Trying to develop my writing technique(s), so this is something different from me. First person, from a male POV.

Like a lot of other people, I was intrigued by the Davenport character in THIRD PARTY RIP-OFF. So, I decided to explore his take on what went on.

Major "borrowing" from the episode script and the actors' performances. Where this story works, the credit goes to those responsible for the episode. Where it doesn't...well, I'm still learning. I have given Davenport some interaction with two male operatives (Sinjin and Weitz) I created in previous stories.

SPOILAGE FOR THIRD PARTY RIP-OFF.

Also, LANGUAGE CAUTION...THROUGHOUT!! I guess this rates R, for profanity.

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

I should have known.

As soon as I found out Michael was assigned to the team--my team--I should have known some serious shit was hitting the fan.

Or if not known it...suspected.

Only I didn't. Which probably means my immediate prospects for promotion from Class Three are slim to none. Being oblivious to hidden agendas isn't the way to get ahead in this place.

Do I care?

Good question. Too bad I'm still working on coming up with a good answer.

I figured it was a test, you know? Of me. I was due for leadership evaluation. What better way to run an assessment of my command capabilities than to place Section's top op on my team and watch how I'd deal with him? I'd seen the gambit before. It's a classic Section mind fuck.

So that was my take on things going into the briefing. That Operations and Madeline were putting me through my paces, using Michael as the goad. And even now, after all that's happened, I don't think I was totally off the mark.

I was being tested. Just not the way I thought.

Whether I passed or failed is pretty much beside the point. What matters is, I survived.

I survived because the man Section used me to screw over saved my ass.

There's a part of me that wants to argue there was nothing personal about Michael's actions. That his motives were strictly professional. The product of fifteen years of conditioning. But I can't. Because what happened in the field--and back in Section--showed me that for Michael, there's no division between the two. The professional is personal for him, and vice versa.

Not to sound too Zen here, but being the kind of man he is, Michael had to do what he did. There was no way he could have stood by and let a mission he knew how to button up be aborted.

It would have destroyed him.

Would I have handled things differently if I'd realized that earlier?

Maybe.

Maybe not.

I'm not sure it would have changed anything if I had.

My first clue about what was really going on came during Birkoff's briefing on the second phase of the Velden operation. I was a little slow on the uptake, but I eventually snapped to the truth.

"Why are you running the scenario?" Michael questioned.

"The scenario?" I repeated, trying to get a fix on his tone. He didn't seem to be in challenge mode, but I was wary. "Didn't anyone tell you?"

"What?"

"This is my team."

Okay. Okay. So I emphasized the "my" harder than I needed to. I wasn't trying to get in his face. Just the opposite. But I wanted to draw a line. To make it clear that I wasn't going to let him rattle the chain of command.

What can I say? I still hadn't gotten it. Not entirely, anyway. I was still operating on the assumption that this switch-up was all about me.

And the mission, of course.

"Then why was I called in?"

Even now, I'm not certain why Michael asked this. He had to have figured out what was happening. But maybe...just maybe...he hadn't been ready to accept it.

I'm not saying he was arrogant enough to think he was immune from getting fucked over. God, no. But it's possible he couldn't quite wrap his mind around the idea that this was the avenue of attack Operations and Madeline had chosen.

Then again, maybe he wanted me to spell out the situation for everybody else at the briefing, including Nikita. Maybe he also wanted to make certain I understood that there'd been a hellacious shift in Section's hierarchy.

Which I did. Finally.

"Because you're on it," I replied. I tried to sound casual, like it was no big deal, but I couldn't pull it off. I couldn't meet his eyes for more than an instant, either. I felt--I don't know. Embarrassed, I guess. For both of us. And angry, too. I was used to being used. It's standard operating procedure in Section. Everybody's a tool. But this was different. "I thought you knew, Michael. Sorry."

I waited a half-beat. For what, I can't tell you. An explosion, maybe. But nobody spoke. Nobody so much as blinked.

I got back down to business. I had no choice. The die was cast. We had a job to do.

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

The mission was a cakewalk. Simpler than a lot of the sims I'd been put through during my first year of training. But I sweated every sequence. I'd seen sweet scenarios turn sour in the space of a heartbeat too many times to assume that what started out easy was necessarily going to finish up that way.

My team. My responsiblity.

Michael's execution in the field was...Jesus. Haul out the superlatives. He was the perfect subordinate. Absolutely on mark. Carried out every single command with clockwork precision. He'd been relegated to scut work, but he didn't slack off for a second. He was...there.

For me.

For the team.

For goddamned Section.

The deliberate waste of his talents made me sick.

The hail-the-conquering-hero reception I got when we returned to Van Access made me even sicker.

I'm not going to lie. Hearing an "Atta, boy" from Operations can be heady stuff. The man doesn't dole out praise very often. So when he does, most of us lap it up. But the performance he put on in this particular instance was so obviously bogus...

"Did the target transfer en route?" he inquired as I stepped into the hallway. I was surprised to see him. I shouldn't have been. Looking back, I realize that Michael had anticipated he'd be there, waiting. I also realize that Michael orchestrated our egress from the van to make certain I came out ahead of everybody else. My instinct had been to defer to him. To follow, rather than lead. He hadn't let me make that mistake.

"Yes, he did," I confirmed.

"What about their comm?"

I took a deep breath. This was not the kind of question the head of Section One needed to show up at Van Access to get answered.

"We downloaded their files," I told him. "I brought back a sample for Walter."

"Well done."

It was crap. Pure, unadulterated crap.

Did he honestly believe I swallowed it?

My gut tells me...yeah.

Did he care one way or another whether I had?

