agents move about silently, collecting the evidence. They work
around the twosome locked in a farcical standoff in the middle of the
room. The smaller woman (buttons halfway undone, skirt hiked up one
bare thigh) pinning the other in the sights of her ridiculously large
firearm. The darker woman, her own arm extended, points an expensive
Italian leather shoe at her assailant in defense and accusation.
The agents pick through glass vials and small plastic bags. The
faint smell of latex and talc mixes with the sweet burn of weed and
the thick scent of sex. They avert their gazes from the flushed skin
exposed as the gun is shifted into a two-handed grip. Those slower
to look away catch a glimpse of surgical tape and the discreet
outline of a surveillance mic wrapped tightly under her breasts.
If they wonder why the auburn-haired agent let it progress so far,
they do not say.
* * *
* * *