Oh. The title is taken from Histoire Amoureuse des Gaules, Maximes d'Amour by Comte de Bussy-Rabutin. To wit:

"Absence is to love as wind is to fire; It extinguishes the small and kindles the great."

Betsy

**********

We've been watching you for some time and we haven't detected much of an inner life.

The comment still stung. No matter that the extraordinary woman who'd uttered it have been dead by order of her successor for almost six months. The psychic wound inflicted by the coolly measured assessment had yet to heal. Nikita wasn't certain it ever would.

The truth hurts, she told herself flatly as she unzipped the padded carrying case that held her new laptop. Deal with it.

She set the portable computer on the armrest-cum-desktop of her lecture hall seat and switched it on. Then she sat back and waited for it to boot up. She knew, almost to the second, how long the process would take.

Birkoff had bristled with cyber-geek disdain a few days earlier when she'd casually mentioned the model she'd bought.

"Do you have any idea how slow that PC is, Nikita?" he'd asked, glancing up from his ergonomically correct keyboard. "Compared to Section issue--"

"It'll be quicker than taking notes by hand," she'd countered, beginning to regret her offhand remark. "More legible, too."

His eyes had widened behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "Are you talking about writing stuff down? Like, using pens and paper?" He'd shuddered, plainly appalled by the notion. "Do people still do that?"

"Yeah," she'd affirmed dryly. "People still do."

"Ugh."

"You know, Birkoff--" she'd clapped a hand on his shoulder, deliberately invading his space "--I think it's time for me to drag you out of Section again. Take you to a mall or a supermarket. Maybe even a laundromat. You need to get reconnected with the real world."

"I'm as connected as I want to be, thank you very much," he'd retorted, shrugging off her touch and returning his gaze to his keyboard. He'd typed in a long sequence and entered it with a virtuoso's flourish. "Besides. The real world is way overrated. The future's virtual."

"And you're going to be in charge of it, I suppose?"

"Could be." He'd stared intently at his computer screen for several seconds, then typed in another sequence. Once he'd finished inputting, he'd glanced up at her again. His forehead had been furrowed, as though he'd been debating with himself. Finally, he'd cleared his throat and said, "Uh...tell you what, Nikita. Why don't you bring this new clunker of yours in and let me play around with it? I'll do an upgrade. Nothing classified. But I can make the thing faster, expand the memory, give you a voice recognition program...whatever."

She'd hesitated for a moment or two, genuinely touched by the unexpected offer. And undeniably tempted by it as well. To have Birkhoff do a little tinkering on her modest machine...

"Thanks, but no thanks," she'd ultimately said, softening the refusal with an affectionate smile. For better or worse, she was determined to keep her back-to-school experiment as separate from her Section existence as she possibly could. "I think I'll stick with what I have. I don't want to stand out."

"Too bad, Sugar," an immediately identifiable voice growled from a few feet behind her. "Because you were born to attract attention."

Nikita had turned, cocking a hip and instinctively shifting from big-sister to saucy mode. "Hey, Walter."

"Hey, yourself," Section's weapons master and gadget guru had returned with a quick grin. He'd then subjected her to a full-body perusal. His scrutiny had made her pleasantly conscious of the fashionable skimpiness of her burgundy knit top and the spikiness of the heels of her black leather pumps.

"Nice shoes," he'd drawled. "But I'm still trying to figure out how the hell you kept those damned stilettos from catching in the catwalk grid when you went strutting off to see Madeline earlier today."

She'd frowned slightly at this remark. Although she had gone for an evaluation session with Madeline several hours before at Operation's behest, she hadn't noticed Walter lurking anywhere in the vicinity.

"How did you--?"

"I was one level below you and I was lookin' straight up."

**********

One level below her and looking straight--

Nikita had felt herself flush. Oh, God. No more skirts or dresses in Section, she'd instantly decided. Not ever.

"I...see," she'd mumbled.

"Too bad I didn't," Walter had sighed.

"Excuse me?"

"I gave it a good shot, but I couldn't get visual confirmation on your claim that you're a natural blonde."

"She is," Birkoff had interpolated helpfully.

Nikita had whirled back to face him.

"And how would you know?" she'd challenged, incensed. Dumb question, she'd realized a split second later. No. Worse that that. Dumb her for asking it. The answer was sickeningly obvious. Birkoff 'knew' thanks to Section surveillance.

"How do you think I know?" The younger man had seemed unfazed by her outburst. "I have access to your personnel file."

Walter had snorted contemptuously and shaken his head. "Birkoff, if you're still treating everything you find in those files as gospel, you're in need of some really serious help. And speaking of assistance--" He'd fished a silver-colored disk out of the pocket of his battered denim jacket and extended it between two fingers. "You owe me big-time, kid."

"No way!" Birkoff had exclaimed, grasping the proffered item as though it were some kind of holy talisman. "You figured it out?"

"Piece of cake."

"But how? Nobody on my staff could crack it."

"You know that saying, 'You can't teach an old dog new tricks'?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Well, most everybody hears that line as a slam against us mature and distinguished types. What they don't realize is that a lot of 'old dogs' don't need to learn new tricks because the ones we already know work just fine."

"I...don't understand."

"It's all in the memory." Walter had tapped his temple. The small gold loop in his left earlobe had winked in the overhead light. "The key to your little data puzzle had nothing to do with that 'cutting edge' you and those grade schoolers you've got working for you are always yakking about. It's tied to something that happened long before your time. Which, incidentally, is why I don't want you mentioning me when you deliver the intel on this to Operations."

"But--"

"Lips zipped, Birkoff." It had been an order. "My name stays out of this or I trash the information."

"Don't you think Operations will realize--?"

"Hell, yes, he'll 'realize,'" the older man had answered with a touch of asperity. "But realizing and knowing for the record are two different things. Especially around this place."

Birkoff had taken a few moments to digest this very cunical observation, then bobbed his head in acquiescence. "Gotcha."

**********

Plainly considering the matter settled, Walter had returned his attention to Nikita. He'd proceeded to pick up the initial thread of their conversation as though he'd never dropped it.

"So, Sugar," he'd resumed, favoring her with another one of his semi-lecherous smiles. "What's the scene you're so anxious to blend into? I hate to discourage you in advance, but unless it's a convention for beautiful, kick-butt blondes, you're probably going to be s---out of luck."

Nikita had been assailed by a sudden sense of uncertainty. She'd discussed her educational aspirations with Birkoff because she'd need his aid to get through the classroom door. Once he'd accepted that she was serious, he'd given her the help she'd requested without ever inquiring about her underlying motives. Walter, on the other hand...

"Well, uh--" she'd begun awkwardly.

"She's going to college," Birkoff had supplied in a bored tone. "I manufactured some transcripts and test scores--nothing too impressive--so she could get in. She starts next week."

"BIRKOFF!"

The young computer whiz had stared at her, clearly clueless about the reason she was upset. "Now what?" he'd demanded testily.

"Why don't you program it to run as an announcement on the LED read-out at van access? Let everybody in Section know?"

"Well, geez! I didn't realize it was supposed to be some major secret!"

"I came to you in confidence, Seymour," she'd reminded him, struggling against the urge to smack his head. "The same way you came to me when--"

"Since when did I get relegated to the 'everybody' category?" Walter had cut in.

Although he'd given the question a joking spin, Nikita had hurt a hint of hurt lurking beneath the levity. It had pulled her up short. She'd exhaled on a gusty sigh, immediately abandoning her juvenile spat with Birkoff.

"You haven't been relegated to anything, Walter," she'd assured the older man. "As far as I'm concerned, you're one of a kind. The best."