My gut say, uh-uh. The bastard didn't give a damn. I was nothing but a pawn in one of his power games.

"There wasn't much resistance, sir," I pointed out. I speculated briefly about whether he had any idea what my name was. If someone had forced me to bet, I would have put my money on NO.

Operations shifted suddenly, focusing on a point behind me. Those hellhound blue eyes of his iced over. I didn't need to glance back to know who'd moved into his line of sight.

"That's the sign of a mission well profiled," he declared loudly.

Then he strolled away. The cock of the walk.

Fucker, I thought savagely, staring after him. You...fucker.

Who did he think taught me to profile?

"You want me to debrief?"

It was Michael. Cool. Quiet. Courteous. Behaving as though he hadn't noticed that Operations' pat to my back had really been intended to shove a knife between his shoulder blades.

I swallowed, forcing myself to calm down. Again, I had trouble looking at the man I know is out of my class, no matter what his "official" status.

"They've asked for singulars," I answered, sidestepping. I didn't want to tell him what to do. "I'm not sure why."

"Yes or no."

There was a touch of impatience in his voice. And just a hint of irritation. It was like...like...well, like he'd hoped for better than I was giving him.

I started to get genuinely pissed. Where did Michael get off copping an attitude with me? I wondered. It's not as though I'd asked to be put over him! Couldn't he see I thought what was going on stunk? Didn't he realize I was trying to make things easier for--

And then the lightbulb clicked on. The truths it illuminated were pretty damned ugly, but seeing them was better than stumbling around in the dark.

Michael didn't want me--or anybody else--trying to make things easier for him. He wasn't looking for special treatment. He'd take the shit being shoveled at him straight. No sugar-coating.

He might need help, but he wasn't going to ask for it. In fact, he was likely to bite off any hand that held it out to him.

"Yes," I said. "If you don't mind."

I should have stopped at the affirmative, but I couldn't. The words that came after it just slipped out. I didn't wait for Michael to acknowledge my order. I turned and moved away before I said something I'd really regret.

He had to mind, I told myself as I marched down the hall.

Because I damn well did.

**********

It got worse.

"You hear?" The question came from an operative named Sinjin. A tall, tough black guy with a real knack for sniper work. He stopped me in the corridor that led to the gym. I was hoping a workout would purge some of the anger I was feeling. I'd started pumping iron back in prison. There'd been something...soothing...about it.

"What?"

"Michael's been pulled off Tactical Oversight."

It was like a sucker punch to the gut. I'll admit my first reaction to the news was strictly selfish. Michael being pulled out of the T.O. slot probably meant operatives who didn't have to were going to get hurt or killed. And one of those unnecessary casualties might be me.

Michael's not just good at tactics and strategy. He's genius. You ever catch Gretsky doing his thing on the ice? Or Jordan on the b-ball court? You know how they seem to know exactly where everybody is and exactly what they're going to do next? Like they've got this weird, seeing-five-seconds-into-the-future mojo going...part peripheral vision, part precognition?

Well, that's Michael on T.O. Nobody can touch him.

I took a few seconds, trying to absorb the full implications of the information Sinjin had just socked me with.

I'd been working on persuading myself that what had happened earlier was just another instance of Operations jerking Michael's chain. It's no secret that Michael takes a hell of a lot of abuse from the top. He's not just held to a higher standard than anybody else around here. He's pretty much crucified on the expection of perfection.

There are a lot of different takes on why he's slammed so hard, so often. The most common theory is that he's being groomed to be the next head of Section One. Getting run through the meat grinder, so the gossip goes, is part of the preparation process.

I bought into this idea for a long time. But lately...

It's hard to put into words. It's almost like Operations is keeping his foot on Michael's neck because he's afraid of what will happen if he lets him up.

"Permanently?" I questioned at last.

"He's been booted out of his ofice and stuck on six."

Something inside me cringed on Michael's behalf. Talk about a public humiliation!

"Madeline's idea?"

"What do you think?"

I thought yes.

"What about a replacement?"

Sinjin shrugged, pretending not to care. But the look in his eyes told me he had the same reduced life expectancy concerns I did.

What the hell were Operations and Madeline up to? I wondered. And what in the name of God could Michael have done--or not done--to have provoked this kind of punishment?

I started running through the list of potential candidates for the tac job. It wasn't very long. And it wasn't exactly packed with promise.

"Damn," I muttered. "If Wallace was still--"

"Right," Sinjin concurred, cutting me off. "But he's not. So bag the woulda, coulda, shouldas."

I let a few seconds tick by. I knew Wallace's on-point death during the Odessa mission was still a touchy subject for some people. I'd been in Kosovo when he'd bought the farm, but I'd picked up most of the details.

"You were friends?" I finally asked, keeping my tone neutral.

"We hung out now and again."

"You blame Michael for what happened?"

"You mean, do I think he let his dick do the deciding when he promoted Nikita into his old job after he took over as Operations?"

Under different circumstances, I probably would have grinned. "Something like that."

"It occurred to me to read it that way." The admission came slowly. The truth usually does in Section. If it comes at all. "I'm still not completely square with how things went down. But I've realized that Michael did what he needed to do, given the circumstances. He needed somebody he could trust at his back. That's Nikita. He also needed somebody who could take over his duties. Sure, Wallace had more seniority than Nikita. But I'm here to tell you, Davenport. That's the only edge he had on her."

The strength of the endorsement caught me off guard. I've worked with Nikita enough times to know she's got some very impressive moves. But I also know she can be trouble. Major trouble. Sinjin has a reputation for having a men-on-top mindset, if you know what I mean. So to hear him say what he'd just said...

