"Madeline seems to think I should have some concerns about our next assignment," Nikita observed, moving to stand next to the man she'd physically attacked less than forty-eight hours before. Whether she intended it or not, she created the impression that she was joining Michael in presenting a united front against a mutual enemy.

Operations' assessment of the possible implications of the younger adjustment echoed through Madeline's mind.

*"Not a dependable asset,"* he'd said. *"A dependable ally."*

"The Cardona transfer?" Michael asked, turning his head. Madeline noted that he made no effort to close the foot or so that separated him from his former material. If it was difficult for him not to do so, she couldn't sense it.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"You've read the profile?"

"Of course."

"Well, then ..." Nikita shrugged, indifferent. "It's just sex."

"Or the appearance of it," Michael countered smoothly. He looked back at Madeline, brows slightly raised. "Unless you're mandating intimacy?"

Madeline held his gaze for several seconds. It was within her power to order the two operatives to consummate their cover, of course. And if she'd been able to predict exactly what would happen if she did ...

"No," she answered after a nasty little pause. "As mission leader, the decision rests with you."

"No love, no honor," Nikita interpolated without inflection. "Just ... obey."

It took Madeline a moment to figure out why these words were so familiar. The briefing for the Bauer mission, she recalled with a strange pang of emotion. Several lifetimes ago, that singularly perverse episode now seemed. Nikita had still been a probationary candidate for operative status. While she --

No.

Never mind what she'd still been back then.

*"Shades of gray, Nikita,"* she remembered telling the younger woman after Bauer's green-listed status had been revealed. *"Shades of gray."*

"Any concerns about that?" Michael questioned, once again focusing on his one-time trainee. Whether *he'd* recognized the source of the words she'd just uttered ...

Nikita looked puzzled. "About what?"

"Obeying me."

"Oh." Blue eyes blinked, seeming to process the question. "No."

"Good."

The blonde fiddled with the leather jacket she had slung over her shoulders. "I'll do the job, Michael," she said, meeting his gaze. "If the mission requires it ... you won't have to order me into bed."

A pause. Then:

"Nikita's been watching some of the surveillance from the Armel mission," Madeline commented.

"Have you?" Hazel eyes remained locked on sky-colored ones.

A nod.

"Why?"

"Curiosity."

"Has it been ... satisfied?"

"I -- I learned a few things." Madeline had heard an uncharacteristic edge of innuendo in Michael's inquiry. The faint hesitation in Nikita's response suggested that she'd heard it, too.

"Such as?"

Nikita waited a beat, then cocked her chin. The uncertainty hinted at by her previous answer vanished like smoke before a strong wind.

"You underestimate me, Michael," she said unequivocally.

A faint tightening in Michael's compelling features told Madeline that this assertion had struck home. For a moment, she thought he was going to challenge -- or flat-out reject -- it.

But he didn't.

"That was nearly two years ago, Nikita," he replied, his voice huskier than it had been.

"So?"

"Circumstances change."

The blonde opened her mouth, clearly intending to demand an explanation of this cryptic remark. Madeline forestalled her.

"Which brings me to why you're both here," she preemptively declared, reclaiming control of the conversation.

Another pause.

Short.

Sharp.

Decidedly unsettled.

They'd forgotten she was there, the older woman realized with a flash of incredulity. At least for a few seconds. Until she'd spoken, Michael and Nikita had been so caught up in each other, *they'd forgotten she was there.*

The two operatives turned to face her, their movements similarly smooth, their expressions identically blanked. Neither said a word. They just ... waited.

Madeline produced a smile.

"There's no disputing that the two of you have been convincing in intimate situations in the past," she stated, folding her hands in front of her. "There's *also* no disputing that one of the reasons for this was an unsanctioned relationship that no longer exists. Obtaining closure on the Cardona matter is a Section priority. I'd like to be confident that 'changes in circumstances' won't negatively impact the scenario."

"They won't." This was from Nikita.

"I'm afraid that after that display in G5, verbal assurances aren't enough."

"Do you want us to perform for you, Madeline?" It was only the second time Michael had addressed her by name since he'd entered the office. His pronunciation was deeply accented. Someone who didn't see the contemptuous look in his eyes probably would have described it as caressing.

"Actually --" another meticulously manufactured smile "-- I want you to kiss."

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

When she'd contemplated the various scenarios for this three-way encounter, Section's Mistress of Mind Games had laid several bets with herself about who would react how when -- *if* -- she decided to issue the command she'd just given. But when she reviewed what had happened, she honestly couldn't decide which ones of those wagers she'd won and which ones she'd lost.

"Kiss?" Nikita repeated, giving no indication she'd registered the question Michael had asked, much less been troubled by the exhibitionistic implications of it. She paused for a moment, one corner of her coral-pink mouth indenting. "Okay. We'll kiss."

Pivoting left, she took a half-step toward the black-garbed man standing next to her. A series of images flashed though Madeline's mind's eye. The last time Nikita had done something like this, she'd radiated an unfocused, girlish defiance. She'd still been in rebellion against the hardcore realities of her new existence.

This time ...

This time, she was a grown woman, conditioned to do her duty. She was fully aware of her feminine powers. She was also fully prepared -- if not necessarily eager -- to exploit them on command.

To kiss.

To kill.

The beautiful, blue-eyed blonde gave the impression that she saw precious little difference between the two.