She'd sighed again, searching for the words to explain the nearly inexplicable. "The reason I didn't mention this going to college thing to you is--well, first of all, it's only one class, twice a week. And to tell the truth, I'm not sure I'll be able to go through with it. Committing to do anything on a regular basis is difficult, you know? Plus, I'm not exactly...academically gifted. I didn't even finish high school, for heaven's sake!"

She'd grimaced then, her sense of insecurity escalating. While she knew in her heart of hearts she wasn't stupid, her lack of formal education gnawed at her. Section One had give her a superficial gloss of sophistication. But when all was said and done, she was an ignoramus. Adrian's succinct summntion of her intellectual shallowness had driven that fact home.

"I'll probably flunk out," she'd concluded with a trace of bitterness.

"You're auditing the course, Nikita," Birkoff had reminded her in his snottiest, duh-are-you-an-idiot voice. "You can't flu--"

"Hey!" Walter had given Birkoff a quelling look. Birkoff had rolled his eyes but subsided into silence.

There'd been an awkward pause. Finally, Nikita had heaved a third sigh and murmured, "I'm sorry."

The weapons expert had waved aside her apology. "Forget it, Sugar. I can relate to you being a little shy about sharing. Those of us who have lives outside Section like to keep 'em to ourselves as much as possible. Those who don't..."

Birkoff, who'd shifted back to his computer console, had expelled his breath in an irritated huff at this dig, but wisely refrained from rising to the bait. Aggravated by his lack of discretion though she'd still been, Nikita had felt a flash of compassion for him. While she knew that the younger man had been venturing out of Section for non-Section reasons for sometime, she also knew that his forays were very circumscribed. Almost ritualistic.

Whether Birkoff would ever summon up the psychological strength to leave the high-tech womb in which he'd spent his formative years, she honestly couldn't say. She'd broached the possibility with him a couple of times since Adrian's death. Although he'd dismissed her queries with humorous comments about not wanting to give up his full-time maid service and unlimited access to free food, she'd sensed that contemplating the idea of living outside Section terrified him.

"I'm glad you understand, Walter," Nikita had said, meaning it.

"What can I tell you? 'Understanding' is my middle name."

There'd been a muttered contradiction of this assertion from Birkoff. The older man had magnanimously ignored it.

"So, give me a hint about what subject you're going to be taking," he'd coaxed. "I've learned a little about a whole lot of things over the years. Maybe I could help you with your homework. Do a little...ah...private tutoring."

"Work with me one-on-one, you mean?" Nikita had returned flirtatiously, letting herself ease into the familiar, bantering flow.

"Yeah." Walter had siddled closer to her. He'd lowered his voice suggestively. "It could be a real...educationational experience for both of us. Trust me."

"Mmm." She'd batted her lashes. "I've always heard that two heads are better than one. What do you know about--"

************

"--Philosophy 101, an Introduction to Political Thought," a pleasant baritone voice announced, yanking Nikita back into the present. Its source was a tall, leanly built man who was standing behind a wooden lectern that had been set up in the front of the crowded, multi-tiered lecture hall. "And I'm Dr. Benjamin Aiken."

Benjamin Aiken, Ph.D., appeared to be in his late thirties. His hair was tawny brown and in need of a trim. The lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses reflected the glare from the overhead lights, making it impossible to determine the color of his eyes. His attire was academic casual--corduroy pants, turtleneck, tweed jacket--and seemed a tad big for his rangy frame.

Nikita straightened in her seat, unnerved that she'd been so caught up in her Section-related reverie that she'd failed to register the arrival of her new teacher. Glancing around, she noted that her classmates didn't seem terribly interested in what Dr. Aiken was saying. There was a lot of fidgeting going on, plus a fair amoung of paper shuffling and sotto voce conversing. Several students actually appeared to be napping.

The apparent lack of discipline--or was it just plain disrespect?--irked her. She started to imagine how Operations would react if someone dozed off during a--

Stop it! she ordered herself, clenching her hands. This isn't Section. This isn't a matter of life and death. This isn't even for credit!

"As some of you may know, this core curriculum requirement is sometimes described as an overview of power-tripping through the ages," Aiken continued wryly. The comment provoked a small but appreciative ripple of laughter. Nikita observed that the class started to settle down as the chuckling faded away.

"Which isn't that far off the mark," the lanky professor went on, forking the fingers of his left hand through his hair. He seemed slightly nervous. "Most of what we'll be reading--and discussing--this semester involves power. What it is. What it isn't. Who has it. Who doesn't. How it's handled. Or mishandled, as the case may be. And, of course, we'll reflect on why any of you should give a good goddamn about it in the first place."

"Because you'll screw our GPA's if we don't?" some smart ass in the rear of the hall volunteered, triggering another round of laughter.

Aiken responded to the jibe with a crooked grin. The off-kilter smile was a surprise, given the chiseled symmetry of his features. It seemed to light his pale, rather austere face from within. Nikita sat forward, drawn to the sudden transformation.

"Could be," the philosophy instructor conceded as the giggles and guffaws trailed off. "So, you might want to keep in mind Sir Francis Bacon's assertion: Nam et ipsa scientia potestas est. Which, for those of you who haven't gotten around to learning Latin means: Knowledge is power. Now, Herodotus claimed that the bitterest pain among men is to have much knowledge but no power. As a member of the underpaid, overworked, teaching profession, I tend to think that humankind's real problems arise when there are people with much power but no--

The electronic chirrup of a cell phone interrupted him. It took Nikita a moment to realize that the obnoxious sound had emanated from the pocket of her leather jacket. She'd slid the garment off and slung it over the back of her chair when she'd seated herself.

"Sorry," she apologized to no one in particular as she scrambled for the device. By the time she'd hauled it out and put it to her ear, she felt as though every single person in the lecture hall--including Benjamin Aiken--was glaring at her. Had there been a hole available, she would have crawled in and pulled it shut after her.

You shouldn't have come here, she told herself. You don't belong in this kind of place...

"Yeah," she snarled into the cell phone's mouthpiece. Her heart was thudding.

"Josephine," a seductively accented voice she hadn't heard in nearly five weeks responded.

**********

"Hiya," Walter greeted Nikita a short time later as she approached his weapon-strewn 'office.' "How was school?"

"The first five minutes were just great," she replied, plunking her computer case on top of his worktable. She glanced around, studying the pattern of activity in the portion of the command and control area she could see from where she was standing. A sense of apprehension skittered through her nervous system. She knew Section's rhythms almost as well as she knew her own. Something was...off. "I made a terrific impression on my teacher."

"That's my Sugar," the older man returned, seemingly oblivious to her sarcasm. He turned away from her to consult a computer panel. After a few moments of eyeballing the information on the screen, he shook his head and muttered a profanity.

Nikita craned her neck, trying to get a look at the data that had him so unsettled. The format looked like the logistics log of a mission profile, but she couldn't read what the document said.

"What's going on, Walter?" she asked, fiddling with the zipper of her jacket.

"The balloon went up on the Kirilov mission," Birkoff answered preemptively, materializing to her right. He handed a small, platinum-colored disk to Walter. "Dump what you've got and download this instead."

The older man lifted his brows. "You're telling me he'd already reconfigured the tactical?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus! When did he have the time? He was in transit until an hour ago."

"He worked on the plane, I guess."

"The Kirilov mission?" Nikita repeated, her uneasiness racheting up several degrees. "That was taken off pad last week, right before activation. I heard another agency claimed precedence."

