Prologue

Regan understood that she had only a moment or two left to live. She could read her death warrant -- signed, sealed, and ready to be executed -- in Nikita's unblinking blue eyes.

Just a few days after her promotion from trainee to probationary candidate, Regan had overheard someone describe the older woman's wide-set eyes as being the color of a summer sky. She'd been stunned speechless by the comparison. Summer skies were warm and vibrant with life. Astonishingly beautiful though their unusual hue might be, Nikita's eyes were cold and devoid of emotion. Not quite inhuman, but frighteningly close.

No matter, the uneasy whispers about how "different" the tall, black-clad blonde had been, not all that long ago. All Regan knew was what she'd observed during the past month. And what she'd observed was that Nikita was as hard as stone. As frigid as ice. She didn't seem to feel anything.

No pain.

No pleasure.

No ... passion.

*Nothing.*

Regan whimpered as the terrorist who'd grabbed her scarcely a minute ago tightened his grip on her. The muzzle of the gun he was holding burrowed viciously into the tender flesh beneath her chin. She could visualize in hideous detail -- thanks to Section's training -- the physical devastation a bullet fired into that portion of her body would cause.

At least the end would be quick, she tried to console herself.

Heaven knew, she didn't want to die. But if it came to that, as it obviously was going to within the space of a few heartbeats, Regan realized she'd rather be killed by an enemy than by a supposed ally. The former had *some* shred of meaning. The latter ...

She bit her lip, stifling a sob of self-pity. It wasn't fair! She was a probationary computer tech, not a qualified cold op. She was supposed to be shadowing Gail in Systems, not racing around on a mission! She hadn't been allowed out of Section -- never mind been deployed in the field - for *two godawful years.*

But novice or not, she'd done the job she'd been assigned and done it well, she reminded herself fiercely. She'd go to her grave comforted by the memory of her mission leader giving her a quick nod of approval when she'd reported that she'd successfully completed the encryption link and transfer.

She closed her eyes for an instant, reliving that glorious moment of communion. Michael -- yes, *Michael!* -- had taken note of her presence and recognized her worth.

She'd heard gossip about the enigmatically compelling Class Five operative and his former material, of course. Rumors of a private relationship that had violated protocol and provoked an awful punishment were rampant in Section. But Regan didn't believe a word of them. She'd watched Michael and Nikita carefully every time she'd had a chance. While there was no denying that they made a remarkable professional team, she'd picked up no hint of an emotional attachment between them. She'd seen no affectionate touches. No exchanges of significant looks. Indeed, there were moments when she would have sworn that Nikita didn't give a --

The savage dig of the terrorist's fingers yanked Regan back to cruel reality. She reopened her eyes.

Her captor stank of exertion and fear. He also had an erection. Despite the layers of clothing they both had on, Regan was shamefully conscious of the hard rise of his penis pressing against her backside.

"I kill her," he threatened in a thick accent. Regan caught a whiff of fetid breath. Her gorge rose. She flashed on a humiliating image of expiring in a puddle of her own vomit.

"Go ahead," Nikita responded flatly, leveling her weapon with great deliberation.

Oh ... God, Regan thought, suddenly unable to breathe. Her gaze flicked from Nikita's unwavering cerulean eyes to the carefully blanked faces of the two male operatives flanking her. It was plain that there would be no eleventh-hour show of save-the-damsel gallantry from either one of them.

The terrorist jabbed her with the gun again, hissing what sounded like a curse. Regan dimly registered that something warm was trickling down her inner left thigh.

Blood? she wondered dizzily.

No.

Ugh!

She'd peed on herself.

"You no care?" the terrorist demanded harshly, betraying his abysmal ignorance of the people with whom he was so foolishly trying to cut a deal.

"Not anymore." Nikita's voice was uninflected. "Her work is done."

Regan struggled to draw air into her lungs. Why she was bothering, she didn't know. She was expendable. A corpse-to-be, teetering on the brink of an open grave.

Time stretched out.

Slowed down.

But it didn't ... quite ... stop.

Regan watched, horrified, as Nikita's trigger finger began to tighten on the trigger.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

Oh--

*Nikita, no.*

The faintly accented command -- calm, quiet, utterly confident of obedience -- came from somewhere behind Regan. It was punctuated by the distinctive *splat* of a weapon being fired.

Almost simultaneously, Regan felt her captor convulse and something damp spackle the back of her head. A split second after that, the terrorist's gun tumbled to the floor. His body followed, landing in a graceless heap with a meat thud.

Regan gave a choked, inarticulate cry.

Dead.

He was dead.

While she ...

The world tilted and her knees gave way beneath her. She sank down on the cold concrete floor, shaking violently, gasping for air. Tucking her chin against her chest and hunching her narrow shoulders, she tried to gather herself into a protective ball. A moment later, she felt a slimy glob of something ooze onto her cheek.

She lifted her hand and wiped the stuff off. Her fingers came away from her face soiled with a revoltingly sticky mix of reddish-brown liquid, tiny white chips and pulverized, putty-colored goo.

*Wha--?* she wondered numbly, staring at the mess.

And then she realized.

*Oh, God!*

What she had on her hand was coagulating blood. And shattered bone. And bits of a dead man's brain.

She retched. Nothing came up. She retched again. Greenish-yellow bile flooded her tongue and dribbled over her trembling lips.

Somewhere in the back of her disgust-dazed brain, Regan registered the sound of the coolly authoritative voice of the man who'd stopped Nikita from killing her.

Michael.

Giving orders.

"Target secured," she heard him say. "Alternate egress in fifteen, all teams out. Back-up in the pocket, lateral transit. Birkoff, full sanitation on my signal."

A moment later, someone grabbed the back of her mission jacket and unceremoniously hauled her to her feet. Regan felt like a kitten being lifted by the scruff of its neck. She staggered, was abruptly steadied, then found herself staring up into Michael's mesmerizing green-gray eyes.

"Y-you ... you s-saved ... my l-l-life," she stammered, scrubbing her gore-filthy fingers against her pants. She wanted to touch him, she realized. More than anything, she wanted to reach out and make physical contact with him. She needed to know that this -- that *he* -- was real.

"You were off mark," her superior informed her trenchantly, then pivoted on a booted heel and strode away. Nikita and the two men with her turned and fell in behind him, their steps perfectly synchronized. None of them looked back.

Regan stared after them, her jaw slack, her heart pounding like a trip hammer.

"Move it," a gruff, vaguely familiar voice commanded. The laconic instruction was accompanied by a semi-shove.

Regan took a stumbling step forward, then turned toward the burly operative who'd just addressed her. Weitz, she thought his name was. But she wasn't sure. A Class Two. Frequently crude, but extremely competent.

"Michael saved my life." Even to her own ears, her voice sounded annoyingly shrill. But it suddenly seemed desperately important that she get someone to acknowledge what had happened. "He ... saved ...*my life."*

The bald-headed operative caught her right upper arm in a bruising grip and began dragging her down the hallway.

"Incidental," he growled.

"But--"

"'But' nothing, cupcake," her unsolicited escort interrupted with bludgeoning frankness. "Michael doesn't give a rat's ass about your life. That little stunt was about salvaging Nikita's soul."

*Huh?*

Regan started to giggle as the implications of Weitz' statement sank in. She couldn't help it. Hysterical laughter welled up her throat and bubbled out of her mouth.

"N-Nikita's ... *s-s-soul?"* she managed to repeat, nearly choking on the absurdity of the idea. She staggered again, bumping into a wall. Tears blurred her vision. Her head started to spin.

Still, she kept laughing.

And laughing.

*"Oh, f---,"* she heard her companion mutter. He sounded more exasperated than angry.