"She's that good?" I was talking about good on her own. Not good because she has Michael as her...whatever.

Sinjin nodded decisively.

There was an awkward pause.

"So, Madeline put him on six, huh?" I eventually said, still not wanting to believe it.

"Better than Abeyance, man."

I looked at him, hard. The concept of death before dishonor doesn't come up in Section very often. But every once in a while...

"You think, Sinjin?" I asked.

He didn't respond.

After a second or two, I resumed walking.

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

Poker Face 101 isn't part of Section's official training curriculum. Still, most recruits learn to mask their feeling--good and bad--pretty quickly. Those who don't tend to get cancelled.

Weitz--cold op, Class Two--is an exception to the pattern. Sure, he can go frigid as an ice cube and do the dead-eyed stare if he has to. But he usually lets it all hang out.

In other words, I didn't need him to drop a fifty-pound dumbbell next to my head to clue me in that he was well and truly pissed about something. All I had to do was check out the expression on his ugly mug.

"What the--?" I exclaimed, a rush of adrenaline flooding my system.

"You getting off on it, Davenport?" he snarled.

I levered myself up, automatically centering into a defensive position. I've gone one-on-one with Weitz a bunch of times. He's got a few inches and maybe twenty pounds on me, but I'm faster. Basically, we're an even match.

Both of us are bigger than Michael. Which means nothing. In serious hand-to-hand, he's clean our clocks.

Funny thing. First time I saw Michael, I pegged him as a Valentine op. I think it was the hair that threw me off. That, and the fact that he looked to be in his mid-twenties.

Okay. I'll cop to it. I figured him for a latent fruit.

The sighting came two, maybe three, days after I'd transferred in from one of the Mideast substations. I was in Walter's work area, getting oriented.

"Who's that?" I questioned, breaking Section protocol. Operatives aren't supposed to ask for intel. They're expected to wait to be told what those higher up the chain of command want them to know.

Sometimes, what the higher ups want us underlings to know is a load of crap. But that's another issue.

Walter had gotten visibily ticked. Not about my lack of discretion, though. No, he'd been bugged by the fact that I'd interrupted his spiel about some remote detonation device he was developing. The man loves his work.

"Who?" he'd snapped.

"Him." I'd jerked my head, still watching the guy who'd snagged my attention. Why I'd wanted him I.D.'d, I couldn't have said.

"That's Michael."

It had taken a moment for the name to sink in.

"Michael?" I'd eyed Walter, wondering whether he was pulling my leg. I'd heard of Michael, of course. He was a legend in the cold op cadre.

"The one and only." Walter had chuckled. "Not what you were expecting?"

"I..."

"Lemme guess. You figured he'd be bigger, right? And badder."

I'd hesitated, then nodded. I'd gotten the impression that Walter had done this enlighten-the-ignorant routine before.

"Well, you know what they say about looks, Davenport," he'd commented, returning his attention to his new, everything-go-boom toy.

Yeah. I'd known.

Looks could be deceiving.

They could also kill.

"Getting off on what, Weitz?" I growled.

"Helping bring Michael down."

It took some doing, but I held on to my temper. Chalk it up to the "soothing" effect of five progressive sets of bench presses.

"I take orders like everybody else."

"Nice line," Weitz sneered. He was keeping his voice low, I noted. He'd also placed himself so no one in the gym but me could see his expression. The message was that this was a private thing. Not a public challenge. "Learn to say it in German and you'll sound like a fucking Nazi."

There was a long pause. I felt the tension start to leak away. Finally, Weitz huffed out a breath and relaxed his posture a little. I waited a couple of seconds--just to be sure I wasn't being suckered--, then racheted down a few degrees, too.

I'd gotten the picture. He'd needed to vent, and I was a reasonably safe target.

"Any idea why they're doing it?" I questioned in an undertone, scanning the other people in the gym.

"Because they can."

"What? They're hammers and the rest of us--including Michael--are nothing but nails?" I could buy this scenario. But only up to a point.

"That's part of it."

"And the rest?"

"This fucking thing he has going with Nikita."

Nobody's ever likely to accuse Weitz of eloquence. Or romanticism. Still. In this particular case...

"But why now? Michael's had his brand on her from day one." I knew the rules against relationships between operatives, of course. I also knew they were bent on a regular basis.

Then I remembered something I'd overhead in the mess a few days before.

"Wait a minute," I said tightly. "They're busting him for breaking position during the Mills scenario?"

Weitz grimaced. "He opened himself up with that, no argument. But it's more a matter of...what do you call it? Oh. Yeah. Changing circumstances."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, Michael's not under blood cover anymore. No 'wife' he has to go home to. Plus, he apparently kicked some unanticipated butt when he had command a few weeks back. And then there's that little matter of the mutiny. Sure, it was all part of a scam to bring down Philo. But you gotta know Operations took notice of how many people backed the takeover play. fucker's probably got a fucking list of names stashed away for future reference. Just in case he runs short of Abeyance candidates."

I found myself clenching my fists. I'd been among those who'd supported Michael when he'd relieved Operations. What can I say? It had had to be done and Michael had been the best person--the only person--to do it.

"So you're telling me you think this is payback," I said.

"Divide and conquer, Davenport. It's classic."

I nodded slowly. That sick feeling I'd had earlier was back.

"What are you going to do if you get an order to hang Michael out to dry?" Weitz asked after a few seconds.

I didn't answer.

I honestly didn't know.

************ I do know I had trouble believing my eyes when I read the download for my team's next mission. My first thought was that the profile was a mistake. A sick joke, even.

Except jokes--sick, or otherwise--are unacceptable in Section. And mistakes...