"Well, the other agency screwed the pooch in a major way then held off admitting it for nearly three days," Birkoff declared grimly. "We got a flash overnight. Kirilov went Alpha One about forty minutes ago."

"But Michael called me in," she persisted. "He doesn't have anything to do with Kirilov." Kirilov belonged to an aggressively ambitious Class Four operative named Edgar. She'd worked with him twice during the past half year. Both times on primary, taking point. No great surprise. She'd run point on nearly 70 percent of the assignments she'd been given since her face-off with Operations over the contents of the Gemstone file. While there'd been a discernible easing of the pressure in recent weeks, she didn't think it was going to last. She figured the aim was to lull her into lowering her guard then--blammo! "In fact, the last I heard, he was setting up some kind of operation in--"

"I was. It's finished."

************

Afterward, Nikita realized that she'd started to pivot around before Michael spoke. Her attunement to him was such that she'd...felt...his approach.

"Michael!" she exclaimed, her breath catching briefly at the top of her throat. She tried not to stare, but she couldn't help herself. It had been a long while since she'd had a chance to look--really, truly look--at him.

His short hair was stll something of a shock, she acknowledged. The sudden shearing of his cinnamon-colored locks had been the subject of much discussing in the women's locker room right after it had occurred. The initial reaction had been one of intense dismay. But in a least one gabfest she'd eavesdropped on, this unhappiness had soon given way to a general consensus that Michael's very potent brand of sex appeal was not dependent on the length of his hair.

"It's the voice," she'd overheard one female operative declare.

"And the eyes," another had asserted.

"Don't forget the backside," a third had added with a ribald laugh.

"The equipment in front looks pretty damned impressive, too."

There'd been a chorus of yearning moans, punctuated by several extremely graphic suggestions about how said 'equipment' might best be utilized.

"It's the whole f---ing package," the operative who'd spoken first had summed up.

Nikita's reaction to the new hair style--which was fairly short on the sides but long enough to curl on top--had been mixed. Still was, if truth be told. There were moments when she thought that it made her former trainer look younger. More...accessible. But there were other times when she couldn't help noticing how it accentuated the disciplined strength of his striking features. She also noted that it called attention to the formidable intelligence in his hazel eyes.

She assessed the rest of Michael's appearance swiftly. No obvious injuries, she was relieved to observe. Which didn't mean that she could assume he'd returned from wherever it was he'd been for the past month completely unscathed. She knew from ugly experience that the suavely muscled body beneath the impeccable black garments probably was sporting a new assortment of lacerations and contusions--or worse.

Still. He wasn't on crutches. He wasn't wearing a sling. And there was nothing about his bearing that suggested he might be nursing yet another cracked or broken rib.

He was deeply tanned, lending credence to the rumor that he'd been working in the Middle East. The coppery highlights in his tousled hair suggested prolonged exposure to the sun as well.

He looked thinner, she decided. Harder. More tightly drawn. If he'd been carrying a single superfluous gram of flesh the last time she'd seen him, it was gone.

She shifted her weight, searching Michael's face. His expression was even more impenetrable than usual. But there was something...disturbing...lurking in the depths of his gray-green eyes.

It reminded her of the look she'd glimpsed in her own eyes one morning about four months after Adrian's execution. She'd been on closed-quarters standby following a trio of grueling missions and she'd been roused from a singularly unrestful slumber by a summons from Operations. She'd staggered off her cot, stumbled to the sink in the corner of her room, and begun splashing icy cold water on her face in an effort to revive herself.

At one point, she'd glanced into the small mirror hanging over the sink. She'd been deeply shaken by what she'd seen reflected back at her. She hadn't known until that awful pre-dawn moment how close to the breaking point she'd been driven by Section's relentless demands.

They want you dead, she'd told the pallid woman in the mirror without bothering to specify who "they" were. And before much longer, they're probably going to get their way.

"Edgar's temporarily off active status," Michael informed her evenly. If he was conscious of her scrutiny, he gave no sign of it. He was in full machine mode. Impervious. Untouchable. "The mission's been reassigned to me. Briefing in fifteen minutes." His eyes flicked over her first-day-of-school outfit. "You'll need to change."

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away.

************

Nikita stared after him, stunned.

"Gee, Michael," she finally managed, her voice scratchy with repressed anger. "It's really nice to see you again, too."

"Cut him a little slack, Nikita," Walter advised quietly.

She looked at the weapons chief, her temper breaking into the open. "Why the hell should I--"

"Because you're not the only one who got chained to the goddamned mission treadmil after the episode with Adrian. The big difference is that somebody, for some reason, has decided to give you a reprieve. Michael's still running four minute miles wearing full field gear. And he's doin' it on a very steep incline."

Nikita swallowed hard, taken aback by the emotion in the older man's gravelly voice. This was the first time that anyone in Section had openly referred to the treatment she'd received in the wake of the Adrian affair. It gave her an odd sense of comfort to know that someone had noticed--and evidently had felt concern about--what had been done to her.

As for the issue of how Michael was being used...

Their paths had intersected no more than a dozen times during the past six months. There'd been no shared missions, only brief encounters. A number of them had occurred in the corridor by van access. He'd been departing for a mission as she'd been returning from one--or vice versa. On several occasions, they'd scarcely had time to exchange glances.

That Michael had been driving himself very hard since Adrian's downfall had been plain to her. Indeed, he'd struck her as being even more intensely focused on getting the job done than ever--if such a thing were possible. But she honestly hadn't considered the possibility that the pressures under which he was functioning had anything to do with the ones to which she was being subjected. And it certainly hadn't clicked with her that while she'd apparently been let off the scheduling hook, her one-time mentor was still impaled on it.

Nikita flashed back on the emotionally charged meeting they'd had following her decision not to reveal Section's ends-justify-the-means mode of operating to the world. She remembered how Michael had urged her--one last time--to run for her life. She remembered how she had refused. And she remembered how he'd then embraced and kissed her...

Was he being punished for that unprecedented public display? she asked herself with a pang. By opening himself to her as he'd never done before, had Michael drawn the wrath of those who considered basic human emotions an unacceptable flaw?

"He's getting squeezed by Oversight, too," Birkoff said after a moment.

Nikita's pulse stuttered. "Oversight?"

"Yeah." The younger man's lips twisted as though he was tasting something bitter. "They're after him."

*************

"But...why?"

"His record," Walter said flatly. It was plain that he wasn't happy with the direction the conversation had taken. "Word is, Michael's file was flagged right after he was promoted to Class Three. But I have a hunch they were watching him long before that."

"They're making the approach now because a senior slot in compliance is going to be opening up," Birkoff elaborated. "He'd be a perfect fit."

It took Nikita a few seconds to put the pieces together. The world seemed to lurch once she did. Was it possible--

"Are you saying Oversight is trying to...recruit...Michael?"

Two nods of confirmation.

Nikita blinked rapidly several times, struggling to assimilate the information she'd just received. Her gaze strayed back to the command and control area. She looked up at Operations' glassed-in office. She watched as Michael entered and crossed to where the head of Section One was standing.

There was a conversation. Or, rather, a face-to-face during which a visibly furious Operations reamed out his top op and his top op just took it.

Or...did he? she wondered, gnawing her lower lip. Yes, Michael remained still and silent throughout Operations' tirade. His expression was impassive; his posture, essentially deferential. Yet when Operations finally paused, apparently to suck in enough breath to continue with his excoriation, Michael shifted his stance--very subtly--and said something.