Nikita would have pressed her lips flush against Michael's had he not turned his head a few degrees an instant before she made contact. Of this, Madeline was positive. She was equally sure that the younger woman would have pulled back from the embrace had her target not caught her upper arms and prevented the retreat.

"You're doing it again," Section's top operative said. His voice was mildly critical. His expression, that of a teacher contemplating a prized but problematic pupil.

"What?" Although she'd tensed at her former lover's touch, Nikita didn't try to break free of it.

"Rushing the transition."

*Rushing the --?*

And then Madeline got the reference. The younger woman evidently did, too.

"This isn't a training session, Michael," she retorted.

"Yes," he gently contradicted, his gaze flicking from her eyes to her mouth and back again. Madeline saw Nikita's nostrils flare on a swift exhalation. "It is."

The Class Five operative took his time in proving his point. He stroked upward ... then inward ... until his clever, capable hands rested at the base of Nikita's slender throat. The younger woman shuddered slightly, her lashes fluttering down as he feathered the pads of his thumbs against the pale triangle of flesh bared by the neckline of her dress.

Her eyelids flew open a moment later when he removed the metal-studded leather jacket she'd draped around her shoulders. The garment dropped to the floor, landing in an unceremonious heap a few inches behind her high-heeled boots.

*"Michael --"*

"Shhh." The sound was soft. And sensual. So, too, the slow shake of Michael's head and the silencing brush of the tip of his left index finger against his partner's partially opened mouth.

Madeline recognized the technique. She'd taught it to Michael, many years before. He'd been a superb student. The best she'd ever had.

Nikita shuddered a second time, clearly struggling with a welter of contradictory emotions as her former mentor traced the curve of her bruise-swollen lower lip. How she resolved this tangle -- *if* she resolved it -- would be crucial to determining her future within Section.

"Remember, Nikita," Michael murmured, sliding his left hand back to cradle the side of her face. "It's just ... sex."

The first kiss he gave her looked gossamer light. As insubstantial as a puff of breath. As innocent as a bit of eiderdown.

The second kiss lasted a heartbeat or two longer. Although still relatively chaste, it carried the spice of erotic intentions.

As for the third ...

It was hot. And hard. More an act of claiming than courtship.

Nikita's response probably would have deceived most people. Certainly, the voyeuristically inclined Senor Cardona. Tilting her head back and arching her supple body, she kissed without reservation. She even brought one arm up and curled it possessively around his neck.

But Madeline wasn't most people. And she *certainly* wasn't fooled. As a connoisseur of counterfeit humanity, she knew what she was watching was all pretense and no passion.

She knew, too, when that changed. When stubbornly sealed lips abruptly parted and what had been simulation turned searingly real. The surrender of calculation to carnality impacted her like a blow.

Tongues, mating.

Breaths, merging.

Bodies ... moving.

Nikita's pale fingers spasmed in Michael's copper-tinged brown hair. Her hips shifted in ancient, instinctive provocation. When her partner lifted his mouth from hers to snatch a breath, she nipped at his lower lip with her teeth.

The atmosphere in the office seemed to thin. Madeline's mouth went dry. It took her a few seconds to gather enough saliva to swallow.

Enough, she thought fiercely, fighting to slow her heart to something approaching its normal rhythm. *Enough!*

And then, with shocking suddenness, it was over. Michael ended the embrace he'd initiated with a smooth lift of his head. He retained his hold on Nikita for a moment or two, seeming to steady her, then opened his hands and stepped back.

His eyes, when he shifted them to Madeline's face, were utterly cold. Frozen jade, laced with tempered steel. If he'd felt *anything* during the kiss ...

"Sufficiently persuasive?" he inquired with implacable courtesy.

Madeline glanced toward Nikita. That the blonde Class Two operative had ended up turned away from her was no surprise. That the positioning was deliberate, she had no doubt.

*"He protected me,"* the younger woman had said, summing up how her former trainer had shielded her naked body from prying eyes after she'd more or less seduced him into making love with her.

Madeline looked back at Michael.

"Yes," she said. "Thank you."

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

"Are you sure about this?" Operations asked over breakfast the following morning.

"Aren't you?" his second-in-command parried, taking a sip of freshly squeezed orange juice. She would have preferred melon, but the one Christopher had selected had proven to be under ripe.

*"Madeline --"*

"The plan does lack a certain refinement," she acknowledged, setting down the elegantly stemmed glass from which she'd been drinking. "But considering the circumstances, I'm confident it will provide us with the insights we require."

The head of Section One plucked a piece of crisply cooked -- well, actually, semi-incinerated -- bacon from his plate and ate it.

"You see no irony in the fact that after expending considerable effort to sever the bond between Michael and Nikita, we're now giving them *carte blanche* to jump each other's bones?"

"Hardly *carte blanche."* Madeline broke off a piece of croissant and began to butter it. "And physical intimacy isn't a given."

"Mmm." Operations picked up his coffee cup and took a deep swallow from it. "A nice touch, by the way. Leaving the final decision to Michael."

"Thank you."

"Damned if he does and damned if he doesn't."

"That's one way of looking at it."

Operations set down his cup. "I gather from your notes that you've rethought the idea of allowing them to maintain a sexual relationship?"

"Assuming Nikita's conditioning holds and Michael's apparent acceptance of it proves genuine, I'd be inclined to approve an occasional liaison." Madeline tilted her head, willing herself not to remember the kiss she'd witnessed in her office. "Nothing too frequent, of course. Or ... monogamous."