A second later, Regan saw him draw back his large, black-gloved fist. Although his intention was brutally clear, her brain refused to accept it until he actually slugged her in the jaw.

There was a sudden star burst of pain, followed by a sickening tumble into oblivion.

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

The leader of Section One stared down at his domain, frustration gnawing at him like a rabid rat. There was something wrong, he thought with an inward grimace. He couldn't define what it was with any exactitude, much less formulate a plan for correcting it. But *something* was ... off.

Like iron filings to a magnet, his gaze was drawn to a dark-garbed couple standing at a data station off to the right. The male was chestnut-haired, well-built without being bulky, and possessed of a predatory stillness. He was armed and dressed in mission gear. The female was a lithe, Amazonian blonde. Although apparently weaponless and far more formally attired than her colleague, she, too, projected an aura of lethally concentrated energy.

The two were focused on the console in front of them, seemingly engrossed in a discussion about whatever was being displayed on it. While their bodies were separated by only a couple of inches, they never touched. There were no sideward glances, either. They both kept their eyes on the monitor as they talked. Their interaction was intense without being intimate.

Had Section been given to public recruiting campaigns -- which it most emphatically was *not* -- they could have served as the poster couple for the perfect operative team.

And yet --

The door to the aerie whispered open. Operations didn't bother to turn around. He knew -- in his gut and his groin -- the identity of the individual who'd just entered. He would have known it, even had her arrival come as a total surprise.

"They're together again," he announced without preamble, his voice tight.

"Michael and Nikita?" Madeline moved forward to join him at the transparent wall that overlooked Section's Command and Control center.

"Who else?" He gave a humorless laugh, still scrutinizing the striking-looking duo below. He did not miss the fact that they were attracting more than a few interested glances from their co- workers. Nothing too obvious. But it was plain that their presence was undercutting some people's ability to stay on task. "I know they're part of the same team at the moment, but look at them, Madeline! They're practically joined at the hip!"

"Inside Section, yes." The response was calm, but by no means complacent. Indeed, there was a definite edge to the brunette's mellifluous voice. "Outside it, no."

"Are you certain?" The question came out more sharply than he'd intended. He berated himself briefly for the lapse in control.

"Yes." Exquisite brown eyes met icy gray-blue ones very steadily. "Aside from the one encounter at Nikita's apartment following her adjustment -- which we anticipated --, there's been no unsanctioned contact between them for more than a month."

Operations shook his head, recalling the surveillance tape of the "encounter" to which his second in command had just referred. He didn't buy it, he grimly admitted to himself. Nikita's rejection of Michael, yes. That rang true, given Section's systematic severing of her psychological ties to her one-time trainer. But Michael's seemingly sanguine acceptance of her turning away from him ...

*That* he didn't believe for a nanosecond!

He'd *seen* the expression on the younger man's face when his former trainee had pulled her hands free of his and declared that she didn't love him anymore. While he was well aware that Michael had a damnable genius for compartmentalizing his feelings, he couldn't wrap his mind around the idea that the anguish in that expression could have been completely set aside or locked away.

*It just wasn't possible!*

Somewhere deep inside him, the man who'd been born Paul Wolfe wondered whether his skepticism about his top operative's behavior was the product of some perverse form of disappointment. While the prospect of dealing with a Class Five operative in open rebellion against Section wasn't a pleasant one, there was a part of him that craved --

"What are her latest numbers?" he asked abruptly, slamming the brakes on his previous train of thought.

"Ninety-seven point three." The answer was quick. Obviously, the query had been expected.

"Above projection." He didn't like anomalies. Not even anomalies that could be classified as good news.

"Within parameters. And consistent over time."

"What about his?"

"Essentially perfect."

"Essentially ... perfect." He wasn't certain whether he was pleased or pissed off by this information.

"I think it's safe to say that Michael hasn't been this single-minded since Simone's death."

There was an uncomfortable pause. The subject of the supposed demise of Michael's wife at the hands of Glass Curtain was something Operations preferred to avoid.

So, too, the memory of Michael's cold-blooded devotion to duty in the aftermath of it.

"Is he faking?" Operations finally asked, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his well-tailored trousers.

"His level of performance?" The counter-query was accompanied by a swift lift of delicately arched brows.

"No. This --" he glared down at the couple under discussion once again, searching for the appropriate word "-- this *indifference* to Nikita."

Section's chief strategist didn't respond. After a few moments, he turned his head and looked at her.

"Well?" he prompted, trying to decipher his companion's expression. "Is he faking?"

The elegant brunette seemed to hesitate. Atypical behavior, to say the least. The tension level in the aerie ratcheted up several notches. Eventually, Madeline squared her slim shoulders and turned to confront her superior -- and his question -- head on.

"I don't know," she confessed with devastating simplicity.

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

Had the woman he sometimes trusted more than he trusted himself hauled off and slapped him across the face, Operations wouldn't have been more shocked. *She didn't --?*

"It's your *job* to know," he stated harshly.

"I'm aware of that." Madeline's words were frigidly polite and accompanied by a small but significant lift of her delicate chin. "I'm *also* aware that when we embarked on this effort at damage control, it was with the explicit understanding that we were dealing with a combination of extremely complex variables. There were no guarantees about the outcome."

"There *were* probabilities."

"Based on assumptions, not absolutes."

Operations narrowed his eyes, tamping down on a sudden spurt of temper. He'd intuited when she'd buzzed to request a few moments of his time that Madeline had some unpalatable intelligence to impart. But he'd never imagined this!

"What are you saying?" he demanded, instinctively trying to slash to the bottom line. While he frequently enjoyed his second-in-command's penchant for oblique approaches, this situation required directness.

"That it's possible Michael deliberately provoked us into doing what he lacked the will to do himself."

Operations blinked, feeling as though he'd just fielded a live hand grenade. If he didn't get rid of the thing right away --

"You think he *wanted* Nikita adjusted?" he asked, expending considerable effort to keep his voice level.

His thoughts involuntarily rolled back to Michael's actions in the period immediately preceding Nikita's reprogramming. There was no disputing that the younger man's defiance of the prohibition against personal relationships between operatives had been blatant. Almost ... wanton ... in its flagrancy. The Section equivalent of waving a red flag in front of a raging bull.

Michael wasn't a fool. He had to have known that there would be a price to pay for putting desire ahead of duty.

But what if that "price" was one he considered affordable? Even ... cheap ... in terms of the return?

"Rendering Nikita compliant with Section discipline has enhanced her chances of long-term survival," Madeline declared coolly. She could have been ticking off the items on a grocery list. "We're both aware of how far Michael's gone in the past to keep her alive. Given her new mind set, it's unlikely he'll need to resort to such deviations from protocol in the future. In a broader context, reprogramming has transformed her from a distracting influence to a dependable asset."

Operations sucked in a deep breath. Expelled it very slowly. That Madeline had sidestepped the essence of his inquiry -- the true nature of Michael's intentions --, he was acutely aware. Still ...

It made sense, he conceded. The devious -- no, the *diabolical* -- scenario Section's Mistress of Mind Games had just spun was chillingly plausible.

Was Michael capable of concocting such a ruthless scheme and carrying it through? he wondered.

Before the Vacek blood cover mission, probably not, he decided after a few taut seconds of consideration. But since its soul-brutalizing completion ...

Jesus.

*Yes,* Michael was capable of it! Look at his flawlessly deceptive behavior during the action against Philo. Or at the mind-blowingly audacious tactics he'd so brilliantly employed during the Bergomi takedown.

The cliche about "Having one's cake and eating it, too" suddenly flitted through Operations' mind. Of course, the idea of Nikita playing *anybody's* passive pastry was pretty ridic--

No.