It wasn't much. Five, maybe six, words. Barely a complete sentence. But it shut the older man up more effectively than slapping a length of duct tape over his mouth. After a few seconds, Operations gave a curt nod of dismissal. Michael inclined his head in return, his compelling face still impossible to read. Then he turned and exited the office in a half-dozen gliding strides.

Nikita turned back to Walter and Birkoff. Her throat was dry. Her pulse was hammering. The implications of what she'd just witnessed were unsettling, to put it mildly.

"Has anyone from Section ever gone to Oversight?" she asked.

"Nope," Walter answered unequivocally, loading the disk Birkoff had given him. "But there's a first time for everything. They started rewriting the rules for Michael when he was still in training."

"Does he have a...choice?" She hesitated before uttering the last word. It felt strange on her tongue. She recalled Michael telling her that there was no such thing as free will in Section.

"Absolutely." The older man gave a humorless laugh. "And it's not do or die, either. We're talking strictly voluntary duty."

"You mean--"

"I mean, Oversight puts an offer on the table. Then it's hands off while Michael makes up his mind whether it's what he wants. Nobody--not even Operations--can interfere."

Nikita drew a shaky breath, grappling with the scenario just described.

"What happens if he accepts the offer?" she finally questioned. "If he tells Oversight...yes?"

There was a stark silence. Then:

"Michael gets out of Section," Birkoff stated with devastating simplicity. "He's free."

*************

Operations didn't attend the briefing on the Kirilov mission. While this was not an unprecedented turn of events, it was a significant departure from the norm. But what--if anything--could or should be read into his absence, Nikita didn't know.

She walked into the briefing room a few seconds ahead of the other black-garbed members of the designated mission team. She found Michael and Madeline on the side of the conference table where Operations usually stood. They were engrossed in conversation. Their body language, particularly the positioning of their hands, was almost identical.

Free, she thought, staring at her former mentor. Dear God. He has a chance to be...free.

Michael glanced at her. For one mind-blowing instant, their eyes met and locked. And for that one instant, there was nothing--no one--in the room but the two of them. Nikita checked her step, nearly staggering. Her breath clotted in her chest. Her heart skipped a beat. Maybe two.

Then it was over. Reality reasserted itself. The fantasy of their being alone...together...evaporated.

Michael directed her toward the chair where he normally sat during briefings with a barely perceptible nod of his head. After a fractional hesitation, she acquiesced to his silent instruction. She watched her colleagues as they filed in and seated themselves. If any of them attached any special meaning to her position at the table, they hid it.

There was no fidgeting. No shuffling of papers. And certainly, no snoozing.

This was Section. This was life or death. No credit. Just kill...or be killed.

Madeline clicked on the holographic display. The image of a pasty, dumpling-soft face with piggish eyes materialized above the table. Nikita studied the electronic likeness carefully, experiencing an instinctive sense of revulsion. Whoever the man was, she didn't like him.

"Dr. Leonid Kirilov," Section One's chief strategist said quietly. "Ex-KGB. Conducted extensive 'psychological experimentation' on dissidents incarcerated in various government hospitals. He went freelance following the collapse of the Soviet Union. He's done contract work for a variety of terrorist groups as well as a number of military regimes."

Another click. A new image. Side-by-side pictures of a twenty-something man and woman. Both Asian. Both androgynously attractive. Nikita found them as repellant as Kirilov.

"Reiko and Akira Katamura," Madeline continued, her cultured contralto voice still soft. "Twins. Genius-level IQs. Sociopathic profiles with an incestuous overlay. Through their father, a third-generation yakuza, they became involved in the creation and production of designer narcotics. Following their father's death--he disemboweled himself after ingesting a very powerful hallucinogen--, they dropped out of sight. There were reports, never satisfactorily confirmed, of a connection with the Aum Shinrikyo cult. When they resurfaced, the Katamuras were in the company of Dr. Kirilov."

Another click. The holographic faces gave way to a montage of violent images.

"During the past three months, there have been a series of terrorist incidents in three different countries," the elegant brunette went on. "Modest in scope. No discernible pattern to the target selections. Nothing to attract major media attention. However, all these incidents were carried out by apparently stable individuals with no criminal records. Each resulted in the death of the perpetrator, usually during the commission of the act. In those cases where the suspect didn't die on the scene, he or she committed suicide while in police custody."

A coldly greasy feeling of horror snaked through the pit of Nikita's stomach. Struggling against nausea, she inhaled sharply through her nostrils then slowly released the breath between her clenched teeth. Her mind's eye filled with an almost surrealistic pastiche of visuals, the synaptic residue of the neural-phasing device which had nearly robbed her of her sanity and transformed her into a murderous puppet.

"Brainwashing," she muttered.

*************

"Psycho-pharmaceutical conditioning," Michael specified, speaking for the first time. "In response to these events, Section was directed to carry out a preemptive takedown of Kirilov and the Katamuras. That order was countermanded last week, shortly before execution."

"We were bigfooted by another agency." The statement came from a husky male operative seated two chairs away from Nikita. His name was Weitz and he was a Class Two operative like herself. He'd transferred to Section headquarters from an Eastern European substation about four months before.

Nikita had worked with him several times. She'd found him highly effective in the field. Not a lot of leadership potential, in her opinion, but a damned good person to have covering your butt. Though meticulous on the job, Weitz had a surprisingly easy-going personality.

"Section's scenario was superseded," Michael said, confirming the accuracy of the other man's assertion with characteristic formality. "There was an effort to conduct an intel rollback on the organizations interested in utilizing the services provided by Dr. Kirilov and the Katamuras."

"Unfortunately, this effort was carelessly planned and clumsily carried out," Madeline observed, her contempt for such incompetence almost palpable. "The initial undercover team was hopelessly compromised. A direct action attempt to rectify the situation failed as well and was concealed for several days. Kirilov and the Katamuras are now under the 'protection' of Red Cell. Section's been given the task of mopping up the mess."

"Kirilov and his research are the primary objectives," Michael declared. "His retrieval is imperative. The Katamuras are secondary. Their work can be replicated without them."

"The parameters for their recovery is both or neither," Madeline noted, clasping her slender-fingered hands in front of her. "Their psychological codependence is such that they can't function separately."

"Full sanitation mode," Michael added.

There was a short silence. Nikita could sense her fellow operatives translating their team leader's pristine Sectionese into dirty reality. Kirilov--and, possibly, the Katamuras--aside, no prisoners were to be taken. The site would be destroyed with explosives.

"What about the other agency's operatives?" she asked after a moment. "Are any of them alive?"

Michael glanced at her. Although his expression was essentially impassive, she caught a flash of something in his eyes. Something like...pride, she thought. Pride, edged with relief.

She realized then how revealing her inquiry must have been to him. That she'd survived the rigors of the past six months physically intact, he could judge by looking at her. But to assess the condition of her psyche after all she'd endured...

"Acording to the latest intel, yes," he replied. "Three of them."

"Acceptable collateral?" she pressed, conscious that her tone was colleague-to-colleague, not subordinate-to-superior.

"Not necessarily." It was Madeline who responded. "If they can be salvaged without undue sacrifice, they could prove useful to us."

"The preliminary mission profile is on your panels," Michael concluded, his gaze moving steadily down the line of operatives seated in front of him. Everyone remained absolutely still. "The scenario is in flux. We'll finalize in transit. Walter has the necessary equipment ready for pick-up. Departure in forty-five minutes."

***********

While the other operatives headed off to get their gear, Nikita lingered in the corridor outside the briefing room. Ill-advised though she recognized it probably was, she was hoping for a few minutes with Michael.