I cornered the profiler before the briefing. She was new to HQ. Valerie, her name was. German, I think. Probably bred on the "wrong" side of the Iron Curtain while there was such a thing. And definitely into head games. Word was, she was playing Walter against Birkoff and trolling for action with a couple of cold ops on the side.

A real piece of work.

Not a bad piece of ass, either. If you're into community property.

I'm not. One of my weaknesses, I suppose you could say. My being unwilling to share helps explain why I wound up doing a mandatory minimum of life plus twenty with no chance of parole.

"This yours?" I asked, shoving my PDA under her snubbed nose.

Valeria went from tease to uptight in about a nanosecond.

"The profile's locked," she informed me.

"That wasn't my question." I waited a beat, then sliced to the core. "Did you assign this operative--" I clicked on the name "--to this--" another click "--position?"

She stared at me for several moments. Her posture was stiff as a broom stick. Her mouth had thinned into a nasty line.

"I was given certain hard parameters," she finally responded. Her diction was overly precise, as though she thought I was some kind of idiot. "I worked within them."

Translation: She took orders, like everybody else.

There wasn't anything else to discuss. A locked profile wasn't up for debate by anyone at my pay level. The drill was clear. It was do or die.

Maybe do...and die.

I turned and walked away.

*****

I couldn't--no.

I wouldn't do it.

I'd deploy Michael per the profile, but I wasn't going to spell out his assignment during the briefing.

I ran things down fast and firm, glancing from face to face, measuring everybody's mood. It was a good team, I assured myself. Skewed, sure, because of the damned personnel configuration, but solid.

"Team One will do advance," I stated, slipping into the briefing groove. "Take out light security and prep for incoming. Teams Two and Three will implement the profile. Twelve minute check, everyone is divided into perimeter and back-up. We're out in ten. Let's go."

The team broke, heading for Van Access. I eased over to Michael.

Don't make a big deal of this, Davenport, I ordered myself. Give him the bad news and move on with the mission.

"Michael," I began. "I didn't want to say this in front of the team--"

He nailed me with a look. "Why?"

"You're posted at nine."

Something I couldn't put a name to slid through his eyes. He looked...not tired, exactly. But close. The set of his features reminded me of some of the lifers I'd known behind bars. He'd stopped expecting the worst. He's simply accepted that it was going to come and braced himself to endure it, one insult at a time.

"That's back-up," he observed, his voice even quieter than usual.

It's strange. For the first time in a long, long time, I focused on how young he was. Although he was senior to me in Section terms, I have at least five "outside world" years on him.

"That's where they profiled you," I answered lamely. They, Michael, I wanted him to understand. Not me.

He nodded, no longer meeting my gaze. "Fine."

Bullshit.

*****

We got the job done.

We also suffered four casualties. Three wounded, one killed.

The losses were within profile parameters. But for once, I couldn't block out the fact that I was dealing with people...not personnel percentages.

There was no talk on the way back to Section. None. Which isn't to suggest that post-mission yak-yak is standard operating procedure. It isn't. But there's usually a little chatter. It's a way of blowing off steam. Of reassuring yourself that you're still alive.

This time, the mission van was silent. Dead silent.

Michael sat in the rear right corner of the vehicle. He had his head tipped back. His eyes were closed. He was...detached. Disconnected. If he hadn't managed to counterbalance every bump and swerve that had the other operatives bouncing around, I might have thought he'd gone to sleep.

Whether he was aware of the fact that the other team members kept looking from me to him and back again, I can't say. But I sure as hell was.

I knew the others were asking themselves whether we could have sustained the losses we had if he'd been running the show instead of me.

I didn't blame them.

How could I?

I was asking myself the same thing.

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

There was no formal debrief for the mission. Operations didn't show up at Van Access with confetti and crappy compliments, either. That was a relief. I'm not certain how I would have reacted if he had.

It was Birkoff who met us. He told me to prepare a report, submit it, and stand down until further notice. Most of the time he was talking at me, he was checking over my shoulder. I didn't need to consult a psychic to know why.

He stiffened a little and kind of caught his breath when Michael came into view. He furrowed his forehead, looking genuinely upset.

Michael's relationship with Section's chief cyber-geek is something I don't really understand. Which isn't to say I've spent a lot of time trying to figure it out. I haven't. But I've watched the two of them interact enough to wonder about the connection.

Birkoff and Michael aren't buddy-buddy. They're more like...I don't know. Big brother/pain-in-the-butt kid brother, maybe.

They definitely have one thing in common. Both of them get raked over the coals by Operations on a regular basis.

Michael turned left as soon as he hit the hallway. He was a couple of yards away when Birkoff finally got his act together.

"Michael?" he called. His voice snagged on the second syllable.

For a split-second, I thought Michael was going to blow him off and keep going. And I have a hunch Birkoff thought the same thing, because I heard him give this choky-sounding gulp. But then Michael halted and pivoted around.

Except for the weariness I mentioned earlier, his face was unreadable.

"Yes?" he replied. His voice was polite but disinterested. He seemed to have taken himself out of the loop.

The computer whiz didn't say anything. I'm not sure he could have. He just stared.

"Birkoff?" Michael prodded after a few seconds. Still courteous, but with an edge of command. He sounded more like himself, if you know what I mean.

"I--uh--"

Spit it out, Birkoff, I thought, shifting uncomfortably. Whatever the hell it is, just spit it out.

"Is there a problem?"

He was asking about Nikita. I didn't tumble to it at the time. But later on, when I replayed the scene in my mind...

"Prob--?" Birkoff began. Then he stopped. I saw his eyes widen. I realize now that he'd picked up on the subtext of Michael's question.