Wait.

*Dammit!*

He was thinking about the "old" Nikita.

"Wasn't the purpose of reprogramming to eliminate the bond between the two of them?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"The personal one, yes," Madeline immediately affirmed. Something in her eyes suggested that she understood the reasoning behind his query all too well. "The professional one, no. Destroying it would have been counter-productive."

Operations' gaze slewed back to the Command and Control area. Nikita and Michael were *still* together, he noted, fuming. Still focused on the task at hand. Indeed, to all appearances, they were oblivious to everything but the job they'd been assigned to do.

They were a team.

Matched.

Mated.

*Made for each other.*

The critical question was: By whose design?

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

The head of Section One abruptly recalled something his second-in-command had said a short time before.

"Not an asset," he muttered.

"Excuse me?"

Pale eyes met dark ones once again. "You said adjustment had transformed Nikita from a distracting influence into a dependable asset. I think dependable *ally* may be a lot closer to the mark."

"You may be right." The concession was careful and followed by what sounded like a sigh. "Which brings me to the reason I asked to see you. We have the results of the psych merge analysis. I realize the assessment took longer than expected. But there were a number of ... anomalies ... that required processing."

"Tell me." It was an order.

"Showing you would be more effective."

"Fine." He gestured impatiently, wanting to know the worst so he could start contending with it. "Show me."

They crossed to his computer console. Madeline swiftly typed in a lengthy access code. A moment later, data began to stream across the screen. After several seconds, a graph materialized.

"Nikita, pre-adjustment," Madeline announced. "This is a synthesis of several evaluations."

Operations grunted, eying the spiking deviations from Section standards with a peculiar blend of emotions.

Madeline tapped the keyboard. The first graph shifted upward on the screen. A second, much more stable-looking one, appeared.

"Nikita, again. Four weeks, two days, after adjustment."

"A definite improvement." But even as he issued the opinion, Operations began to question its validity.

Madeline typed in another sequence. The screen blanked for an instant, then flashed up yet another psych grid.

"Michael," she declared. "Four weeks, four days ago."

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The screen split. A fourth chart materialized.

"Michael, as of oh-eighteen-hundred yesterday."

Operations leaned forward, a scowl furrowing his forehead. Was he seeing what he *thought* he was seeing?

"And this --" Madeline paused, typing rapidly. The charts dissolved into a spinning animation, then reconstituted into a multi-colored data matrix "-- is the integrated overlay, filtered for gender singularities."

The head of Section One stared at the computer screen, a chill shivering up his stiffened spine. He recalled an old cliche about how it felt when somebody walked over your future grave site.

"Christ," he breathed, shocked. "And George describes *us* as Siamese twins. Even the divergences are complementary!"

"There's more."

Operations grimaced. "Oh, I'm sure there is."

He was also sure that this "more" would be even worse than what had already been presented.

Madeline brought up another matrix.

"What, exactly, am I looking at here?" he asked after several seconds of silent scrutiny.

"A morale problem."

"A ... *morale* ... problem?"

"We've had a point-eight slippage in hierarchical cohesion during the past month."

Operations took a few moments to consider this statistic. It wasn't cause for alarm in and of itself, he reflected judiciously. But as a precursor of a broader trend ...

Damn!

"You've pinpointed a cause?" he questioned.

"Contact with Nikita." The response was as swift as it was succinct.

"I see." And he did. Unfortunately.

"The most marked attitudinal shifts have occurred in those who've been dealing with her in mission mode. But there's beginning to be a negative ripple effect, particularly among the newest additions to the personnel roster. There are irregularities developing vis-a-vis Birkoff and Walter as well. *They're* having a small but significant spin-off influence."

Operations stared at the computer screen, calculating in his head.

"If these figures are accurate," he said slowly, "the slippage should be considerably more serious than point-eight."

"There's an ameliorating trend." Madeline called up a new data file. "The nexus is contact -- primary, secondary *and* tertiary -- with Michael."

*Michael.*

Of course.

Whom else?

"He's always had a strong impact on his colleagues," Operations acknowledged stiffly, trying not to think about the 'rebellion' Michael had orchestrated during the Philo mission. Actually, *strong* was something of an understatement. Exceptional was closer to the truth. Unique, even. Most recruits passed through their two-year training period anonymously. Michael had been noticed -- for a variety of reasons -- the first time he'd appeared in Section.

"Indeed." Madeline's tone was brittle. Perhaps she was recalling the 'impact' Michael had had on *her.* "But what we're seeing here is a departure from previous norms. There's been an increase in confidence about specific operational outcomes combined with quantifiable shift in loyalty patterns."

"In other words, he's building a power base."

"That's ... unclear. But the potential is definitely there."

Operations reached forward and switched off the screen. A moment later, he turned and stalked back to the viewing wall. He arrived just in time to see Michael and Nikita trade poker-faced nods, then head off in opposite directions at precisely the same pace.

Their separate exits from Command and Control did not pass unmarked by their colleagues.

"Can we take one of them out of play?" he asked as Madeline moved up next to him.

"No." The answer was flat. "It's imperative we maintain current performance levels, and they're critical to achieving that end. Even if sidelining could be achieved without compromising efficiency, it would generate too many questions from Oversight."

"What about an internal quarantine? Minimize their contact opportunities?"

"Not a viable option at this time, either. And again, it would precipitate awkward inquiries."

Operations drummed his fingers against the ledge that ran along the transparent wall, contemplating the activity below. Finally, he slanted a look at Madeline.

"We could always reverse Nikita's adjustment," he commented sardonically. "Put her back together the way she was."

"Mmm."

"Of course, such an action would have to be predicated on proof that Michael's 'indifference' to her *isn't* a sham and that reprogramming was his objective all along," he went on reflectively. "Otherwise ... "

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

Operations paused, fisting his hands. His companion remained silent.

" ... *otherwise,"* he concluded heavily, "we'd probably be giving him exactly what he wants."

"It's a challenging situation."

The head of Section One snorted at the euphemistic assessment.

"That's one way of putting it," he returned with a touch of acid. He could think of several others, most of which dated back to his military date. *Cluster f---* was high on the list of alternatives.

Tempting though it was, he refrained from uttering the obscenity aloud. It wasn't out of regard for his second-in-command's not-very-delicate (some might claim, non-existent) sensibilities. Rather, it was an effort to disguise how viscerally unsettled he was.

Not that he really expected the ploy to work. He had always had great difficulty hiding his true feelings from Madeline.

"I would have sworn Michael's reactions when he visited Nikita in her apartment were genuine," he admitted after several seconds, his tone changing. "Even factoring in his acting talents and the likelihood that he knew they were under surveillance, I *believed* his behavior."

An odd look slid across Madeline's ivory-skinned face.

"Your faith may not have been entirely misplaced," she said.

Operations frowned, taken aback by this ambiguous reply. "Meaning?"

"Meaning, that even if Michael's aim *was* to prod us into dealing with Nikita, he might not have been fully prepared for the consequences. Her response to him following her adjustment -- or, rather, her *lack* of it -- may have affected him more deeply than he anticipated. But now that he's had time to gauge the implications of her alteration ... "

It made sense, he decided, following the scenario to its logical conclusion. Yet the notion that Michael had deliberately orchestrated the reprogramming of his former trainee was still very difficult to swallow.

That Section's top operative was a master of manipulation, his superior was fully prepared to concede. Yet Michael's exercise of his extraordinary gift for bending other people to his will had always struck him as ... well, *honorable* wasn't precisely the adjective, but it was in the neighborhood.

For better or worse, Michael had a code of conduct and he adhered to it.