Exactly how she'd used those minutes if she got them, she wasn't certain. Maybe she'd attempt to apologize for being so bitterly judgmental about the abruptness of his earlier behavior. Or maybe she'd try to explain that when she'd prodded about the fate of the other agency's people, she hadn't been implying that she believed him indifferent to it.

That she would have assumed him to be essentially uncaring about those three captive souls six months ago was something she couldn't deny. But six months ago, she'd lacked a true basis for comparison. Having spent nearly a half year learning, firsthand, how other team leaders--

Nikita stiffened, realizing that Madeline was exiting the briefing room and heading straight toward her. She disciplined her expression into unreadability and forced herself to meet the other woman's mesmerizing brown gaze.

Section One's second in command had cut her lush mane of mahogany-colored hair shortly after Adrian's cancellation. While the severe style she'd adopted would have been unflattering to many, Nikita had to admit that it suited the elegantly angular structure of Madeline's ivory-skinned face perfectly. The new coiffure also underscored the older woman's innate--if rather perverse--sensuality.

"Waiting for Michael?" Madeline's throaty voice was pleasant, usually a dangerous sign.

Deciding that this was a situation in which the best defense was a good offense, Nikita countered, "Would you have some objection if I were?"

"That depends."

"On?"

Amusement licked around the corners of Madeline's softly-tinted slips. "I think you know the answer to that as well as I do, Nikita. If not better."

The obvious retort--that she thought there was some kind of Section rule against anybody knowing anything better than Madeline--rose to Nikita's lips. She bit it back.

"Could be," she answered sweetly.

Amusement became a provocative smile. The older woman inclined her head as though awarding a point, then resumed walking down the corridor.

Relieved at having made it through the brief tete-a-tete unscathed, Nikita started to turn back toward the briefing room door. She checked herself and reversed the movement when she heard Madeline speak her name.

"Yes?" she inquired, silently rebuking herself for having let down her guard. When would she learn?

"It's a pity this Kirilov mess ruined your first day at college," Madeline commented from a distance of about three yards Her voice was low, but pitched to carry. "I hope you won't be deterred from continuing."

Nikita didn't bother to ask how Madeline knew about her back-to-school effort. Nor did she give in to the urge to protest the lack of privacy that the other woman's comments plainly had been intended to underscore.

"I don't 'deter' easily, Madeline," she stated.

"I'm happy to hear that." The brunette seemed pleased. Whether she actually was, was impossible to say. "I think you'll find political philosophy quite fascinating. Your time in Section has given you extensive exposure to the practical applications of power. Examining the intellectual underpinning of the concept may alter your perspective on some of your experiences."

Bitch, Nikita thought with a sudden surge of venom.

"I'll be sure to let you know if it does," she said aloud.

"No real need." A graceful gesture dismissed the patently insincere promise. "Your mind-set has always been remarkably easy to gauge."

***********

No detectable inner life...

A mind-set that was remarkably easy to gauge...

Damn them, Nikita cursed silently, clenching and unclenching her hands. Damn both of them.

She suddenly recalled an old adage involving something about the apple--or was it the acorn?--not falling far from the tree. Well, in the case of Adrian and Madeline, the tree was twisted and whatever it produced could only be described as--

"Ni-ki-ta?"

She started, turning back toward the door to the briefing room. It seemed that her anger at Madeline--or was it at herself?--had temporarily overridden her usual sensitivity to Michael's proximity.

"Is there a problem?" His gaze was very direct.

She shook her head, conscious of an abrupt acceleration in her pulse. "I was just talking to Madeline."

"I see." He glanced down the corridor, then returned his green-gray eyes to her face. Although the hallway in which they were standing was empty, he probably understood better than she that they were not alone. "You should be prepping for the mission."

"I know that," she immediately conceded. "And I will. But I...well, I was hoping to have a word with you."

Michael's features tightened. Nikita braced herself for one of his "I don't have time for this" responses. Given the circumstances, such a rebuff was warranted.

"About?" he asked after a second or two.

She blinked, astonishment momentarily depriving her of speech. In the midst of this temporary muteness, she suddenly realized something that she'd missed earlier.

Michael was exhausted.

He hid it remarkably well. Which wasn't really a surprise. She knew from firsthand experience that her former trainer had an almost super-human tolerance for abuse--both physical and psychological. But even his ability to endure wasn't limitless.

The signs of an impending breakdown were there if one looked closely enough. Beneath his tan, Michael was very pale. And the unusually rigid set of his shoulders hinted that he was holding himself erect by sheer force of will.

When was the last time he'd had a decent night's sleep? she wondered, biting her lip. No. Forget that. When was the last time he'd been permitted two or three hours of uninterrupted downtime? Could he even remember? Could he tell her the last time he'd been granted the luxury of sitting down and savoring a meal? Or engaged in anything remotely resembling a friendly conversation?

"Nikita?"

The invocation of her name held an equal mix of wariness and warning. It told her that at least some of what she was thinking must be showing on her face. She composed her features as best she could and sought desperately for an impersonal topic. She intuitively understood that any reference to his current condition would run into a stone wall of resistance. For reasons she couldn't explain, her brain suddenly latched onto a phrase Madeline had employed near the close of the briefing.

"What did Madeline mean?" she asked. "During the briefing, when she was talking about the other agency's operatives. Something about...salvaging...them?"

Michael's brows rose a few significant centimeters. "You said you just spoke to her."

Nikita winced inwardly at her blunder. Michael might be half-dead with fatigue, but he remained mentally acute.

"I did," she quickly affirmed. "That particular topic didn't come up."

There was a pause. Finally Michael said, "Kirilov's had them for nearly seventy-two hours. It's unlikely they're still intact."

"So, Section's ready to write them off as damaged goods?"

Michael inhaled sharply. There was a flare of irritated emerald deep in his changeable hazel eyes. "Retrieving them might prove problematic."

It took her a moment to understand what he was implying. The taste of comprehension was bitter on her tongue. She swallowed hard.

"Like...Jenna," she murmured, referring to the Red Cell operative-turned-human bomb she'd delivered into Section's hands.

"Possibly."

"If there was some way to minimize--?" She stopped before she completed the query, recognizing that what she'd been about to suggest was impractical. No. Worse. It was absurd. The operational parameters for the pending mission were very narrow. There'd be no time to assess, much less control, the kind of risk the operatives in question could pose.

"There's no rescue and release scenario, Nikita," Michael said quietly. "Not this time."

**************

She frowned, uncertain what he was trying to communicate. Then she recalled the second part of Madeline's comment about the captured operatives. Her stomach roiled.

"In other words, Section would...exploit...them if we brought them back." She had to force the words out. Her brain supplied the faces of a young prostitute called Danielle and a psychopathic butcher named Gregory Formitz. "Maybe even allow Kirilov to continue..."

Michael said nothing. Neither confirmed, nor denied. He didn't have to.

Nikita shook her head, struggling to shove the images of Danielle and Formitz out of her mind. "A bullet to the brain would be better, Michael," she declared passionately. "Kinder.

"Yes."

She gaped, taken aback by her companion's seeming endorsement of her very un-Section line of reasoning. He met her searching gaze unflinchingly.

He'd already thought it through, she realized, a strange tremor running through her. He'd jumped to the brutal bottom line while she'd still been--

"Is thatwhat you and Operations were arguing about?" she blurted.

Michael blinked, a clear sign that her impulsive question had caught him off guard. And that was yet another indication of how close to the edge he was. A hint of defensiveness entered his stance.

"Operations and I--?"

Nikita felt her cheeks grow warm. She hadn't intended Michael to know what she'd observed. But since she had...