"Of course not."

There was a pause. Operations applied himself to his meal with great relish, skimming the overnight intel panels as he did so. Madeline nibbled delicately on her croissant, reviewing the latest personnel matrix. What she saw was disturbing. While the bottom-line numbers remained acceptable, the underlying data had deteriorated. Even if she could finesse --

"Do you think Michael would be satisfied with that kind of arrangement?" Operations suddenly queried.

Madeline glanced across the table, clamping down on a spurt of irritation. "A great many men are."

The head of Section One raised his brows. "Present company included?"

After depositing what was left of her croissant on her plate, Madeline wiped her fingers on her napkin. She was not -- repeat, *not* -- going to wrestle around in this can of worms again.

"You were the one who mentioned the efficacy of combining punishments and rewards," she sidestepped.

Something unsettling glinted in the depths of Operations' pale eyes. For a moment, Madeline thought he was going to press the issue. Then, startlingly, the corners of his mouth relaxed into a crooked smile.

"True," he conceded with a chuckle. "But I think I also mentioned that such a system tends to lose its viability over time."

"Most do."

"Mmm."

Operations resumed his review of the intel panels. "I don't like the look of this development in Kashmir," he announced after a minute or so.

"We've set up a contingency scenario for shifting resources from Lehore and Amritsar."

No hesitation. "Activate it."

"Very well."

More reading.

"The Blau gambit appears to have turned out nicely."

"Better than anticipated," Madeline replied. "Although Kreegan's performance was a disappointment."

"Abeyance?"

"That would be my recommendation, yes."

"Fine. Where are we on the Hammas matter?"

"Still developing. We're having difficulty assessing the impact of their latest reconfiguration."

"Do we have a final casualty count yet?"

"I'm anticipating it within the hour."

"The initial on-site report made it sound exceptionally bloody. Could be we won't have to go proactive after all." Another chuckle. "If we wait long enough, they may just kill each other off."

"Perhaps."

Operations scrolled rapidly through several more files, frowning over one, nodding his approval at another. Then, very casually, he asked, "Does Michael suspect the Cardona assignment is a test?"

Madeline took the abrupt reversion to their initial subject in stride. She really had no choice.

*"Knows* is probably a more accurate evaluation."

"That won't --" a sardonic, sideward look "-- skew the outcome?"

"I shouldn't think so. Michael operates on the assumption that everything's a test."

"Well, he's not far off the mark in that."

"Indeed."

Operations picked up his coffee cup and drained it. "You'd think it would make him more amenable to control," he commented with a tinge of exasperation. "Or, at the very least, more ... predictable."

"How so?"

"He has a consistent mind set. Shouldn't we be able to utilize that to obtain consistent behavior? Testing is all very well and good, Madeline. But unless we learn something from it --"

"We do," she interrupted firmly. She'd heard variations on this rant before. "We *have.* Unfortunately, it's not a one-way process. Michael's probably learned as much about us from our testing of him as we've learned about --"

She broke off, stiffening, as Operations' omnipresent cell phone emitted a distinctive electronic *chirrup.* She knew that there was only one person who called on that particular device.

Operations picked up his state-of-the-art phone, flipped it open, and put it to his ear.

"Hello," he said calmly.

*Too* calmly? Madeline wondered, gauging his expression. Operations hadn't mentioned that he was expecting a call from Oversight. Was it possible --

"When?" A pause. Pale blue eyes met brown ones, then slid away. "Yes. Of course. I'll be there."

*I.*

The pronoun stabbed like a knife.

*I* not ... *we.*

"George?" she asked as Operations disconnected.

"Yes. He's en route now. He wants to see me in Committee in thirty minutes."

*Me.*

Another stab.

Not ... *us.*

"About?"

"He didn't say."

"And you didn't ask." Something was going on. Madeline could feel it. Smell it. Taste it.

"No." The silver-haired warrior who ran the most covert anti-terrorist organization on the planet eased his chair back from the breakfast table and stood up. "I didn't."

"I ... see."

"I'm sure you do." Operations flicked a bit of lint off the cuff of his shirt, then flashed a smile that made Madeline want to grind her teeth. "Shall I give George your regards?"

"By all means," she responded, matching his tone. "Please do."

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

"Let's dispense with the usual civilities," the head of Oversight said without preamble when he entered the area designated as Committee twenty-eight minutes and thirty-two seconds later.

"By all means," the head of Section One returned. "I prefer honesty to hypocrisy."

"'Honesty,'" George repeated, smiling thinly. "Ah, yes, Paul. One of your *fortes."*

Operations took the insult in stride. He'd gotten -- and given -- much worse in his life.

"I'm a product of my environment, George," he drawled. "Like everyone else."

There was a pause. While it wasn't quite the calm before the storm, it wasn't a companionable silence, either.

"You said you had something to tell me?" Operations prompted after several uneasy moments. He knew that Madeline would have waited the other man out. That she would have stood like a statue, her lips firmly shut, until hell froze over or her opponent started babbling.

He was capable of such tactical passivity, of course. But it wasn't his way. It had *never* been his way.

"Actually, there are *two* somethings."

"And they are --?"

The older man glanced around, his expression characteristically inscrutable.

"The first is that Oversight is approving your proposal for Level Ten," he replied offhandedly. "Full budget. Although we *will* be requiring more fiscal accountability than you outlined." He brought his steely gaze back to Operations' face. "Given your penchant for honesty, I'm certain you can understand the reasoning behind that."

