab, with faux steel reception seating bolted to the floor through factory #3345 carpeting.  The rows of matching chair clothe must have been discarded from a local DMV.  Entering the room, to my right, cross-legged atop of an innocuous foam cushion was a figure folded over itself, with hands on the back of the neck and fingers tightly knitted together.  The posture was so twisted and seemingly uncomfortable that I could only assume the figure had to be either a ballet dancer or a yogi.  She lifted her face to us as we got closer and I realized it was the latter – that was a face of a Russian ballerina whose depression is so entrenched that she forgot that she could eat normally now.   Her passport likely said she was 35 or 40 but her resting sad face pushed that number to 60 – in Russian years.  But getting even closer, I saw those cool, steely blue eyes, fierce and determined.  She may be frightened, overwhelmed even, but she knew her endgame.  Before we were nearly upon her, a low growl came from between painted red lips, “Where is my son?”

Having children???

I know, a serious topic for a blog typically dedicated to the erotic.  But hell, you gotta rest once in a while otherwise things get raw and chaff.  Okay, here's the truth, I'm writing between rounds.  I know; I'm such a millennial.