"Of course, it's *also* possible that he underestimated our reaction to his establishing a relationship with Nikita," Madeline remarked. "That he had no intention of provoking us into taking action against her and that he was truly shocked by the changes in her personality once we did. But once he recovered from the shock --"

"He may have decided that the loss of an emotionally erratic lover was outweighed by the acquisition of a loyal associate."

Their eyes met. Operations felt something twist, deep in the pit of his belly.

"It's been known to happen," Section One's chief strategist quietly affirmed.

He released the air from his lungs in a long, hissing rush, suddenly conscious of a dull throbbing in his temples.

"Why do I feel as though I've been tossed down a rabbit hole lined with mirrors?" he asked.

No reply. Which was no big deal. The question had been a rhetorical one.

"I need *facts,* Madeline," Operations declared after several seconds, his voice turning steely. "Not probabilities. Not plausible scenarios. I need to know exactly what Michael's doing and I need to know it *now.* My options for dealing with him are limited enough because of Oversight's interest in him. Lack of hard data makes the situation intolerable!"

"Understood."

There was a pause. Operations allowed his gaze to stray back to the scene below. Nikita had returned, he observed sourly. She'd taken up a position behind Birkoff, her pump-shod feet planted about twelve inches apart, her hands in the small of her back. It was basically a parade rest posture.

Her lips were moving. Although Operations couldn't make out what she was saying, it was plain her words were being directed at Birkoff.

Section's computer whiz seemed to be listening attentively to what he was being told. Yet he made no effort to establish eye contact. There was no turning around in his seat. No glancing up over his shoulder.

It was quite a departure from Birkoff's normal mode of interaction with Nikita, Operations thought edgily. Indicative, perhaps, of the "irregularities" to which Madeline had referred earlier.

Which reminded him of something.

"You've had an opportunity to go over the reports on the Dryzinski mission?" he asked.

"Of course."

"You concur with the recommendation not to put -- ah -- what's her name? The probationary tech who bolluxed up --?"

"Regan."

"Regan." Although he repeated the name, it didn't stick in his memory. The individual in question was a pawn. And pawns seldom required specific identities. "You concur with the recommendation not to put her in Abeyance?"

"For now," Madeline answered serenely. "She performed her assigned task precisely as ordered. The problem arose afterward. Not entirely unexpected, considering her probationary status and utter lack of field experience. Michael flagged the possibility during profiling. He also pressed for a substitution. But given our current personnel levels, he was told to make do."

Operations drummed his fingers once again, mentally reviewing the Dryzinski debriefs. After a few moments, he looked at Madeline.

"Do you think Nikita would have killed her?"

"Without a doubt."

"Mmm." That had been his reading, too. "Do you think Michael would have stopped another operative from shooting her, given the same set of circumstances?"

Madeline's dark gaze flickered for an instant. Then her lips curved into a thin smile. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Operations stiffened, but decided to let the non-responsive response slide. His instincts told him it would do no good to press.

"She gushed a lot about him during her debrief," he commented dryly. "What's her name. The tech Weitz cold-cocked."

"Regan."

"Right. Odd name."

"From Shakespeare, I believe."

"Ah, yes. *Lear."*

"Exactly."

*Lear* was *not* one of Operations' favorite plays. He thought the old king was a fool, voluntarily giving up power and putting his fate into the hands of two conniving females. No, when it came to Elizabethan drama, the head of Section One greatly preferred the Bard's histories.

"In any case," he picked up, "she seems quite taken with him. Michael, that is."

"Discounting the understandable gratitude for his having saved her life, there *does* seem to be an attraction," Madeline agreed. "But that's hardly unusual. A significant number of candidates -- male as well as female -- fixate on Michael."

"I don't suppose there's a chance of reciprocation in this particular instance?"

Madeline's eyes widened with something akin to horrified incredulity. Then she laughed. It was not a particularly pretty sound. As she laughed, her gaze slid from his face to the scene below. Operations didn't need to look down to determine at whom she was staring.

"Absolutely not," she stated.

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

She was creeping him out.

That Seymour Birkoff had never imagined the knockout blonde standing a few feet behind him was capable of evoking such a negative reaction was beside the point. What mattered was that Nikita had infected him with a major case of the heebie-jeebies and he was having serious trouble handling it.

She'd turned so damned cold, he thought, suppressing a shudder. Especially her eyes. Their once brilliant, life-embracing blue had iced over. Twice during the past couple of days, he'd seen her freeze somebody with a single look.

And there was a unnerving *emptiness* about her, too. It was as though she'd been drained of everything that had made her human. All that was left was a hollowed-out shell. A gorgeously efficient shell, to be sure. But a shell, nonetheless.

Section scuttlebutt had it that Nikita's transformation had first manifested itself a little more than a month ago. Birkoff couldn't attest to the accuracy of this timeframe. Four-plus weeks ago, he'd been frantically trying to figure out what had happened to Walter. He'd also been wrestling with the guilty fear that whatever it was, it was at least partly his fault. After all, *he* was the one who'd confirmed Madeline's suspicions that the weapons chief had been helping Michael and Nikita manipulate the system so they could steal time together during their missions.

The Walter who'd returned from "retirement" had upset him in ways he was still trying to analyze. The older man's mind set had been a bizarre fusion of blissed-out and blurrily belligerent. While he'd seemed okay physically, his psychological circuits obviously had been scrambled.

Fortunately, the weapons guru had reverted to emotional form after a week or so. Still, he'd remained extremely vague about where he'd been and what had been done to him.

Birkoff had tried to broach the subject several times. He hadn't been pushy about it. In fact, he'd thought his approach was pretty damned subtle. Not terribly effective, short-term. But he hadn't really expected it to be. He'd been prepared to be patient. To chip away at Walter's uncharacteristic reticence, bit by bit.

He'd been in the opening stages of his third tippy-toeing attempt to raise the "retirement" issue when the older man had stopped him dead in his rhetorical tracks.

"Leave it alone, kid," Walter had said.

"H-huh?" he'd stammered, taken aback by the grim look on the other man's seamed face.

"What I know, I'm not gonna tell. What I *don't* know ... " Section's weapons master had sighed wearily, then shaken his head. His eyes had been slightly unfocused, as though he was looking inward. *"Just leave it alone."*

Birkoff had stared intently at his friend and sometime mentor for several seconds, then nodded his head.

"Okay, Walter," he'd acquiesced, his voice quiet. "Whatever you say."

And that had been that.

Strangely enough, it had been -- no. Wait. Maybe it *wasn't* that strange, considering.

Okay, okay. Whatever. Strange or not, it had been *Walter* who'd caused him to start wondering -- and worrying -- about Nikita.

"What's up with Sugar?" the older man had inquired of him a day or two after their 'leave it alone' exchange. They'd just returned to Command and Control after a lengthy briefing.

"What do you mean?" he'd responded absently, plunking himself down at his console and entering his password. Although the mission they'd just been assigned wasn't scheduled to go active for at least forty-eight hours, he'd known it was going to be a time-consuming, pain-in-the-ass to prep. Nothing particularly challenging. Just a gazillion picky little details to attend to. He'd been eager to get down to it.

"I'm not sure. She's ... different."

Something in Walter's tone had penetrated his cocoon of professional preoccupation. He'd glanced up from his computer.

"'Different'?" he'd repeated warily, trying to gauge the older man's expression.

"Yeah. She's not --" a gesture "-- herself."

A prickle of apprehension had danced up Birkoff's spine at this point. He could have said something very similar about Walter not so long ago, he'd realized.

He'd squirmed in his chair, mentally reviewing the briefing they'd just attended. Nikita had looked more ... well, uh ... *butch* than usual, he'd reflected. Hair pulled back. Minimal goop on her face. A severely tailored outfit that was the antithesis of girly.