"It was earlier," she said awkwardly. "Before the briefing. I, uh, saw the two of you. Up in his office. You seemed to be--" she gestured, struggling to find the right words "--well, maybe not arguing. But definitely having a very...intense...discussion about something."

Michael's eyes flicked sideways. "That had nothing to do with the disposition of Kirilov's prisoners," he declared after several taut seconds. His expression turned stony.

Nikita judged his answer to be the truth. But not the whole truth.

"Then what--"

She never got the chance to finish the question.

"Michael!" a familiar voice called from somewhere behind her. "Incoming intel. Operations wants you...now."

************

In the highly unlikely event that she ever decided to write a book about her "relationship" with Michael, Nikita knew she'd have to include a chapter entitled And Then Birkoff Interrupted Us. The young computer whiz's timing was uncanny. He had a genius for turning up at precisely the wrong moment. And he seldom seemed to consider the possibility that he might be intruding on something.

It's not as though he does it intentionally, she told herself as she made her way to Walter's work area at a quick-time pace. He's just...single-minded.

Well, she was single-minded, too. And once the Kirilov mission was over, she was going to find out what the subject of Michael's "discussion" with Operations had been.

Could it have been his potential departure to Oversight? she speculated uneasily.

Or, could it have been...her?

"It's about time you showed up, Nikita," Walter growled as she rounded the corner and entered his space. The area was empty except for him and Weitz. "You've got thirty-four minutes 'til mission departure. And trust me, there's no give in the schedule."

She accepted his reproof without protest. "I got hung up after the briefing."

The weapons master eyed her narrowly as he set her gear on the counter. "Michael?"

She nodded, clicking on her panel so she could begin her customary pre-mission routine. "Madeline, too."

"Christ. Lucky you."

"Mmm." She picked up the matte black automatic pistol she'd been given and started to perform a swift but thorough check of its workings.

"I adjusted the action for you. Just a touch."

Nikita went still, glancing at Walter questioningly. She'd said nothing to him about having trouble with her weaponry.

"I reviewed some mission tapes." He shrugged. "I got the feeling it was a hair off."

His manner indicated that this was no big deal, but Nikita knew otherwise.

"I think the problem was with me, not the hardware," she admitted softly, all too aware that she'd been out of synch in recent weeks. While the situation hadn't been serious enough to compromise her performance in the field or be remarked on during debriefings, it had prompted her to intensify her regular regimen of efficiency maintenance sims.

It was strange, she reflected. Paradoxical, to use one of the words she'd picked up as part of her new self-improvement campaign. She'd functioned at peak proficiency during the grueling months following Adrian's death. But as soon as her scheduled had been lightened...

"I'd be glad to adjust you, too, Sugar," Walter drawled, switching into his patented come-on mode. "All you have to do is ask."

"Not beg?" She feigned disbelief.

"Not the first time."

Nikita smiled crookedly. "You're always looking out for me, aren't you, Walter?" Although she tried to keep her tone flirtatious, the gratitude she felt crept in, softening the sassiness of the inquiry.

"What can I say?" The older man's expression told her that he'd understood her unspoken message. "You're easy on the eyes." He nodded toward the burly male operative at the other end of the work table. "Unlike Weitz, there."

"Ugly is as ugly does," Weitz riposted, completing his armaments' assessment. He began to repack his gear with deft expertise.

Walter gave an appreciative chuckle. "Ugly and obsessive-compulsive. I've told you before, Weitz. I go over every single piece of equipment before it's distributed. The way you behave, I'm getting the distinct impression you don't think I know my job."

Weitz lifted his closely shaved head and gave the older man a very level look. "I know you know your job, Walter. I'd trust you with my life when it comes to weapons. But I also know that if God Almighty told me He'd guarantee my gear, I'd still do a pre-mission check."

"Better safe than sorry," Nikita concurred, consulting her panel again. She noted the explosives they'd been issued were a Semtex variant with an incendiary add-on. She grimaced. Apparently blowing the target site to bits wasn't considered adequate 'sanitation.'

"That's one way of putting it," Weitz allowed. "I personally subscribe to the eight p's."

Nikita blinked. Despite her inherent dislike of Section Speak, she made it a point to keep up with the latest jargon. Weitz's reference was unfamiliar.

"And just what are the eight p's?" she asked.

***********

"Proper preparation and prior planning prevent piss-poor performance," Walter explained, preempting the other man. Weitz simply grinned and nodded his agreement.

"Huh." Nikita filed the motto away. While it lacked the intellectual elegance of that nam ipsy science quote from what's-his-name Bacon, she thought it had a certain...appeal.

"Having Michael as primary helps the odds, too," Weitz commented, growing serious. He hefted his equipment and moved down the table. "Especially when we're getting sent in to clean up somebody else's cluster f---. I really hate doing housekeeping for another agency's mess, you know? And if Edgar was still in charge--" a bitter laugh "--well, let's just say you can bet your butt the son of a bitch would max out on the profile's T2C."

"T2C" was shorthand for Team Casualty Count. As Nikita had learned the first time she'd led a mission, every assignment profile included "acceptable" casualty parameters. So long as a team leader kept his or her personnel losses within those limits in the course of achieving closure, operative deaths or injuries weren't likely to be questioned or criticized.

"You've had dealings with Edgar?" she asked, striving for a neutral tone. Her two experiences with the man had been difficult. He seemed to be suffering from a virulently negative form of what she privately referred to as Michael-itis.

Over the years, Nikita had discovered that most people in Section tended to react to Michael in one of three ways. A significant number were intimidated as hell by him. A similar number admired him to the point of hero-workship and sought, at a warily respectful distance, to gain his approval. A small group--all male, as far as she could tell--were obsessively envious of his accomplishments.

She'd been propositioned by several members of this third category during the past six months. The underlying motive of the most recent advance had been so crudely obvious that she'd lost her temper.

After slamming her would-be lover against a wall, she'd grabbed a handful of his not-particularly impressive genitalia through his ill-fitting mission pants. Once she'd assured herself that she had his undivided attention she'd snarled: "Get this through your thick head. f---ing me is not the same as f---ing Michael. You want him, you go after him directly. But just remember something. If you don't take him down permanently on the first try, you're dead. In fact, you're dead even if you do manage to terminate him. Because Michael has friends. And they all have long memories and very nasty imaginations."

Edgar had never made a sexual play for her. No real surprise. He struck her as pretty much of a neuter. But he ha deliberately put her at risk both times she'd been a member of his team. He'd also laced his post-mission assessments of her performance with vicious little digs about the inferior quality of her training.

"Edgar's tapped me for his team about a half-dozen times since my transfer," Weitz answered. "Plus, I was assigned to three of his missions when he was doing detached duty in Eastern Europe."

"And?"

"And, I have a fundamental problem with people who further their careers by covering their asses while sticking mine in the line of fire."

"You don't see Michael doing that?"

The question was from Walter. It surprised Nikita. That the older man's opinion of Michael was extremely complicated, she was well aware. She'd never forgotten him telling her that he honestly didn't know whether Jurgen's one-time trainee qualified for inclusion in the Five Percent Club. But to imply that Michael sought to advance himself at the expense of those who worked under him...

No. No way.

Weitz glanced at her. Something about the expression on his rough-hewn face suggested that he'd heard the gossip about her and Michael. Lord. Maybe he'd even seen the surveillance tape from the Armel mission! Just about everybody else in Section seemed to have gotten a gander at her and Michael "practicing their field mechanics."

After a moment, the muscular operative looked back at Walter. What--if anything--he thought about her involvement with Michael was impossible to determine.