It took Operations a few seconds to process the information he'd just been given. Of all the items he'd speculated that George might have on his agenda, this -- *this!* -- had never entered his head.

Level Ten. Approved! What a coup!

He wasn't pleased by the strings being attached to the money, of course. But strings could be cut. Or tangled to the point where it was no longer clear who was pulling them.

"I'm ... gratified," he said frankly. "And more than a little surprised. That proposal was submitted so long ago, I'd assumed it had been vetoed."

"Obviously, you assumed incorrectly." The older man waited a beat, then went on. "The funding mechanism is still being worked out. We also want to make a few adjustments in the liaison protocol."

"You'll have our complete cooperation."

"Yes." George's lips twisted. "I will."

Another pause.

"And the second something you have to tell me?" Operations finally queried, bracing himself. Instinct told him that the intel about Level Ten was a set-up. George did not usually cast himself in the role of bearer of glad tidings. He left that to his underlings.

But when it came to delivering *bad* news ...

"We're implementing some personnel changes."

The man who'd been born Paul Wolfe went very still.

He was out, he thought.

Or ... dead.

"Personnel changes?" he repeated stonily. He would not succumb without a fight, he told himself. He hadn't survived all that he'd survived to end up rolling over and surrendering.

"Yes. Quite a few, as it happens. Not all at once, however. Over a fairly long period of time. But there is *one* move we want to make now. It directly affects you. And this Section."

"And that move is?"

"We're transferring Michael to Oversight."

For a moment, the words made no sense at all. An epic poem recited in ancient Sanskrit would have been more comprehensible.

Then understanding detonated like a flash-bang grenade.

*Michael?*

*They intended to transfer --?*

Operations shook his head, rejecting the entire scenario.

"Unacceptable," he said, hammering the first syllable.

George lifted silver-threaded brows. He seemed vaguely amused.

"Be that as it may," he countered. "The decision is effective immediately."

The head of Section One sucked in a deep breath, his mind racing. That Oversight had a long-standing -- a *very* long-standing -- interest in his top operative was no secret. It had taken a considerable amount of maneuvering, but he'd managed to thwart this interest -- repeatedly --over the years. Now, though ...

"I appreciate your recognition of Michael's worth," he began, forcing himself to keep his voice level. "But --"

"He's compiled a remarkable record," George interjected. "It would be impressive even if it *didn't* include his handling of the Vacek and Bergomi matters."

"Which underscores my point," Operations forged on, ignoring the digs. George never missed an opportunity to shove the Bergomi takedown in his face. "Michael is an integral part of this operation. A prime asset."

"But not your only one."

He saw the trap. Felt it start to snap shut. Knew, furiously, that there was nothing he could do to stop it from closing.

"Of course not." The concession had to be forced out through gritted teeth. But how else could he answer?

"Well, then." George gestured, indicating a *fait accompli.* "Given that -- and the fact that you've made a fetish of declaring that no one in Section, including yourself, is irreplaceable ..."

Operations had one more card to play. If he could defer the inevitable for a few days, he might -- just might -- be able to turn it to his advantage.

"Michael's leading a mission that goes on-line in less than twelve hours."

"Ah, yes. The Cardona transfer." The head of Oversight laughed sardonically. "Really, Paul. That's a bit obvious, even for you. Although I gather Madeline had a hand in certain aspects of the profile. Her -- ah -- *scent* is unmistakable."

"It's a priority mission."

"It's also a monumental waste of talent. Go forward with it, if you want. But *not* with Michael."

A third pause. Hostility thrummed in the air.

Finally:

"Is this transfer permanent?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"Circumstances."

*"George --"*

"Oversight has every intention of returning Michael to Section One."

"How? Over my dead body?"

"Only if you insist."

Operations considered this for several seconds. Then he showed his teeth in a smile that more than a few of his former Viet Cong captors would have recognized.

"Shall I inform him?" he asked evenly. "Or will you?"

*********

"When?" was Michael's first question.

Not why.

Not how.

But ... *when.*

"Immediately."

"I see."

The head of Section One studied his top operative silently. They were standing next to the observation wall in his command perch. He'd considered blacking it out, but decided against it. Such a move would only add fuel to the firestorm of gossip that was bound to ignite once word of Michael's precipitous transfer began to circulate.

He watched Michael angle his gaze toward the Command and Control center spread out below them. He suddenly recalled that he'd found the Class Five operative making a similar survey when he'd come to reclaim his office after the resolution of the Philo affair.

He'd had no idea what the younger man was thinking then, either.

"Michael," he said.

"Sir?" Green-gray eyes met blue ones, but gave nothing away.

"Did you have any advance knowledge of this?"

"No."

That was all. Just ... *no.*

"I sincerely hope that's the truth."

"It is."

Operations inhaled slowly. Exhaled the same way.

"Fine," he said. "That will be all."

Michael nodded his acceptance of this dismissal, then turned and headed for the exit.

*"Michael!"*

The chestnut-haired operative halted. Pivoted back around.

"Yes?"

No "sir" this time. Operations wondered whether that was significant.

"The Cardona mission is still on pad," he announced. "Nikita's stepping in as mission leader. She'll select your replacement."

Michael's face blanked for a moment. Then, incredibly, one corner of his mouth twitched. Operations had the unnerving feeling that the younger man was fighting a desire to laugh in his face.

Michael?

Tempted toward laughter?