As for her behavior ...

Hmm. She had seemed very, um, *centered.* Really cool. Really concentrated. She hadn't so much as blinked when Operations had run down the preliminary casualty projections. It had been *Michael* who'd challenged the loss parameters and offered several suggestions for lowering them.

Birkoff had frowned. Now that he thought about it, Nikita *had* been pretty stand-offish toward him during the past couple of weeks. Of course, he hadn't exactly been Mr. Fuzzy-Wuzzy-Let's- Share-Our-Feelings, either. But still ...

It could be delayed fallout from his, er, one-night with her double, he'd theorized, a flush creeping up his face. Or payback for his setting her up during his first -- and, please God, his last! -- undercover field assignment. At the same time, she *might* be carrying a grudge because he'd spilled the beans about how she and Michael had been arranging their unsanctioned --

"I'm not the only one who's picked up on it," Walter had said flatly.

Birkoff had jerked, momentarily losing the thread of their conversation. "P-picked up--?"

"On the fact that Nikita's changed." The older man had leaned closer. Then, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level, he'd continued. "Weitz says she's been on a really weird trip since she came in from that pharmaceutical plant penetration she did with Michael."

"Genefex," he'd whispered, a sudden chill running through him. Although he hadn't been reprimanded for it, he was aware that his handling of that particular mission had been sub- standard. Shitty, even. He'd been so concerned with rescuing Walter from retirement, he'd let a lot of his usual responsibilities slide. He'd tried to justify his slipshod performance by telling himself that with Section's top op running the show in the field, his input really hadn't been required.

"That's the one," Walter had confirmed. "Genefex." He'd paused, glancing up toward Operations' perch.

Birkoff had felt no urge to follow suit; no desire to check out what the man who had charge of his life was doing. His heart had started thudding much more rapidly than usual and his palms had gone damp with sweat.

His mind had suddenly flashed back on the odd redeployment order he'd been instructed to give Nikita during the roll-up phase of the Genefex mission. The order had come from Madeline. Standard operating procedure there. Except for one thing. *Madeline,* he'd discovered several days later while performing a routine system review, *hadn't been in Section at the time the command had been executed.*

He'd swallowed convulsively, warning himself against jumping to conclusions. A couple of hinky coincidences plus Nikita being in an icebox-bitch of a mood did not necessarily mean that --

"They got to her," Walter had declared bluntly, yanking him out of his troubled reverie. Their eyes had met. The older man's gaze had been stern, steady, and absolutely devoid of bullshit. "I don't know what they did. Or why they decided to do it now. But they *got* to her, Birkoff. The bastards broke Nikita apart, tore out the pieces that didn't meet Section specifications, and stuck her back together."

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

Birkoff swallowed a sigh, his gaze shifting across the array of computer screens and surveillance monitors at his console. He tweaked the visual input on one of the latter, then typed in a command on his keyboard. So far, not so bad, he told himself.

The young cyber-whiz eased back in his seat a bit, knowing that Nikita was watching and evaluating every move he made. He could feel her eyes boring into his spine like a pair of ice- encrusted drill bits. It was like having Madeline breathing down his neck.

Well, no. Actually, it was *worse* than that. Over the years, he'd become accustomed to Madeline's be-perfect-or-be-punished approach to personnel management. He didn't like it. But he'd learned to endure it.

Trying to adjust to receiving the same ruthlessly judgmental treatment from someone he'd come to cherish as a friend was another story.

Walter's gravel-voiced diagnosis echoed insidiously through his brain.

*I don't know what they did,* he heard the older man assert. *Or why they decided to do it now. But they got to her, Birkoff. The bastards broke Nikita apart, tore out the pieces that didn't meet Section specifications, and stuck her back together.*

Whether this ugly theory was correct, Birkoff couldn't say. He'd raked the system twice during the past ten days, breaching a number of security provisions and peeling down at least one layer deeper than he was positive he could go without being detected. He'd come up with a few nasty anomalies and several very questionable deviations from protocol. But as far as concrete, confirmable data about Nikita's present disposition went ...

*Nothing.*

Zero.

Zip.

Zilch.

Birkoff's gut told him that Walter's assessment was right on the money. That The Powers That Be had, indeed, f---ed with Nikita's head and finally succeeded in forcing her into a Section-approved mold. Unfortunately, the geek part of him was extremely wary of playing hunches. Operating on intuition was not his style. He wanted -- *needed* -- empirical evidence before he could decide on a course of action.

The flash of a data variation flag on one of his screens -- a legacy of that prick, Greg Hillinger -- snagged his attention.

*Shit!*

Just what he didn't need.

"Birkoff --" Nikita's voice prodded a split second later.

"I'm on it," he snapped, swiveling his chair and switching keyboards. He clicked on a shortcut, they keyed the mission comm link. "Michael?"

There was a brief crackle of static.

"Yes, Birkoff?"

"We've got an update from quadrant three. That interference you projected just popped up. I'm going to route the intel through --"

"I have it, thank you."

Not for the first time, Birkoff wondered how the older man managed to sound courteous rather than curt when he interrupted someone.

"Uh -- okay," he responded after a moment, his gaze bouncing back and forth between two screens. Geez. Michael didn't just *have* the new intel. He'd already factored it in!

Typical. On top of all his other talents, the Class Five op had an unparalleled ability to anticipate trouble. A significant number of his colleagues contended he could see around corners.

Birkoff chewed his lower lip, making a few calculations. He keyed the link again.

"Michael, you're up to plus-six alpha at this point." he said carefully.

"Yes."

"That's right on the line." Actually, it would have been way *over* it, had the operative on the other end been anyone else.

"Understood." Michael's voice was cool and quiet, giving no indication of whether he was aware he was running point for a locked profile which, in Birkoff's not-so-humble opinion, rated dangerously high on the suck-o-meter.

"Nikita --"

"Clearing for a two-point-eight degree roll, Michael," the blonde announced without missing a beat. Her tone was calm, very much like her former mentor's.

"Three in reserve?" It wasn't really a question.

"Delta split. I'll adjust the secondary matrix."

"Fine. Advancing the vector ... *now."*

There was a moment's pause as the tactical changes cycled through.

"Confirmed," Nikita declared.

"Locked and loaded," Birkoff seconded, feeling a little like the cliched third wheel. The two operatives didn't seem to have much need for him.

"On mark in nine," Michael concluded.

The computer whiz clicked off the comm link. There was an open bag of peanut M&Ms to his right. He grabbed a couple and popped them into his mouth. A few weeks ago, he would have automatically offered to share the candies with Nikita -- assuming she hadn't already filched a handful or two. But as things stood ...

Oh, the hell with it, he told himself. Maybe Walter's paranoia-inducing hypothesis was wrong. Maybe Nikita's broom-up-the-butt manner was the product of some female Ugly Mood Swing, not Section psycho-conditioning. And if *that* were the case, a dose of chocolate might help sweeten the situation.

Birkoff picked up the bag and rattled it. But he didn't turn around. Extending an edible olive branch to Nikita was one thing. Meeting her chilly azure eyes was another.

"Want some?" he asked, striving to sound casual.

"No." An awkward pause. Then, very stiffly, "Thank you."

For reasons he couldn't adequately explain, Nikita's belated expression of gratitude disturbed Birkoff more than the abrupt refusal that had preceded it. For a moment, he thought this was because it reminded him of Michael's scrupulously polite manner. He then decided that this was unfair to the older man. Even when he was operating in sub-zero machine mode, Michael's civility seemed uh -- uh -- well, *genuine.* His former material, on the other hand, had sounded as though she'd been reciting the words off a cue card!