"No, I don't see him doing that," he answered flatly. "Michael's hardcore. A stone-cold pro. I knew his rep long before I had a chance to work with him. He'll sacrifice collateral--even other operatives--without missing a beat. I've seen him do it. But I've also seen that he won't take a casualty if there's a viable alternative, no matter how much leeway the profile allows. And he doesn't send people in if he can do a quicker, cleaner job himself. Which, I have to tell you, is a fair chunk of the time. Would he be my pick if I was looking to go out, chug a few beers and shoot the shit? Probably not. Would I want him leading in the field if Section decided it was time to shut down the Devil and I was assigned to the first assault on Hell? Damn straight I would."

************

Breaching the target's security perimeter took forty-three seconds less than Michael had allotted. The reason for this logistical anomaly was human error. The enemy's, not his.

Although they resisted fiercely, the Red Cell fighters were cut down with surgical precision. He killed two peole during the initial attack. Two more once he and his team got inside the site. Each time he fired a shot, a body fell.

Michael got no rush from taking another person's life. He experienced no remorse about it, either. He simply did what was necessary as efficiently as possible and moved on.

That this functional indifference did not extend to the shredded remnants of what had once been his soul was something he'd been forced to accept over the years. That he'd end up reliving every bloody detail of his latest kills in nightmares was something he'd trained himself to endure. As long as he remained capable of performing as expected...

"Gamma to leader," a raspy voice said through his com unit. The speaker was a Class One operative named Randall. "We've located the Katamuras."

"Status?" Michael responded quietly, heading down the corridor that supposedly led to the site's main lab. Nikita was two or three paced behind him. Although he was acutely aware of her presence, she was not a distraction. Quite the contrary. Having her with him in the field gave him a sense of completeness he hadn't known in six months.

"Uncooperative," Randall reported. He sounded a tad edgy. "They're both strung out on something. We can sedate and transport--"

"No." Michael rejected the option before his subordinate finished articulating it. "Dispose of them, set the charges, and converge as planned."

There was a brief hesitation--a minute loss of focus that would have to be reviewed, post-mission--on the other end. Then, determinedly, "Understood."

"Leader to Beta," Michael said, forging ahead. Despite Randall's momentary lapse, he had no doubt that the operative would execute his orders to the letter.

"Beta back, Michael." The reply was quick and crisp. The speaker was an African-American operative named Sinjin. Michael had recently endorsed him for promotion. "Five more hostiles flushed."

"Kirilov?"

"Negative. But we've located a shitload of data. Most of it's encryted. We're transmitting what we can. Birkoff's antsy about viral contam, though, even with a filter. We're going to have to lug a lot of it out."

Michael juggled variables and considered contingencies. There was a possibility that Kirilov had been taken off site prior to their arrival. He'd pressed Madeline about the quality of the intel on the Russian's whereabouts several times in transit. She'd frankly acknowledged that it was less than reliable on a number of counts. She'd also made it crystalline clear tha the mission was a mandated "go" no matter how questionable the information.

He hadn't really needed to have the latter spelled out for him. One did not reach Class Five status without becoming thoroughly versed in the political power games that influenced what Section did and didn't--could and couldn't--do. To succeed where another agency had failed was to gain a very special kind of leverage in a seemingly endless struggle for primacy.

Still, if Kirilov was gone...

"Stay on-line until notified," he instructed. "Start stripping the software and documentation."

"Affirmative."

"Leader to Delta."

"Delta back." It was Weitz. "Four dead hostiles, Michael. No Kirilov. Primary charges are in place. Leah took a hit but she's still in play. We're about forty-five off sked."

"Proceed."

Three more strides brought Michael within a meter of the spot where the corridor split in two. He halted. Nikita did the same.

"Birkoff?" he asked.

"It's fifty-fifty, Michael." The younger man's voice was full of frustration. Being unable to produce data on demand sat very badly with him. "The whole area's shielded."

"What about external response?"

"Negative so far. Like I said, I don't think it's in the program. But Simon's monitoring."

Michael's next question was forestalled by the sound of metal sliding against metal. This was followed by a muffled cry and a long, low wail. The cry was definitely huan. But the other noise...

He glanced back at Nikita. Although the level of illumination in the concrete hallway was low, he could tell from her expression that she'd had the same visceral reaction to the wail as he.

************

Their eyes met. No matter that it had been six long months since they'd worked together. The connection was still there. They were linked as firmly as though they'd reached out and clasped hands.

Michael choreographed their next moves with a lift of his brows and two quick gestures. Nikita signalled her comprehension with a nod.

They advanced into the corridor junction side by side, weapons extended and ready. He swept left, knees slightly flexed, his upper body fluid. She swept right.

A split second later, Nikita fired. Once. There were no return shots.

Almost simultaneously, an ashen-faced Leonid Kirilov was shoved out of a doorway about ten meters in front of Michael. Directly behind the Russian scientist was a Red Cell operative. The operative used Kirilov like a shield, making it impossible for Michael to take him down cleanly.

"I die, he dies," the terrorist threatened hoarsely, jamming the muzzle of his gun into the soft flesh beneath his captive's chin. Kirilov choked out a plea in gutteral Russian. He was sweating profusely.

Michael locked eyes with the Red Cell operative, edging sideways. His purpose was twofold. First, he wanted a clear shot. Second, he wanted to keep his body between Nikita's and the enemy's.

"Stop!" the terrorist barked. Michael froze, but continued assessing angles and calculating odds. He kept his right arm stretched out in front of him, refusing to lower his weapon. He could...feel...Nikita's position in relation to his. He knew she was guarding his back.

"Nyet, Kirilov blubbered, shaking his head. The jerky movement complicated the task of trying to get a bead on his captor. "Nyet..."

There was a sudden scramble of footsteps from the far end of the corridor. Michael caught a glimpse of Weitz rounding the corner, automatic weapon at the ready. In the same miniscule space of time, he saw the Red Cell operative turn a few degrees, reacting to the new threat.

What happened next represented the fusion of conscious decision and instinctive response. It was a distillation of what Michael had become over the course of the past fourteen-plus years.

Shortly after his first far-ahead-of-schedule promotion, Section's psych experts had subjected him to a series of tests aimed at determining the reasons for his consistently superlative performance in the field. The examination process had run the gamut from polite interviews to physical torture. It had culminated in a live fire sim that he'd later discovered had been programmed by his former trainer, Jurgen.

What Section had learned about him during the testing, Michael had never been informed. What he'd learned about himself--and about those whose bidding he carried out--, he'd never shared. But the knowledge he'd gained had served him well. Probably saved his life on several occasions.

If he'd been required to cite the most telling moment during the effort to deconstruct him, he would have pointed to a brief exchange he'd had with Madeline at the end of a grueling review of the actions he'd taken during the sim.

Why, Michael? she'd asked softly, brushing a lock of hair back from his bruised face. It had been the first time she'd touched him since she'd ended the sexual tutorial that had been one of the most difficult parts of his training process.

It had to be done, he'd replied.

Michael took the shot, nailing the terrorist in the narrow, "no reflex" zone that bands the human skull. There was no death spasm. No final trigger finger twitch that might have ended Kirilov's life. With even the most primitive functions in his brain instantly obliterated, the Red Cell operative dropped like a stone.

Kirilov staggered two steps to his left, collapsing heavily against the corridor's dingy gray walls. A moment later, he fell to his knees and began retching.

Michael crossed to him, kicking aside the dead terrorist's gun as he advanced. Nikita glided by him without speaking, intent on reaching the doorway from which Kirilov had been pushed. Weitz moved up, trailed by a petite brunette operative who was favoring her left leg.

