It’s easier than it should be. The Chief of Police -- she’s not nearly as well guarded as one would think. It draws a smile to her lips, that ever-present glint in her eye seemingly brighter as she waits in silence, shrouded in shadows. There’s a lit cigarette balanced between two fingers. She hasn’t smoked in years. But as she taps it quickly, watches sparks of ash float to the ground, she relishes in the high it gives her. Red lips wrap around the bud as her eyes watch every movement made, and she scowls.
They’ll die. Every last one of them, as far as she’s concerned. Oh, sure -- Ethan Holmes had been of some use and he’s unfortunately connected to her through Ben ( though the bastard may not know so ), but his colleagues are starting to get on her nerves, and her shooting had only tipped the scale towards their imminent deaths. Their Chief had signed their names in blood and, were Natasha to survive the night ( in which Rebecca can only laugh ), they should consider mutiny.
When she looks up, it’s to the very woman she seeks emerging from the station. Her eyes darken and she pushes away from the wall she’d been leaning against, cigarette dropping to the pavement where she leaves it lit. Stepping forward, the streetlight shines and she watches from across the street as Natasha looks her way. Staring for a long moment, an eventual smile curves The Red Queen’s blood painted lips. It’s coy, and malicious, and she nearly allows laughter to break before she simply cocks her head to the side, and turns on her heel. She strides down the path with her back to the bitch, her hands itching to wrap around her throat, before she disappears around a corner, and comes to stand in an alley not far from The Chief’s workplace, where she moves to lean against another wall, and she admires her nails.