*In Section?!*

The sensually shaped lips firmed. The compellingly featured face coalesced back into its customary mask.

"I'm sure she'll make an appropriate choice."

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

Having Michael transferred to Oversight had not been George's idea. In point of fact, he'd vigorously resisted the notion when it had first been presented to him. But in the end ...

He'd capitulated.

No.

Not capitulated.

In the end, he'd been ... *convinced.* The arguments for the Class Five operative's transfer had been too strong -- too cogently presented -- to reject.

That the prospect of personally informing Paul Wolfe his chief whipping boy and most effective weapon was going to be snatched away from him had enhanced the plan's appeal, George couldn't deny. But the anticipated pleasure had only been a small factor in his ultimate decision. Had he not truly believed that bringing Michael over was the best thing for all involved, he would have foregone the treat of seeing Section One's leader squirm.

Which wasn't to say he'd been absolutely certain that slotting a legendary -- some might say notorious -- member of Section One's cold op cadre into what essentially was a bureaucratic environment was going to work. Because he hadn't been.

His handpicked team was the cream of the crop in many ways. Highly intelligent and rigorously trained. Dedicated to duty and motivated to the point of zealotry. They were also, as a group, utterly ruthless when it came to political in-fighting and psychological gamesmanship.

But compared to Michael ...

"It may be like setting a panther loose in a pigeon coop," he'd said to the person who'd pushed the transfer plan on him.

"So?" his companion had countered with a complacent smile. "A few ruffled feathers won't hurt."

*Indeed,* George reflected, completing his review of a Section profile he'd asked Michael to analyze and annotate. *A few ruffled feathers might prove extremely helpful.*

Although he'd been there less than two weeks, Michael had already had an impact on Oversight. Without seeming to intrude on other people's turf, he'd repeatedly managed to be available whenever and wherever his extraordinary combination of talents could be put to use. He'd also demonstrated an uncanny knack for absenting himself when credit for what he'd accomplished was being divvied out.

Given that he'd closely observed Michael's short but stunningly effective tenure as head of Section One months before, George had flattered himself that he had a very accurate "take" on the younger man's methods and motives. Yet he'd found himself beginning to revise the impressions he'd formed within a few hours of the Class Five operative's arrival in his domain.

Michael had seemed extremely eager to please when he'd had temporary command during Operations' stint in Centre. He hadn't been obsequious by any means. But he'd definitely been out to impress the higher ups.

Or so George had thought. And *because* he'd thought this, he'd marked the younger man as a potential ally against Paul Wolfe.

Yet the Michael who transferred in from Section One appeared utterly immune to praise or positive feedback. Criticism, he absorbed like a sponge. Compliments, he essentially ignored. And while he was unfailingly respectful for the chain of command, he also projected an aura of self-contained independence.

As for efforts to probe the true nature of his feelings toward Section One and the man who currently ran it ...

George gave a wry little chuckle. He'd had no idea that there were so many ways for a subordinate to tell a superior to mind his own business.

Was it possible that Michael could have undergone some sort of personality transformation in recent months? he asked himself.

Of course, it was possible. *Anything* was possible. Given some of the horrors Michael had been forced to endure, it was amazing he manifested any degree of psychological consistency at all.

On the other hand ...

It was also possible that he'd fundamentally misread the younger man. That rather than being the manipulator, he'd been the manipulatee.

Consider, for example, what had happened during the brief encounter he'd orchestrated between Michael and the supposed "late" Greg Hillinger the day after Michael's transfer.

"Surprised to see me?" Greg had challenged, flashing a cocky grin.

"No," Michael had responded.

Glancing back and forth between the two, George had been struck by how callow Greg had seemed. It wasn't so much a matter of age. It was all *attitude.* He'd also suddenly understood the source of the young computer genius' predilection for basic black and expensive European tailoring.

"C'mon," Greg had jibed. "You thought I was dead." He'd grinned again, the curve of his lips snotty in the extreme. *"Canceled."*

Michael had shrugged. It might have been a confirmation of Greg's assertion. It might also have been a denial of it. Then again, it might have been a non-verbal way of communicating that he had given Gregory Hillinger no consideration at all since his alleged demise.

Greg's eyes had narrowed, his features acquiring a nastily punkish cast.

"Have it your way," he'd snapped. "But I got the Gemstone file, *Mikey.* I sucked that thing out of Section One --"

"Yes," Michael had concurred, his voice only marginally more frigid than his stare. "Although it took you longer than we'd anticipated. An inconvenient over-estimation of your abilities on our part."

It had taken a few moments for the implications of these softly spoken words to penetrate Greg's ego-armored brain. George had been mildly sympathetic. *He'd* been slightly stunned, too.

*"Wha--?"* the younger man had finally choked out. Then he'd shaken his head, his cheeks going scarlet with temper. "No way, man. *No f---ing --"*

"You wanted to speak to me, sir?"

Michael's distinctive voice pulled George back to the present.

Controlling his expression with a skill borne of many decades of necessity, the head of Oversight looked up from his computer screen. He gestured Michael into his office with a brusque movement of one hand.

The younger man complied with the summons, moving forward from the doorway with predatory grace. He stopped a foot or so in front of George's antique desk, his posture formal without being stiff.

"I've gone over your assessment of the report from Section Three," the head of Oversight said after a small silence. "It's excellent work."

"Thank you."

"It *also* differs from my evaluation on several significant points."

