A long day
Myra shut the door behind her, making sure it was locked before flopping down on her couch and kicking off her shoes. It was getting more difficult to slip the agents that followed her, but after the first close call, she'd put in a request for a temporary apartment in the Old Tiger's world where she could PINpoint to, and change. There just wasn't time to get out of her clothes before moving between worlds for her duties. It made it much easier than finding someplace either in her home world, or in his, that was private enough so the out of place styles didn't attract attention.
She never cared if they founder her, and followed her home, so long as whoever tailed her kept at a respectable distance. She could only imagine the reports that were sent in, detailing that her trail had been lost for the entire day, only to be randomly picked up in some little corner store. She made sure they found her, or at least noticed her coming home. It rubbed it in a little, but it also kept them from raiding her apartment while she was in it.
Today she'd appeared again for lunch at home, taking a couple watchers by surprise as they lingered in her hallway. No doubt they'd searched her apartment, possibly even planting listening devices if they were of the unpleasant type. She'd need to make a search before going to bed. The last thing she wanted after a day running around NYC-1986, was just that.
What made it hard, was telling if her trackers were sent by Marquette or the Bureau, or someone that thought they were clever. If one of The Shadow's agents were on the job, they'd be far enough back to watch the watchers, in case she got into a tight spot. And that meant she wouldn't see them. They would be too far around the last corner, or the next shadow back from the clumsy agents set on her trail.
She just wanted to sleep, but if anything like the incident with Zarathos ever happened again, she had to make certain that no device would pick up the conversation. Anything strange would prompt an immediate reaction. A raid, an inquisition, anything unpleasant.
"Ugh, give me a break. I just want to relax." She mumbled in Chinese, something for any translator that might be listening in, to be entertained with for a moment. Finally dragging herself from the couch, Myra shuffled about the entire apartment, checking drawers and cabinets, pulling the radio away from the wall and looking in and under light fixtures. Only the table which the radio sat on, kept by the window for better reception, yielded any result. She noticed that the carpet looked disturbed, and pushed a curtain aside that was between the window, wall and table. With a dejected sigh, she noted the thin wire that ran from the table, into the carpet, and then out again as it laced up to the window sill, and was thin enough to allow the window to close even though the wire ran out by the sill.
Myra retrieved a knife from the kitchen, returning to the window and opening it enough to pull some slack on the wire into the apartment, and then chopping down, slicing it neatly. The wire slid back out, leaving her with the microphone and a few spare feet of wire. Unlacing it from beneath the carpet, she tossed it out onto the fire escape and closed the window, locking it.
"Greaseballs."
She never cared if they founder her, and followed her home, so long as whoever tailed her kept at a respectable distance. She could only imagine the reports that were sent in, detailing that her trail had been lost for the entire day, only to be randomly picked up in some little corner store. She made sure they found her, or at least noticed her coming home. It rubbed it in a little, but it also kept them from raiding her apartment while she was in it.
Today she'd appeared again for lunch at home, taking a couple watchers by surprise as they lingered in her hallway. No doubt they'd searched her apartment, possibly even planting listening devices if they were of the unpleasant type. She'd need to make a search before going to bed. The last thing she wanted after a day running around NYC-1986, was just that.
What made it hard, was telling if her trackers were sent by Marquette or the Bureau, or someone that thought they were clever. If one of The Shadow's agents were on the job, they'd be far enough back to watch the watchers, in case she got into a tight spot. And that meant she wouldn't see them. They would be too far around the last corner, or the next shadow back from the clumsy agents set on her trail.
She just wanted to sleep, but if anything like the incident with Zarathos ever happened again, she had to make certain that no device would pick up the conversation. Anything strange would prompt an immediate reaction. A raid, an inquisition, anything unpleasant.
"Ugh, give me a break. I just want to relax." She mumbled in Chinese, something for any translator that might be listening in, to be entertained with for a moment. Finally dragging herself from the couch, Myra shuffled about the entire apartment, checking drawers and cabinets, pulling the radio away from the wall and looking in and under light fixtures. Only the table which the radio sat on, kept by the window for better reception, yielded any result. She noticed that the carpet looked disturbed, and pushed a curtain aside that was between the window, wall and table. With a dejected sigh, she noted the thin wire that ran from the table, into the carpet, and then out again as it laced up to the window sill, and was thin enough to allow the window to close even though the wire ran out by the sill.
Myra retrieved a knife from the kitchen, returning to the window and opening it enough to pull some slack on the wire into the apartment, and then chopping down, slicing it neatly. The wire slid back out, leaving her with the microphone and a few spare feet of wire. Unlacing it from beneath the carpet, she tossed it out onto the fire escape and closed the window, locking it.
"Greaseballs."