"Oh. No," he said quickly, making a spazzy gesture with one hand. "There's no problem, Michael."

Michael's face settled back into that lifer's look of resignation. "Then what do you want?"

I felt a weird tightening in my chest at this point. Because all at once, I understood why Birkoff had deserted his computers and hauled his scrawny butt down to Van Access.

He wants to make sure you're holding it together, Michael, I thought. He wants you to know he thinks what's happening to you sucks. And he wants to help, if he can.

I found myself praying that Birkoff wouldn't answer Michael's inquiry. Not truthfully, anyway.

"Uh--" the computer genius paused, clearing his throat. His gaze skittered away from Michael's and bumped into mine.

Keep your damned trap shut, Seymour! I tried to communicate.

Maybe I got through to him. Then again, maybe Birkoff was more tuned into Michael's code of behavior than I gave him credit for and figured it out for himself. Whatever the case, he cleared his throat again and squared his shoulders. Then he looked back at Michael.

"Nothing," he said. His voice was a note or two higher than normal, but cranky enough so we could all act like this was a no-big-deal conversation. "Never mind. There's no problem. Everything's just...dandy."

"Fine," Michael returned quietly. Then, turning on his heel, he strode away. He moved like a ghost, not making a sound.

"Is it?" Birkoff asked me in a harsh undertone.

"What?"

"Fine."

I shook my head. "Not even close."

*****

Writing the report was tough. I second-guessed every move, asking myself over and over again what I could have done differently. But given those damned "hard parameters" on the profile...

If there was an alternative sequence I could have run, I wasn't able to see it. And that chewed at me like a rabid rat. There had to have been another way. I just wasn't good enough to figure it out.

I knew who was, though.

After filing my review, I went to MedLab. The news there was mixed. Two of the wounded were in fair condition. The third--a Eurasian named Takashima--was critical, with severe head trauma. Even if he lived, the chances for a complete recovery were extremely low.

I wondered bitterly whether there'd be an order to pull the plug while he was still comatose. Or would they wait and put a bullet in his brain after he regain consciousness?

I was on my way to pick up my gear and go home when I spotted Michael and Nikita heading out. They were walking side by side, their steps synchronized.

They weren't touching. Hell. They weren't even talking.

But God, were they together.

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

The scene with McDaniel was something I should have anticipated. I mean, I saw him leaving Madeline's office about thirty minutes before the Velden end game scenario went on line. The son of a bitch was smiling.

That smile--smug, smarmy--should have tipped me there was trouble brewing. But it didn't. I registered it, but I didn't process the implications. I had other things on my mind.

So slap another bunch of demerits next to my name and demote me.

Of course, failure to anticipate doesn't mean I didn't realize what was happening as soon as McDaniel started ragging on Michael. But by that time, it was too late for preemptive action.

"What are you doing?" McDaniel demanded, glaring. "That's my comm unit."

Standing where I was, I only got a glimpse of Michael's face as McDaniel launched into his act. I think he grasped the situation at the same time I did. I also think he was slightly surprised that McDaniel was the one precipitating it.

"No, it's not," he answered. His voice was quiet, but very clear. He'd drawn a line.

"You're third team now," McDaniel countered, openly contemptuous. "You shouldn't even be in prep 'til we're done.

He sounded like...Christ. Some snotty high school kid. A Big Man on Campus bully who figures he's got a pass to piss on the world.

"Forget it, Michael," Nikita inserted, giving McDaniel a killer look. "You can use mine."

She was trying to help. I have no doubt about that. But as soon as she spoke, I knew she'd made things a whole lot worse.

Goddamn it, Nikita, I thought. Why don't you just peel down Michael's pants and cut off his balls in front of everybody?

Obviously scenting blood, McDaniel escalated his attack.

"I'd listen to her, Michael," he advised, sneering. "Listen to her. Listen to me. Pretty much everybody. We're all above you now."

Michael hadn't moved. His face had gone as blank as a marble slab. I wasn't even sure he was breathing. The calm before the storm doesn't begin to describe it.

"What are you doing, McDaniel?" Walter demanded. There was a warning in his voice. He glanced at Michael. Whatever he saw made his face tighten and pale.

McDaniel smiled, clearly enjoying himself.

"You know," he drawled, "I'm just getting a little back. For five years, I've been doing his grunt work and not once do I get a 'Thank you. Nice job, McDaniel!'"

"That's not true," Nikita protested.

"Nikita."

The tone was trainer to trainee. The message was unmistakable.

Shut up.

Amazingly, she did. Maybe--just maybe--the dynamics of the situation had started to sink in with her. And maybe--just maybe--she'd begun to realize how ill-advised her display of support had been.

Would what happened next have happened at all if Nikita hadn't been there? Would Michael have gone off the way he did if she'd kept her lipped zipped?

I've wondered about both those things. A lot. I haven't come to any final conclusions. But I think Michael would have found the strength to force himself to swallow McDaniel's shit if he hadn't had to contend with Nikita's presence. As it was...

"You're wrong on this one," he declared with great deliberation. "It's mine."

And then he grabbed McDaniel. Hit him. Slammed him against the munitions table.

The sequence was very, very fast. But every move was crystalline clear, textbook perfect. There wasn't a hint of wasted energy.

"Hey!" I exclaimed loudly. There's no sorting out all the different emotions I was feeling. But shock at seeing Michael--Michael!--lose control was one of them. Fury at McDaniel and whoever was yanking his strings was another. "Let it go, Michael!"

I swear I would have gotten physical if he'd balked at my order. It was my team, dammit! And he was under my command. But the truth is, he was reining himself in even before I opened my mouth.