"Oh?" While the inflection of this single syllable indicated a genuine interest in having these differences elaborated upon, it gave no hint Michael was inclined to retreat from his opinions simply because they diverged from those of a superior.

George smiled fleetingly, wondering if the hazel-eyed enigma standing before him had any concept how arrogant he sometimes appeared. Probably not. For all his self-awareness, the Class Five operative had some curious blind spots.

"You have a talent for unorthodox thinking, Michael," George said. He was tempted to use the word *genius,* but resisted. "I want to see more of it. There's a tactical review session scheduled for the day after tomorrow at Centre. You'll be handling the primary briefing. The download's already on your PDA. I'll expect a draft by six A.M."

Michael blinked. Once.

"Fine," he responded.

"No questions?"

"Not at the moment." A second blink. "Is that all?"

George opened his mouth to say "yes." But before he had a chance to utter the word, he flashed back on the scene with Greg Hillinger.

*"I got the Gemstone File, Mikey,"* the double agent had taunted. *"I sucked that thing out of Section One --"*

*"Yes,"* Michael had agreed, calmly preparing to cut Greg off at the knees. *"Although it took you longer than we anticipated ..."*

"I understand you play Go, Michael," George remarked, steepling his fingers.

An emotion he couldn't put a name to flickered through the changeable depths of the younger man's eyes.

"Yes," came the quiet response. "My ... trainer ... insisted."

"Chess, too?"

"Yes."

"Madeline, I'd imagine."

"Yes."

"Mmm." George leaned back in his chair. "Perhaps while you're here with us, you'll find time to learn poker."

"Poker?"

"Yes." The head of Oversight permitted himself a smile. "You've definitely got the face for it."

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

Greg Hillinger couldn't believe his ears.

Michael.

Practicing on the firing range with that lard ass, Pawelski.

Pawelski. The data analyst whom -- in Greg's not-so-humble opinion -- was living proof of the GIGO theory.

Put garbage *into* a system, get garbage *out* of a system.

Okay. Okay. So Pawelski spoke six languages fluently and had some bizarre knack for burrowing inside the heads of skanky, Third World troublemakers. He was *still* a dipstick. Kind of like that pervert, Simon, back in Section One. Only without the Internet porn collection.

*Splat.*

The sound of a handgun being fired. Then, excitedly:

"Hey, I hit it! I can't believe -- that's two in a row, right?"

Greg rolled his eyes in disgust. Pawelski was a waddling embarrassment.

"Again," he heard Michael order a moment later.

*Splat.*

"Holy shit! That's *three!* Man, oh, man. This is incredible, Michael! It's sort of Zen, you know? I mean, you make yourself one with your gun and you ... uh ... uh ... *will* the bullet to go where you want it to."

"Keeping your eyes open when you fire helps, too." The observation was dry.

"Yeah, there *is* that." A gleeful, high-pitched chortle. "Still. I swear to God this is the first time I've ever felt like --"

"Hey, Pawelski!" Greg interrupted, stepping into view. He simply could not endure another second of this drivel.

Pawelski whirled, gun still in hand, violating most of the basic rules of firearms safety. But before he had a chance to do something *really* stupid -- like accidentally pulling the trigger and shooting somebody --, Michael had snatched the weapon away from him in a lightning-quick move and engaged the safety.

"J-Jesus, Hillinger!" Pawelski squawked, his pudgy cheeks going pale. "What is *wrong* with you?"

"Wrong with *me?"* Greg retorted, uncomfortably conscious that Michael was examining him as though he was some kind of maggot-thing that had just squirmed out from beneath a slime-covered rock. "Nothing's wrong with *me,* man. I'm *fine.* One-hundred percent fan-f---ing-tastic."

"Oh, yeah. Right." Pawelski glared. "Dee-f---ing-lusional, is more like --"

He broke off abruptly, finally appearing to register that his hands were empty. Panicking, he started to look around. His eyes widened and his complexion went from pasty to bright pink as he realized that Michael was holding the gun he'd been using.

"Oh, God ..." he moaned. "Michael. Oh, man. I'm *sorry."*

"No harm done," the Class Five operative said calmly.

Greg nearly swallowed his tongue.

No harm done?

*No harm done?!?*

This, from a man he'd seen verbally flay trainees for teeny-tiny infractions of tight ass Section One protocol?

"But --"

"It's all right, Pawelski."

Pawelski hesitated for a moment or two, then bobbed his head. Gratitude shimmered in his eyes.

"'K," he said.

"Aren't you supposed to be on duty about now, Pawelski?" Greg asked.

The data analyst shot him a dirty look.

"Yeah. Maybe," he conceded sourly. Then he returned his attention to Michael. Greg felt his stomach flip over. Jesus! The man's expression was almost worshipful! "Uh ... thanks, Michael."

"You're welcome."

"Maybe we could ... uh ... you know. Do this again? Practice my shooting, I mean."

"Of course." The reply seemed sincere.

"Great!" The data analyst beamed. "Well ... uh ... see ya."

"Bye-bye," Greg called, waggling his fingers mockingly as the rotund young man bustled away. When he was certain that Pawelski was out of earshot, he pivoted to Michael and demanded, "Why are you wasting time with that loser?"

The target Pawelski had been firing at had been shifted back. *Way* back. Aiming the gun he'd taken away from the data analyst, Michael methodically emptied the clip it contained. Every shot hit, dead center mass.