"Suit yourself," he retorting, plopping the M&M bag back down on his console. He knew he was being snotty, but he couldn't help himself. "That leaves more for me."

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

To underscore his point, Birkoff scooped up a greedy handful of the candies and stuffed them into his mouth. He crunched noisily for several seconds -- praying that Michael wouldn't come back on link and ask him a question --, then washed the chocolate-peanut mash down with a big slurp of coffee.

Intent on annoying, he smacked his lips several times. As he did so, he let his gaze stray toward the data station where Nikita and Michael had spent so much time conferring prior to the mission team's departure. The image of the two, absorbed in intense conversation, filled his mind's eye. If ever there'd been a man and a woman made for each other ...

He shook his head. Whether he was denying his last thought or simply trying to jolt it out of his brain, he didn't know.

Brilliant though he might be, the twenty-something computer genius had accepted that he was pretty much clueless when it came to understanding the bond between Section's top operative and his former trainee. This yawning gap in his comprehension had bothered him until he'd tumbled to a startling truth: *Nobody else had a handle on their relationship, either!*

Not even Madeline.

In the beginning, Birkoff had viewed the pair through the usual mentor-material template. That Nikita had appeared to alternate between lusting for Michael's undivided attention and loathing his guts had been no great surprise. The Class Five operative had an ungodly knack -- if knack was the right word -- for evoking intense reactions from those with whom he came in contact.

What had thrown Birkoff for a loop was his slowly dawning realization that Michael was not indifferent to his beautiful blonde subordinate.

At first, he'd assumed this departure from pattern signified nothing more meaningful than a carnal itch. Nikita, after all, had everything it took to excite a man's interest. And Michael -- for all his undeniable self-discipline -- had a very strong libido.

Gradually, though, he'd had to revise this strictly-sex assessment. It had become clearer and clearer that the connection between the two ran a lot deeper than a primitive urge to merge.

The clincher had been the way the older man had acted after his former trainee's supposed cancellation. God! When he remembered Michael's disaffected, semi-suicidal behavior in the field ...

Man, oh, man.

That had been bad. *Very* bad.

Of course, things had gotten *really* confusing after Nikita had turned up alive and been reclaimed by Section. First, there'd been the Jurgen mess. Then, the X-rated Armel mission. Next had come the cross-double-cross s--- storm involving Adrian followed by the punch-to-the-gut revelation of the Vacek blood cover.

Finally, there'd been Michael and Nikita's open defiance of the prohibition against emotional relations between operatives. The capper to *that* incredible development had been Nikita's apparent transformation from a stubbornly compassionate human being into a hard core, Killer Barbie.

Birkoff grimaced and took another drink of his rapidly cooling coffee. His thoughts drifted back to the comm link exchange of a few minutes before. Despite their difference in temperament, Michael and Nikita had always been a good professional fit. But lately ...

Two of a kind, he reflected. Totally in synch. There'd been times during the last couple of missions when he could have sworn they were reading each other's minds.

Birkoff suddenly recalled a conversation he'd had with Walter about a week after their "they've- messed-with-Nikita's-head" talk. He'd gone to the weapons master's work space to check on the men that had been retrieved during a raid on a Red Cell base.

He'd found Walter completely engrossed in dissecting the device. As he'd opened his mouth to make his presence known, he'd happened to look up toward Operations' aerie. He'd seen the head of Section One talking with Michael.

*With* him. Not..*at* ... him.

It had struck him as kind of weird.

And then, Operations had smiled! Not smirked, not sneered, not showed his teeth, but really, truly *smiled* at his top operative.

Birkoff's stomach had lurched as a frighteningly plausible scenario had occurred to him.

"You think they did something to him, too?" he'd blurted out, too appalled to be cautious.

Walter had started, his gray-haired head coming up with a jerk. "Huh?"

"Michael." He'd edged closer to the work table, reminding himself to keep his voice down. His mind had been racing. "If they adjusted Nikita, maybe they adjusted him --"

The weapons chief had cut him off with a gesture.

"Nah," he'd said, resuming his tinkering. "No way."

The unequivocal tone of the response had nettled Birkoff.

"How can you be so sure?" he'd demanded.

Huffing out an irritated-sounding breath, Walter had set down his tools.

"Let's just say Michael's a more *complicated* piece of work than Nikita," he'd answered flatly, nailing Birkoff with a meaningful look. "Screwing with him would be too big a risk."

Birkoff had mulled this statement over for a few seconds. It made sense, he'd admitted. Although "complicated" was a gross understatement when it came to describing Michael's emotional make up. The man was a Chinese puzzle box, psychologically speaking.

And yet ...

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

"If they *haven't* reconditioned him, how come he's acting like everything's hunky dory?" Birkoff had challenged.

Walter had narrowed his eyes. "Whaddya mean?"

*"You* think Nikita's changed. *I* think Nikita's changed. If gossip's anything to go by, most of the ops in the place are convinced she's had some kind of personality transplant! But *Michael* ... "

Birkoff had paused, searching for words. Not for the first time, he'd wished he could apply his tech vocabulary to human beings. Walter had stood by silently, his bandana-encircled head angled a few degrees to the left.

"I'm not saying they're not getting along," he'd finally resumed, vaguely discomforted by the intensity of the older man's gaze. "Because they are. Only, not like they were. Before, they could crank up the temperature in a room ten degrees just by looking at each other! But lately, it's like they're not -- they're not -- uh --"

He'd exhaled heavily, rolling his eyes in frustration at his inability to articulate the impressions he'd formed. After a second or two, he'd forced himself to go on.

"Ah, hell, Walter. I don't know how to explain it! All I can tell you is that -- that *thing* they had going between them is gone." He'd held back for a moment, then spat out, "And f---ing *Michael* doesn't seem to give a good goddamn about it!"

There'd been another pause. An odd expression had slipped across Walter's face, like a cloud slipping across the moon. Finally, very softly, he'd contradicted, "Oh, I think he does, kid. I think the man cares about what's going on. Probably more than's healthy for him."

"Then why doesn't he show it?" Birkoff had hated the whiny way this query had come out. He wasn't a kid anymore. He was supposed to be beyond cranky questions.

"That's not his way."

"Well, 'his way' doesn't seem to be doing Nikita any good!"

"Mmm." Walter hadn't disagreed. Instead, he'd scratched the back of his neck, considering. Eventually he'd offered, "Could be, he's using this situation to do a little *counter*-adjusting."

"Huh?"

The older man had leaned in, beckoning him even nearer. After looking around to make certain that no one was paying undue attention to their tete-a-tete, Birkoff had complied.

"What's been Nikita's biggest problem with Michael?" Walter had asked.

*Nikita's biggest --?*

Ah. Shit. That was easy.

"That he's lied to her. Kept her out of the loop."

Walter had nodded, then cocked a brow. "You notice him doing either of those things the past couple of weeks?"

"Uh ... no," he'd conceded after a few moments' thought, conscious of a deep sense of surprise. "I haven't. As far as I know, he's been straight with her about everything since they came back from Genefex. In fact ... "

He'd stopped.

"Yeah?"

A series of fragmented recollections -- snatches of overhead conversations, brief interactions he'd witnessed but hadn't known how to interpret -- had suddenly come together.

"In fact ... *what?"* Walter had prompted again.

"In fact, Michael's taken some heat from Operations for briefing Nikita a little *too* thoroughly about a bunch of profiles," he'd finally replied. "He hasn't broken protocol, exactly. But he's come real close to it."

"Uh-huh." A glint of satisfaction had appeared in the older man's worldly eyes. "And how's she reacting?"

"To ... him, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"She isn't. I mean -- geez! You've seen her, Walter. She's like an automaton. That's part of the prob--"

He'd halted again, comprehension clobbering him right between the eyes.