Our eyes met, for just an instant, as he let McDaniel up. The shame I saw made me want to puke. It's not right, I thought. What they're doing to him. It's...not...right.

Whatever delusions of operational adequacy he might have, I knew McDaniel was nothing but a pawn. That he'd been utilized in a bid to break Michael and bring him to heel the same way I had. But given that the asshole seemed to have taken such pleasure in being used...

I caught a wad of McDaniel's shirt in one hand and whipped out my knife with the other. I laid the razor sharp blade against his skin. His eyes went wide, white showing all the way around his irises. I think he came close to peeing on himself.

The temptation to do the stupid fuck was strong. I can't deny that. I don't think anyone would have stepped in to stop me if I'd gone down that path, either.

Except, maybe, Michael.

So why didn't I dispose of him?

Well, self-preservation was part of it. Slitting the throat of a team member and letting him bleed out right before before a mission isn't likely to win a team leader many brownie points.

A sense of...fairness...got factored into the decision, too. Like I said. I knew McDaniel was nothing more than a puppet. I don't like killing low on the food chain while the big league predators get off free.

Then there was my suspicion that if I did terminate the bastard, the fallout would come down on Michael, not me. Somehow, some way, Operations and Madeline would hold him responsible for my actions.

McDaniel swallowed convulsively, his Adam's apple bobbing. The tip of the blade nicked his flesh.

"Michael could have killed you, but he didn't," I said through gritted teeth. "I'm not as patient as he is."

I gave him a moment to absorb this, letting the truth of every word show in my eyes. Then I shoved him away. I clamped down on the urge to go off someplace and scrub my hands.

Denial isn't part of Section's official training curriculum any more than Poker Face 101 is.

So what?

My team proceeded to Van Access and into the field as though the scene in equipment pick-up had never occurred.

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

If I survive in Section long enough to be assigned a piece of material, you can bet I'll make damned sure he--or she--studies the end game of the Velden mission. Maybe by the time I get a trainee, I'll have figured out all the nuances of how Michael did what he did.

The why of it, I've got nailed.

The scenario started smoothly enough. Everyone was on their initial marks when the balloon went up.

"Velden's car just rolled in," McDaniel announced. He seemed on his best behavior. Forget that 'Walk softly but carry a big stick' jive. For maximum impact, talk softly and threaten with a really sharp knife.

"Do we have confirmation on Velden in the car?" Birkoff queried, all business.

There was a time I had a problem with having the cyber-whiz kid in my ear during a mission. His age was part of it. I swear to God, he started running comm before he started shaving. His lack of field experience stuck in my gullet, too. Talk about being a cherry! I heard he got knocked on his butt by recoil the first time Walter tried to teach him to fire a weapon.

Still. I've come to trust Seymour, professionally speaking. He's proven himself in some very shitty situations.

Sure, he can be a ruthless stickler when it comes to executing a sequence. He can be a condescending smart ass, too. But it's obvious he always remembers he's dealing with human beings, not blips on a computer screen. He isn't like that miserable prick, Greg Hellinger. That arrogant pissant seems to think he's playing Nintendo.

Hellinger may very well have an IQ high enough to boil water. God knows, he advertises his "genius" every other time he opens his obnoxious mouth. But he's been stupid enough to make a lot of enemies in the cold op cadre. Sooner or later, he's going to go down.

I wouldn't mind standing in line to kick his ass when he does.

"We have visual confirmation," McDaniel answered. "He's coming to you."

The last sentence was directed at me.

"Okay, Birkoff," I said, feeling the familiar hum of adrenaline kick in. "We're ready down here. What's your status?"

"Velden should be moving to the rendezvous point now," came the answer. I could tell Birkoff was juggling a couple of different jobs simultaneously. "We have to wait for a visual on the Libyans."

I opened my mouth to order a move. A voice I hadn't expected to hear preempted me.

"Davenport, hold," Michael instructed through the com link. "Velden's team's still outside your perimeter."

"How do you know?" I countered. I'd shifted Michael as close into the action as I could without triggering an inquiry from the profiler. But there was no way he was positioned to make the kind of overview assessment he'd just offered.

"Look at the pay phone behind you," he replied.

I did, trying not to be obvious. I saw a guy talking. So?

"Birkoff took out the land channels," Michael continued calmly. "That guy's just posted."

Shit.

"The Libyans are moving to rendezvous," Nikita informed me.

"All right," I returned, shoving the mistake I'd made out of my mind. I'd beat myself up about it later. "Start your check. Team One, go."

I turned. Took a step. Collided with Velden. Our gazes met, very briefly. I thought I caught a flare of suspicion, deep in his eyes.

Shit!

"Excuse me," I muttered, disengaging. I tried to seem as innocuous as possible.

Velden had a cell phone to his ear. He spoke into it as he brushed by me.

"The train station," he said.

I scanned the area, attempting to decipher the flow of people around me. Under my jacket, I was starting to sweat.

"All right," I said, forcing myself to focus. "We're down for the moment." I waited a beat, debating, then confessed, "Birkoff, we may have been made."

"He's backtracking to a new positions to make sure the Libyans don't have a net," Birkoff countered, a thread of tension wrinkling his voice.

I thought quickly, considering the contingencies. I'd run through a couple dozen "What If's?" in prepping for this mission.

"Okay," I said, keeping my tone even. "Can we go one layer out?"

"Not with the collateral." The computer whiz was very definite on this. "You'll hit innocents for sure."

"Let it play out, Birkoff," Michael calmly interpolated. "The Libyans are heading back to the train station. Nikita?"