"We have Kirilov," Michael informed Birkoff through his com link as he grabbed the semi-hysterical doctor by the shoulders.

"You also have incoming hostiles," came the grim response. "Three vehicles. Simon just picked 'em up on the far edge of the western quadrant. ETA, four minutes."

"Back-up team, activate," Michael ordered immediately. He'd prepared for this eventuality. "Beta and Gamma withdraw to extraction point." Hauling Kirilov to his feet, he shoved him toward Weitz. "Take him," he instructed, switching to Russian. He knew that Weitz had a working knowledge of the language. He wanted to make certain that Kirilov had no illusions about his situation. "Gag him if he won't stay quiet."

"My pleasure," the husky operative replied in the same tongue.

"Michael!"

"Go," Michael told Weitz and the limping Leah. Then he headed off to deal with the horror he knew from her tone that Nikita was now confronting.

*************

She would have done it, Nikita insisted to herself with a contradictory mix of emotions about two hours later. Had Michael not stepped in, she would have pulled the trigger and killed the three operatives herself.

But Michael had stepped in. And in doing so, he'd once again shielded her soul at the expense of his own.

Had she expected him to react as he had? she wondered uneasily. Had she subconsciously counted on it? Was that the real reason she'd called out to him when she'd discovered the three men Kirilov had so hideously victimized?

Or...had she been testing Michael yet again, trying to understand the precise components of the code by which he operated?

A bullet to the brain would be better, she'd asserted to him before the mission. Kinder.

Yes, he'd responded, seemingly without reservation.

Had her summoning of him been a kind of "put up or shut up" ultimatum? Had she wanted--needed--to see whether he'd back up his agreement with her sentiments with action?

He'd entered the lab, weapon drawn. She'd watched him take in the situation in a swift, sweeping look. His face had gone as blank and hard as polished marble.

"Check the computers, Nikita," he'd instructed after a moment. His gaze had been fixed on the trio of metal cages pushed against the far side of the laboratory and the no-longer-quite-human beings they contained. "We're out in three minutes."

"But--"

He'd glanced at her then, the expression in his green-grey eyes so savagely angry that the protest had died in her throat. She'd taken an involuntary step backward.

"Do it," he'd ordered. His voice had been quiet, yet cut to the bone. "Now."

Shaken, she'd obeyed.

Michael had waited until her back was turned before he'd performed what she'd earlier maintained would be an act of compassion.

There'd been three shots. Unrushed. Rhythmically spaced, a few seconds apart.

Her body had jerked in reaction to each whispered splat. She hadn't doubted that each bullet had hit home, precisely where targeted.

Quick.

Clean.

Kind.

Nikita exhaled on a shuddery sigh and leaned back against the cabin wall of the Section transport plane. She closed her eyes. She reopened them again almost immediately when images of the psychologically tortured operatives flooded her mind.

"You okay?"

She controlled a start of suprise. The query came from Weitz, who'd appeared on her right. He was looking down at her with a concerned frown.

"I'm fine."

Nikita saw one corner of his mouth kick up at her Section-standard response. But what else could she say? Basically, an operative was either fine or he or she was dead. There wasn't a great deal of middle ground.

"Here." Weitz extended his left hand. "I thought you could use this."

She accepted the mug he was offering, genuinely touched by his thoughtfulness. The distinctive fragrance of hot herbal tea tickled her nostrils. The familiar scent--and the warmth of the sturdy cup against her palms--was remarkably soothing.

"Thanks, Weitz," she said, then took a deep sip.

Ahhh. Good.

The burly operative sat down next to her, drinking from the mug he'd been holding in his right hand. The richly biting smell of chicory told her what it contained.

"I may have overdone the sugar in yours," he commented, stretching out his powerfully muscled legs.

If truth be told, the tea did taste about a tablespoon sweeter than she normally preferred, but Nikita wasn't going to complain.

"No problem," she assured him, taking another sip.

"He put them down, huh?" Weitz inquired after a few moments.

She grimaced. There was no need to clarify to whom the pronouns in the question referred.

"Yeah. He did."

"Was it as bad as you made it sound?"

Nikita eyed Weitz with a touch of anxiety, uncertain of what he met. Although she knew she'd be expected to provide details during debriefing, she hadn't said anything to anyone about what she'd seen inside the lab.

"When you called Michael," Weitz elaborated. "Your voice. You made it sound...bad."

Her fingers tightened on the handle of the mug. Bile rose in her throat. "It was--" she swallowed hard "--awful."

"Poor bastards."

"I'm just hoping Madeline will be in an exceptionally bad mood when she interviews Kirilov."

"Really?" Weitz scratched his chin. "I've always thought Madeline's scariest when she's doing her version of nice."

Nikita thought back to her post-briefing encounter with Section One's chief strategist. She gave a humorless laugh.

"You have a point, Weitz," she conceded. "You definitely have a point."

*************

They drank in relatively companionable silence for a minute or so. Nikita eased back against the cabin wall again, finding a curious comfort in the humming vibration of the plane's powerful engines.

"I guess the rumor isn't true after all," Weitz finally remarked, setting aside his mug.

"Rumor?"

"That Class Five operatives undergo some kind of behavior modification so they don't need any sleep." He jerked his head toward the plane's cockpit. "Michael's sacked out up front."

Nikita finished her tea, resolutely shutting her mind to an all-too intimate series of images of Michael sleeping.

"Disappointed?" she asked, keeping her voice casual.

Weitz gave a rumbling chuckle and shook his head.

"Kind of complimented, to tell the truth. I don't figure Michael lets down around other people very much. If he feels confident enough about this group to cop a few z's...well, that strikes me as one hell of an endorsement."

"Mmmm." Nikita considered the other operative's take on Michael's behavior. It made a great deal of sense, she acknowledged, recalled the coolly pragmatic counsel her former trainer had given her following her promotion to team leader.

"Uh...'scuse me." It was Leah, the operative who'd been injured during the mission. She'd siddled up on Nikita's left.

Nikita straightened, surveying the other woman's piquantly featured face. It was obvious she was in pain. But there was something else. Leah was nervous. Very nervous.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"It's, uh, Kirilov." The petite brunette gestured awkwardly. "He says he needs to, uh...you know. Use the, uh, facilities."

"Take a leak," Weitz translated bluntly.

Leah bobbed her head. "Y-yeah."

"So?" Nikita was mystified by the other woman's agitation. This was the first time she'd worked with Leah. Given her injury--and the fact that she was just a few months out of probation--Nikita was inclined to cut her a fair amount of slack in terms of post-mission edginess. It took awhile to learn how to ride the adrenaline roller-coaster. She'd seen male operatives puke their guts out following their first few missons.

Still. This itchy-twichy behavior did not bode well for Leah's long-term survival.

"So," Weitz picked up with a hint of amusement. "Little Leah doesn't have the authority to release him from restraints and she's torqued about the prospect of having to whisper 'wake up' to the man who does."

Nikita forced back a sigh as she saw Leah go rosy-pink at the oblique reference to Michael. God, she thought with a slash of irritation, not another one! Then she hauled her attention back to the business at hand and flatly advised, "Let Kirilov hold it."

"But we don't land for another four and a half hours," Leah pointed out, distressed. "He--uh--he's really squirming around. And he's complaining."

"Ram a sock down his throat," Weitz suggested. "Preferably a real dirty one."

Images of the atrocities she'd witnessed in the Russian's lab streaked through Nikita's mind's eye. She fisted her hands. Leaning forward, she fixed Leah with a Michael-esque stare.