"Birkoff?"

"She's--" He'd swallowed. Hard. "She's starting to trust him. *Really* trust him."

"And--?" The older man's expression had urged him to follow his assertion to its logical conclusion.

His breath had hitched in his chest as he'd done just that. He'd shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

*"Oh, man ... "* he'd eventually whispered, stunned by the implications of the scenario he'd just spun out.

"That 'thing' Michael and Nikita have going for them ain't gone, kid," Walter had declared with a crooked grin. "Not permanently. You can't kill an active volcano by jamming a cork in it. Oh, sure, you may cool things off for a while -- lull a lot of people into thinking it's gone dormant. But sooner or later --" he'd gestured, "kuh-blooey! Nature wins."

At this point, Birkoff had glanced over his shoulder once again, his gaze arrowing up toward Operations' aerie. Michael had vanished. The head of Section One had been joined by his second- in-command. The two had been standing side by side, surveying the scene below.

"Do you think they realize?" he'd asked after several seconds, his voice tight with stress. He'd found it almost impossible to imagine that they didn't. Surely the decision to recondition Nikita -- assuming that that was what the leaders of Section One had done -- had been preceded by a detailed analysis of how such a reconditioning might affect those around her. And *surely* the potential impact on Michael had been scrutinized with special --

Holy cow, he'd thought, his blood pressure soaring as a shocking new idea had occurred to him. Was it possible that for all their apparent efforts to break Michael and Nikita apart, Operations and Madeline's *true* goal was to bring them together? To fuse them into some Section super- couple? Could it be that the hell the two cold operatives had been -- *were being* -- put through was some sort of ... of ... *tempering* process?

"Now that's an interesting question," Walter had remarked dryly.

He'd pivoted back, shaking. *"Interesting?"*

"Could be, this is working out exactly the way they figured it would." The weapons chief had grimaced. "Then again, they may be discovering that playing God can have unintended consequences."

"So, you think --"

"Of course, there *is* another scenario you might want to chew over."

He'd hesitated, wary of Walter's tone. Finally, cautiously, he'd asked, "Which is?"

"That Michael's acting like everything's hunky dory because he thinks it is."

*"WHA--"* he'd started to yelp, but managed to turn down the volume, mid-syllable "--at?"

"Don't sound so surprised. There're plenty of reasons for him to like the new Nikita better than the old one."

"No way!"

"Think about it, Birkoff. No more pain in the butt unpredictability. No more inconvenient displays of compassion. Michael's finally got himself a partner who's as professional as he is. Somebody he can depend on to get the job done and stay with the program. *Somebody he's making damned sure is on his side."*

"You can't be serious." He'd had to struggle to get the words out. It was no secret that the older man's feelings about Michael were decidedly mixed. But to suggest that Nikita's former mentor would cold-bloodedly --

"And there's something else to consider," Walter had gone on, seemingly oblivious to the dismay his hypothesis had provoked. "You remember when Operations went to Center and Michael took over? Well, Sugar didn't adjust to his new status very well. It shook her up, seeing how comfortable he was, being in charge. She thought having power changed him, you know? And *not* for the better. I don't think she'd react that way now. If truth be told, I'd lay money that the idea of Michael being in command might just turn her --"

*"Birkoff."*

Two voices, differently accented but identically inflected and perfectly synchronized, bullied Section's chief computer geek back to the present. Commanding himself to focus on the task at hand and forget about everything else, Birkoff checked the read-outs on the console in front of him with a swift, sweeping glance.

"Got it," he answered grimly, shifting into mission mode. "Going to reflux modulations in five ... four ... three ... "

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

*Are you okay, Michael?*

Four simple words. Yet Chris Davenport -- convicted killer, mission-hardened veteran of the most covert anti-terrorist organization on the planet -- wasn't able to summon the nerve to utter them.

Well, no. That wasn't absolutely true. He probably would have gotten the first three words out okay. No matter that questioning another cold op -- *any* cold op -- about his or her post- mission status was a potentially dangerous breach of unwritten Section etiquette. He *could* have managed the 'Are you okay?' part without breaking a sweat. But when it came to articulating the name ...

Nope.

Choke time.

Davenport shifted uncomfortably, scowling inwardly as he contemplated his gutlessness.

The realization that he'd almost certainly be rebuffed if he actually put the question to his team leader did precious little to mitigate his displeasure with himself. Davenport fervently believed that there were times when a man ought to have the stones to damn the risk to his fingers and reach out.

This, plainly, was one of those times.

Because Michael *wasn't* okay. Oh, sure, he had his game face firmly in place as he flawlessly discharged his duties. But Davenport suspected that behind the seemingly impervious, I've-got- everything-under-control mask, the man was in a major amount of pain.

He suspected this because he'd been knocked to the ground by the same explosion as Michael and the experience had left him feeling as though he'd been pounded on with a sledgehammer. He was also suffering from intermittent spells of blurry vision and tinnitus. Given that Michael had been a lot closer to the blast than he ...

Davenport shifted again. *Christ, he hurt!*

That "hurt" was preferable to dead went without saying. And he was acutely aware that *dead* was probably what he would have been at this point, had Michael not instigated some radical changes into today's mission.

He'd seen the profile. Before *and* after Michael had gotten his clever hands on it. In the normal order of things, he shouldn't have had access to the preliminary plan. But somebody -- he didn't have a clue as to whom -- had routed it to his PDA.

He'd read it. Twice. Then he'd purged it, doing his best to erase any hint he'd ever seen the thing.

He'd been grappling with the document's ominous implications for his personal fate when he'd been summoned for a briefing.

He'd been stunned when Operations had outlined the revised profile, although he was pretty sure he'd hidden his reaction. Barring some unforeseen disaster, his chances of survival had been jacked way, way up. Michael's, on the other hand, had nosedived.

He'd sought out the Class Five operative following the briefing, managing to catch him alone in his office. He hadn't been certain what he'd intended to say. But he'd been sure that he needed to say *something.*

"You reconfigured the original profile," he'd stated flatly when Michael had looked up from his computer terminal.

If Section's top op had been surprised by this assertion -- or by the unsanctioned degree of knowledge it had revealed -- he hadn't shown it.

"Yes," was all he'd said.

"Final egress is at maximal compression."

Translation: *If there's any hitch at all during execution, there'll be no f---ing time for you to get out in one piece.*

Michael had studied him for a few moments, his expression impossible to read. Then, calmly, he'd replied, "I know."

Davenport had suddenly been gripped by a fierce desire to hit something. Or somebody. He'd clamped down on himself until the impulse toward unproductive violence had passed. By the time he'd gotten himself back under control, his superior had returned to inputting on his keyboard.

"Michael," he'd said, his voice rougher than normal.

Michael had continued typing for several seconds, then glanced up once again. He'd said nothing.

Davenport had taken a deep breath. *Spit it out, man,* he'd told himself. *Just spit it the f--- out.*

"I'm more ... expendable," he'd declared.

The Class Five operative hadn't disputed the statement. He hadn't overtly acknowledged the self- sacrificing offer implicit in it, either. But there'd been a shimmer of emotion in his steady hazel eyes ...

"I'm faster," he'd finally countered, effectively ending the discussion.

No arguments there, Davenport reflected wryly, adjusting his position for a third time. Michael had been at least twenty seconds behind him when the team had gone into exit mode. Yet he'd closed a significant chunk of the distance between them before the explosion had gone off, slamming both of them off their feet. Davenport strongly suspected that Michael would have overtaken him, had the blast not --

WHOA!