"Velden's team's converging," she immediately reported. You could tell she was in synch with him. That she knew exactly what data he needed, in exactly what form. They fit, like hand and glove. "They've split into upper and lower teams."

I was trying to visualize the new set-up when Michael commanded, "Nikita, move to third position."

Third position? I frowned. That would put her--

"They're heading inside," Birkoff said, much edgier than he'd been a few moments before. "They must have a clean room in the garage."

That's it, I decided, tasting failure. Game over. We're busted.

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

"All teams abort," I ordered.

"No," Michael countermanded. "We won't get a control window like this for months. We have to use it."

Something in his tone made the skin on the back of my neck prickle. It was more than self-confidence. It was...I can't explain it. A reassertion of who he was, maybe. Of what he was.

Okay. This is going to sound seriously bizarre. But I suddenly flashed on the image of Clark Kent turning into Superman.

Which left me to be who?

Jimmy Olson?

"How?" I asked.

"Teams One and Two rotate," he instructed. "I need a roll to the south."

He needed a roll?

"What are you doing, Michael?" I asked.

Was I challenging him at this point? Trying to remind him who was team leader?

Yeah. I probably was.

But I was also trying to figure out where he was heading. He'd made a leap--intellectual? intuitive?--I couldn't follow.

"We'll make it look like a third party ripoff." The explanation was fast and fluent. There was no doubt that Michael--the Class Five Michael--was back in action. "I need sixty seconds of fire time in the pocket."

"Okay," Birkoff instantaneously affirmed.

"Make sure all the exits are blocked."

"What about the Libyans?" I wanted to know. I was beginning to discern the outlines of the plan he was devising. They stunned me. I'd seen him improvise within parameters in the field before, of course. But this--Christ! He was doing a total reconfiguration, on the fly.

"We'll keep two alive."

"Davenport--" It was McDaniel. He sounded ticked. "What's the chain of command?"

I hesitated for an instant. Then I swallowed my pride. It was better than choking on it.

"I'm giving it to Michael," I announced.

*****

I didn't have a direct-contact role in the gambit Michael used to turn Velden. He implemented a lateral shift, giving me the job of dismantling the Libyan perimeter.

I didn't feel shut out or passed over. It was a smart tactical move. Velden had seen me, if only for a second. My presence could have compromised the whole scene.

I have to admit, I enjoyed eavesdropping on Michael as he made it clear to Velden that his loyalties had just taken a U-turn.

"We only have a few seconds, so listen to me carefully," he'd said. His voice was low and lethal. His accent, a little stronger than usual. "Your money and your client's money is now being stolen. In twenty-four hours, you'll be contacted by our people. If you don't do what they say, we'll make it look like you masterminded this ripoff. They'll hunt you down and kill you."

"What do you want?" Velden had asked, folding like a soggy stack of cards.

"Information," Michael had told him succinctly. "You work for us now."

Nobody said much of anything on the way back to Section. No surprise, really. When you get down to the nitty-gritty, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot to talk about.

There was plenty of eyeball action, though. I pretended not to notice the looks that were angled my way. Whether Michael was aware of the glances being given him, I can only guess.

McDaniel hunched himself into a corner, as far away from Michael as he could get. He came in for a bunch of looks, too. Contemptuous, mostly, with a touch of pity mixed in.

Want to tell Michael he's below you now, you poor bastard? I thought, watching him squirm and sweat.

Nikita seemed determined to keep her distance from Michael, as well. That, I couldn't figure out. They'd practically been connected at the hip during the mission. I'd thought she would've wanted to stick close. To share some of the glory.

Unless she was worrying about what kind of shit his assumption of command might bring down on all of us...

I watched her watching him until she caught me at it. Our gazes tangled. She cocked her chin at me, a little defiant. But the expression in those big, blue eyes of hers was gut-wrenchingly sad.

I glanced away. There are some things I don't need to see.

I did need to say what I said to Michael at Van Access. I owed it to him. I owed it to myself, too, in a weird kind of way.

"Michael," I began. My spine was stiff. So was my voice. "I couldn't do what you did out there today. I learned a lot."

He studied me silently for several seconds, his expression revealing nothing about what he was thinking. Then, very quietly, he responded.

"Thank you," he said.

It wasn't quite equal to equal.

But it was closer to it than I thought I deserved.

*****

I turned and walked away right after that. As I reached the corner of the corridor, something made me glance back over my shoulder.

Nikita had joined Michael in the access hallway.

She was talking.

He was touching.

They were still together.

But for how long?

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

What Nikita said to Michael--and what, if anything, he said back to her--I don't know. Neither of them goes around sharing the contents their intimate conversations.

And the encounter I saw in the access hallway was intimate.

Whether what was--or wasn't--said led to what followed is something else I don't know. Not for sure. But I can make a pretty good guess.

I was ordered to Operations' above-the-cannon-fodder office about forty-five minutes after our return to Section. The summons wasn't unexpected. Still, it produced a significant pucker response.

He was studying a PDA when I entered. What was on the screen, I couldn't see. It could have been critical, eyes-only information. Then again, it might have been a bunch of porn he'd downloaded from the 'Net.

He kept me standing, unacknowledged, for at least sixty seconds. The fact that I understood exactly what he was doing didn't undercut the effectiveness of the ploy very much. But I managed to keep myself pretty centered throughout. I had a little trouble with my hands at first, until I remember Michael's fingers-folded-in-front stance.

Finally, the head of Section One deigned to notice I was there.

"Davenport," he said without preamble, setting aside the PDA.