"Because --" the older man ejected the clip, slapped in a full one, and switched hands "-- he asked me to."

Another rapid burst of fire. Another series of perfectly on-target shots.

"You help everybody who asks?"

"No." Michael brought the target forward, pulled it off and checked it, then attached another.

Greg huffed out an angry breath and forked a hand back through his hair. He wasn't certain why he'd sought Michael out this morning. It wasn't as though he liked the slick son of a bitch. He didn't!

He was a little pissed -- okay, okay, a *lot* pissed -- at the way Michael had glided into Oversight. Christ! Didn't anybody see how the guy was gaming them? Didn't they realize that in two short weeks, he'd wired himself into everything that was going on?

Man, when *he* offered advice -- tried to step in and prevent people from making stupid mistakes -- he got treated like he was a brown-nosing glory hound. But when Mr. Blank-Faced-Frenchman-in-Black did the same thing ...

Shit.

The whole situation made him want to puke. This was *not* what he signed on for!

Maybe -- just maybe -- he'd feel a little less torqued if Michael would stop ignoring him, Greg admitted in a rare burst of self-awareness. Except, well, it wasn't exactly *ignoring* -- was it? Ignoring a person required some sort of awareness that he or she existed. And aside from that bogus encounter set up by George, Michael had basically behaved as though he -- Greg -- were a non-person. Like he couldn't even be *bothered* to snub someone so pathetically insignificant.

The frustrated young genius opened his mouth to make a crack about the older man's low-tech approach to maintaining his marksmanship skills. He snapped it shut when he recalled having overheard someone gossiping that Michael had tried out Oversight's new simulator a couple of days after his arrival. The Class Five operative reportedly had run the program through maximum, blowing away all the computer-generated bad guys like a terminator machine while sustaining only one electro-shock hit.

"Hey, uh, Mik -- *Michael,"* he said after a moment.

"Yes?"

"You're working out after this, right?" Even as he asked the question, he was second-guessing the wisdom of doing so. On the one hand, proving that he knew the pattern of activities Michael had established *might* be viewed as proof that he -- Greg -- was tuned into everything that went on in Oversight. On the other, it might be seen as suggesting that he was some sort of ... hmmm ...stalker.

Or worse. As a *fan.*

"Probably."

"Would you like a sparring partner?"

For the first time, Greg got the full impact of Michael's green-gray gaze. It sent a weird sizzle through his nervous system. All of a sudden, he felt ... *real.*

"It's not like I think I'm in your league or anything," he was appalled to hear himself begin to blather. *Suck-up!* he jeered silently. "But -- uh --"

He paused, then managed a grin. It felt like one of his normal grins. And *that* juiced his self-confidence back up.

"-- it's better than playing with yourself," he finished, putting a lewd spin on the words. "Don't you think?"

Michael regarded him for several more seconds, then turned back to the range. Lifting the handgun in a smoothly practiced movement, he fired three shots.

*Splat.*

Square in the bridge of the target's nose.

*Splat.*

Straight through the heart.

*Splat.*

Right -- Greg cringed inwardly and struggled not to reach down and cover up the family jewels -- in the crotch.

Michael holstered the gun in a polished movement, then looked at his would-be sparring partner once again.

"Absolutely," he said.

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

*"Yeeee-owch!!"*

Greg slammed into the mat-covered floor of the training room for what seemed like the umpteen-zillionth time. After judicious consideration, he decided that this last landing had been a *tad* more controlled than the previous one.

*Do something enough times,* he thought blearily, *and you're bound to get good at it.*

He blinked, focusing on the hand extended to help him up. The same hand that had hit him -- twice -- to illustrate the foolishness of losing concentration during a sparring session with a Class Five operative.

"What did I do wrong *this* time?" he asked, grasping Michael's training-hardened palm and heaving himself to his feet. He inhaled on a shudder, shoving a sodden lock of hair off his forehead.

"You telegraphed the move with your eyes," came the cool, uncompromising response.

"Oh." Greg digested this. He also absorbed the infuriating fact that his opponent - immaculately clad in a white tank top and white drawstring pants -- had yet to break a sweat. "Is that better or worse than telegraphing with my shoulders?"

"Neither. They're both unacceptable."

Great.

Just great.

"Oooooo-kay." He sucked in another breath, then assumed the first stance in the attack sequence they'd been practicing. "I'm ready to eat more mat."

*Kuh-BLAM!*

Greg went down again. He laid there, contemplating the ceiling and wondering whether this was the time to start pleading for a merciful execution, for ten or twelve seconds. Then, he very carefully levered himself up into a sitting position.

He got to his knees. He stayed there for another few seconds, trying to determine which one of them hurt more. He decided it was a tie.

He got to his feet. Didn't fall over. He would have applauded this triumph of equilibrium if he'd had the energy.

"Lemme guess," he said, exertion roughening his voice. "I telegraphed with my butt this time."

For a moment, he actually thought that Mr. Stone-Face was going to crack a smile. But it didn't happen. Still, Michael *did* look him straight in the eye. And there was a hint -- just a subatomic particle of a hint -- of approval in the steady hazel regard.

Strange, how the pain he had been feeling seemed to fade in reaction to that "hint."

"You were off-balance."

"Huh?"

"You're right-hand dominant, Hillinger. It's affecting your efforts to center."

"So ... what?" The smart ass in him resurfaced. "I should become ambidextrous?"

"It would help."