*What the--?*

The mission van hit a sudden series of dips in the road, bouncing the operatives it contained around like beans. One even lurched completely out of his seat, landing heavily on his hands and knees.

Davenport hissed an obscenity as the Class Two who'd been drowsing to his left toppled against him, sending a shaft of white-hot pain searing across his back.

"Sorry," the operative grunted, heaving himself upright.

"Yeah, right," Davenport retorted gruffly. He knew that he'd sprained a couple of fingers when he'd gone down. He wondered fleetingly whether he might have dislocated his shoulder as well.

After gingerly rotating the joint, he decided the answer was no. Experience had taught him that dislocation would have hurt a hell of a lot worse than this particular injury did.

His gaze strayed toward the front of the van. Michael was busy at the command computer terminal, apparently unaffected by the bumpiness of the ride. If he was making a conscious effort to remain balanced, it didn't show.

Michael was the most physically gifted person Davenport had every encountered. He had a jungle cat's coordination and agility. Incredible endurance. Killer reflexes, too.

While there were any number of men in Section who were bigger and more innately brutal than Michael, there wasn't one he hadn't defeated in unarmed combat. Most, he'd outfought -- using his speed and skill to counteract their superior size and strength. A few, he'd mind-f---ed into submission. Brains, triumphing over brawn.

As much as Davenport admired Michael's athleticism, he admired his intellectual prowess even more. There'd been a time when he'd also *envied* the other man's remarkable talents -- and the rapid advancement they'd earned him. He'd gotten over that, though, when he'd begun to realize how relentlessly Michael's extraordinary abilities were exploited by their superiors. While nobody in Section had it easy, the man generally rated the front-runner to succeed Operations was cut the least slack of all.

That many members of the cold op cadre regarded Michael with an uneasy combination of awe and jealousy, Davenport was well aware. He still vividly remembered a conversation he'd overheard in the men's locker room a day or so after completion of the Vacek mission.

"Let me get this straight," a vaguely familiar voice had growled. "In addition to screwing Section's best-looking piece of material and God knows how many Valentine targets during the past five years or so, Michael was playing Mr. Happily Married with some mark?"

"You got it," another voice had affirmed with a ribald chuckle. "Section-sanctioned blood cover, involving Sala Vacek's daughter. Ilene. Elaine. Something like that. An innocent. A real beauty, too, from what I hear. Some luck, huh?"

"f--- luck," a third voice had exclaimed crudely. "Some *stamina!"*

"No kidding," a fourth voice had drawled. "Nikita moved in with Michael and missus right before the mission went critical."

"You're shitting me!" This, from the operative who'd spoken second.

"I s--- thee not," had come the unequivocal response. "Ask Birkoff. Or Walter. Hell, if you've got a death wish, ask the man himself."

There'd been a volatile silence.

"Can you imagine?" the first speaker had finally asked with a bitter laugh. "While we were parking our sorry asses in Section-assigned rat holes, Ops' golden boy was cruising home to some cushy place in the suburbs and canoodling with his adoring little wife."

"Don't forget the kid."

"Kid? What kid?"

"Michael had a kid with what's-her-name. A son."

*"Jee-sus H ... "*

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

Davenport's initial reaction to news of Michael's long-running role as husband and father had been similar to that of his comrade-in-arms -- disbelief mixed with a touch of nice-work-if-you-can-get- it resentment. But then he'd begun thinking about what a five-year-plus blood cover must have entailed. The more he'd contemplated the scenario, the uglier it had seemed.

How Michael had managed to maintain his cold op status *and* his outside-of-Section masquerade, he had no idea. But he realized that in order to do so, the other man had to have been on guard for every single second of every single day. There'd been no such thing as down time for him for the duration of the Vacek mission.

No chance for anything remotely resembling a happy ending, either. From the beginning, Michael had known that there would come a day when he would be ordered to turn his back on his wife and son and walk away from them. Abandonment -- absolute, unforgivable -- had always been on the agenda.

Exactly what Michael had felt for his blood cover family, Davenport couldn't say. But given the way he'd unraveled after Vacek had been eliminated and closure achieved, it was obvious that he'd felt something ... and felt it intensely.

There'd been a lot of whispering about Michael's near-meltdown after the "murder" of his alter- ego in Elena Samuelle's hospital room. While a few operatives had seemed to relish his deterioration, the majority of them had been unsettled by it. Michael's ability to do the job superlatively, no matter what, was something on which they relied. And once the rumor that he was only a mistake away from Abeyance -- or worse -- had started circulating, tension in the ranks had escalated to dangerous heights. If he'd gone down for the count ...

Davenport didn't want to think about it.

There was still considerable debate about exactly what set of circumstances had caused Michael to step back from the brink and reclaim his Section status. Even the operatives who'd been on the mission when he'd reverted to professional form weren't completely clear about the details. But one thing on which everybody agreed: Michael's recovery was inextricably tied to his relationship with Nikita.

Whatever the hell that relationship *was* these days.

Davenport slanted a glance at the operative who'd fallen over on him. Pollard, his name was. He was sub-station transfer who'd shown up on the scene at the beginning of the month. Professionally, he seemed solid. Nothing special, which was okay. Special wasn't a requirement for his particular slot. Personally, though ...

Davenport gave a quiet snort of contempt, flexing his hands in a bid to keep his injured fingers from stiffening. His thoughts drifted back to a conversation he'd had with Pollard shortly after his arrival at Section's HQ.

For reasons nobody had bothered to explain -- big surprise! --, he'd been assigned the task of showing the newbie around. Although a part of him had resented being ordered to play tour guide, he'd taken the job seriously.

A visit to Walter's work space had been the final item on their itinerary. He'd figured any cold op worth his salt would want to devote a good chunk of time to getting to know Section's weapons chief. He'd also thought it might be useful to get the older man's reading on Pollard.

Walter had been nowhere in sight when they'd reached his equipment cluttered alcove. But one of Davenport's few in-Section friends had been standing at the work table, methodically taking apart a semi-automatic.

"Weitz," he'd greeted the other man, genuinely pleased.

"Hey, Davenport," the beefy, bald-headed operative had responded, his sausage-sized fingers moving over the weapon with caressing delicacy. After a moment or two he'd paused, lifting his eyes to give Pollard an assessing look. Then he'd glanced at Davenport and inquired, "Fresh meat?"

Davenport had kept his face straight. "Weitz, Pollard," he'd said. "Pollard, Weitz."

The two Class Twos had exchanged wary nods. Had Davenport been asked to speculate about what each was thinking, he would have guessed that Pollard had been wondering whether he could take Weitz in a fight; Weitz, about whether Pollard would prove trustworthy in the field.

They'd talked for a couple of minutes. Typical cold op conversation. Training stats. Mission experience. Weapons preferences. Then, without warning, Pollard had broken off in the middle of a sentence and stared over Davenport's shoulder.

"Who the hell is *she?"* he'd demanded, a hotly covetous gleam sparking in his dark eyes.

Davenport had glanced behind him. *Shit,* he'd thought a split second later, realizing who'd grabbed Pollard's attention.

"Nobody you want to screw with," he'd said bluntly, hoping the other man would get the message and drop the subject.

Major news flash. Pollard hadn't.

"And why's that?" he'd asked, licking his lips. He'd still been staring.

"Because the mood Blondie's been in lately, she'll rip off your balls and ram them down your throat if she catches you checking her out that way," Weitz had answered matter-of-factly.

Davenport had given Weitz a warning look. Although he didn't disagree with his buddy's assertion, discussing Nikita's bitch-on-wheels attitude with an operative who'd yet to establish his credentials had not struck him as a very smart idea.

"She's taken, Pollard," he'd said, wishing he had a bucket of ice to dump on the other guy and cool him off.