Gee. Lucky me. He'd found out who I was. I guess that meant he wouldn't refer to me as 'What's his name' if he ordered me to Abeyance.

"Sir."

"Three questions."

I almost said Okay, shoot. Fortunately, my survival instinct kicked in.

"Sir," I repeated.

"Turning Velden was your assignment, was it not?"

"Yes." Strike one.

"Yet you ceded control to a sub-class operative who'd been profiled with minimal responsibilities?"

"That's right." Strike Two.

His icy eyes bored into me, drilling to the back of my skull. "Why?"

Why?

It was Strike Three, no matter what I said. That was obvious. Strike Three, and I was--

No.

Wait.

A strange sort of feeling settled over me. If you want the truth, I felt like I'd just taken a primo hit of acid. Something inside me seemed to break free and float up to the ceiling.

"Command decision," I answered, meeting his gaze. "Sir."

There was a long, unpleasant pause. I didn't do much breathing while it lasted. Finally, Operations picked up the PDA again and resumed his study of it.

"Dismissed," he said.

I pivoted. Headed for the door. The skin between my shoulder blades itched. I guess I was expecting a bullet in the back.

"Davenport!"

I halted. Turned back. I was vaguely surprised to see Operations was still holding the PDA. I'd braced myself for a gun.

"Sir?"

"I'm afraid Michael won't be available to compensate for your field deficiencies in the future."

My entire body clenched. I almost lost it.

They'd cancelled him. The fucking bastards had cancelled him!

"S-sir?" I managed.

Operations smiled. The curve of his mouth was narrow. And nasty.

"He was reinstated to Level Five status about thirty minutes ago. At his request."

*****

There was a bunch of speculation about what happened to Michael. And much debate about why.

Nikita's name came up. A lot.

The fact that she was no longer seen leaving Section with Michael at the end of a shift was frequently mentioned, too.

The general consensus was that whatever they'd had together--and there was no doubt they'd had a hell of a something!--, it was over. Michael was back in the fold, obeying the Section line on the issue of relations between operatives. He was the heir apparent once again, ready to carry out Operations' every command.

I wasn't so sure.

My doubts about the "general consensus" started nine days after Michael's reinstatement. I'd been tapped for a two-tier team he was running for a surgical take-down and weapons extraction involving a Red Cell splinter group. McDaniel and Nikita were part of the roster, too.

The mission had the potential of turning into a major cluster fuck. It was multi-task, pegged to a series of sequential objectives. It also carried an Oversight mandate about discretionary execution.

Put it this way. We were supposed to tap dance on quick sand without leaving a toe print while juggling chainsaws, raw eggs, and Ebola-infected monkeys.

We achieved closure.

We achieved goddamned closure on all counts and we were fucking flawless while we did it. Even that little weasel Hillinger, who was backing Birkoff on comm, was impressed.

Operations picked apart every move during the debrief, plainly searching for something to fault. But there was nothing for him to find. And if he thought nobody noticed how pissed off that made him, he needed to consult Madeline about a psych evaluation.

"I believe that's sufficient," he finally announced, standing up. Then he switched on a smile and said, "Excellent work, Michael. You and your team are to be commended."

Silence.

Stone. Cold. Silence.

I wish I'd had a way to clock how long Michael sat in his chair on the opposite side of the briefing table, saying nothing. Because it felt like an hour. And during that "hour," he took Operations apart with his eyes and put him back together.

I had the impression Operations ended up with his head up his butt during the reconstruction.

"I'll remember that," Michael said at last, getting to his feet.

Operations' brows veed together. "Remember what?"

"That my team and I are to be commended." A pause. Then, quietly, "Is that all?"

Maybe Operations didn't hear the "As if I give a damn" lurking underneath the politeness. I certainly did.

"Yes," the leader of Section One snapped. "For now."

We trooped out. Michael led the way. I was a step or two behind. I was comfortable with my position. When Michael stopped a few strides down the corridor, I did, too.

McDaniel walked by. Not swaggering, exactly. But not slinking, either. I gave him points for guts.

"McDaniel," Michael said softly.

McDaniel halted with a jerk. He sucked in a deep breath. Then he squared his shoulders and turned around.

"Yeah?" His eyes darted from Michael to me and back again.

"Good job."

For a second, I honestly thought McDaniel was going to soil himself. Or puke up everything he'd eaten in the past couple of days. Maybe both.

"G-good--?" he finally got out.

"Yes," Michael affirmed. "Thank you."

The phrase 'killing with kindness' flitted through my mind.

McDaniel managed a nod, then pivoted and walked on.

I was so interested in watching to see whether he'd make it around the corner without collapsing that I didn't registered Nikita's approach. I turned when I heard her voice.

"Am I done?" she asked.

"Yes," Michael answered. "You can go home."

I saw Nikita's lips part and her nostrils flare. She flushed all the way up her face. Emotions I knew it would be unwise to identify shimmered through her eyes.

"Sounds good," she said huskily, tilting her chin. Her hair spilled back from her face. She lift her right hand and sifted a few strands through her fingers. The gesture was...suggestive. "'Night, then."

"Good night, Nikita."

I didn't say anything. I don't think either one of them would have registered it if I had.

Michael watched her walk away. I did, too.

"What about you, Michael?" I asked after she rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

"What?" He was still staring down the corridor.

"Can you...go home?"

Section's top op looked at me. There was no sign of the resigned endurance I'd once seen on his face. He looked...alive.

He also looked even more dangerous than his reputation maintained he was. The gloves were off. I had the sense he'd made a decision to stop holding back. To start laying it all on the line.

"No," he said, his voice low and fierce. His eyes shifted back to the end of the hall. Not yet."

THE END

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