Something in the tone of this statement sent a chill jittering up Greg's spine. He flexed and unflexed his fingers several times, shifting his weight back and forth between his bare feet.

"Are you?" he asked, watching Michael narrowly.

"Ambidextrous?"

"Yeah."

"Essentially."

"But you weren't always."

"No."

"How --"

"My trainer dislocated my right shoulder."

Greg felt the blood drain from his face. His stomach roiled.

Michael was kidding, he quickly told himself.

He *had* to be kidding, right?

Oh.

God.

No.

He *wasn't* kidding.

"On p-purpose?" the younger man managed. While personal experience had taught him that Section One was a hellaciously brutal place, this particular little tidbit ...

Jesus Christ!

Michael shrugged. If he'd ever cared whether the damage to him had been deliberately done, he obviously didn't care anymore.

"Uh ... maybe we should call it a day," Greg suggested, measuring the distance to the door. He didn't *think* Michael would attempt to inflict any grievous bodily harm on him. But he wasn't sure.

"Not yet. One more try."

The younger man grimaced, recalling a piece of doggerel about guys who fight and run away living to fight another day. Then, with a touch of bravado, he nodded his acceptance of Michael's edict.

Okay, he told himself.

Take a dee-e-e-e-ee-ep, centering breath.

Assume the stance.

Don't *think* about what you're going to do, just *do* it.

*Kaaaaaa-WUMPFF!!*

Whaddya know. That cartoon thing about "seeing stars" was true!

"Good," Michael said when Greg finally picked himself up off the mat.

"Guh --" a gulp "-- ood?"

"You did everything correctly."

"So how come I ended up --?"

"I'm better than you are."

And then, to Greg Hillinger's utter astonishment, Section One's top operative bowed to him. The inclination of the leanly powerful body was pretty shallow, but it held no taint of mockery.

He found himself bowing back. Deeper. A *lot* deeper.

Then he stood there, like a doof, watching Michael gather up his belonging and head for the exit.

"Uh ... M-Michael?"

The older man was only a step away from the door. Greg swallowed hard, uncertain he'd stop. He nearly passed out from relief when Michael not only checked his stride, but pivoted around.

"Yes?"

Greg wiped his sweaty palms on his sweaty workout pants.

"Would you be willing to teach me?" he asked tentatively. He hadn't *asked* for anything since he was a kid. He'd demanded or taken. "A little? I mean, I know being here isn't a permanent gig for you. And that you've got a lot on your agenda. But, maybe ... if you're not too busy ..."

Michael said nothing for what seemed to Greg Hillinger like an eternity. Then, very quietly:

"Tomorrow. Five A.M."

***********

"Have a nice fall, Hillinger?" Pawelski asked with a nasty snicker about thirty minutes later when Greg limped to his workstation.

"Shut the f--- up," Greg responded wearily, lowering himself gingerly into his chair.

Oh, God.

Oh, God.

He had bruises on top of bruises on top of bruises.

And he'd just committed himself to getting *more* bruises at the crack of dawn tomorrow.

He was nuts. Totally, completely nuts.

Maybe he'd get really lucky and develop a subdural hematoma.

"He kicked your butt," Pawelski jibed, snickering again. "I watched the surveillance feed."

"Well, watch this." Greg flipped the roly-poly data analyst the bird. "And just for your edification, fathead, *he's* going to start training me."

Pawelski's jaw went slack. His mouth dropped open.

*"Wha-a-?"* It was a bleat of incredulity.

"Michael's going to train me." Shit, it felt good to be able to toss that out!

"Why --" Pawelski cleared his throat. "Why the *hell* would Michael want to do that?"

Greg thought about this.

And thought about it.

Eventually, to his intense surprise, he opted to tell the truth.

"Damned if I know."

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

*Michael wouldn't have let this happen.*

Try as he might, Davenport couldn't shove this lacerating thought out of his head.

*Michael would not have ...*

He fisted his powerful hands against his rock-hard thighs, squeezing until he drove the blood from his knuckles. Ugly and once painfully familiar urges -- *break something, beat somebody* -- welled up from deep within him.

He battled the atavistic impulses down as he'd been trained to do. Leashed the beast that had brought him to this place.

The elevator he'd been waiting for finally arrived. The doors hissed open. Davenport stepped in, thankful that the car was empty. This was one of those moments when he truly was not fit for human company. Even the brand of human company supplied by Section One.

The door hissed shut.

*I'm not Michael,* he reminded himself harshly, jabbing the appropriate sequence into the control panel.

Never would be.

Never could be.

Wouldn't *want* to be, to tell God's honest truth.

He'd known for a long time that Section's top cold op had it incredibly rough. Oh, yeah, sure, he'd started out believing that there probably was *some* merit to the "rank hath its privileges" bulls--- that Michael's envy-eaten detractors peddled. And why not? He'd seen the guy, gliding around the place like the f---ing Prince of Darkness, third in the chain of command, seemingly incapable of error, with a dozen different women drooling in his wake ...

But then they'd gone one-on-one. And by the end of that bruising martial arts square-off, Davenport had begun to accept that Michael was the real deal. That anything he had, he'd earned the hard way.

He'd subsequently been tapped as a member of one of Michael's regular teams. That had *really* opened his eyes. Serving under Michael in the field had been a mind-boggling education in tactics and strategy. It had also slammed home the fact that there was a hell of a lot more to leadership than spitting out orders.

Eventually, Davenport had come to the conclusion that unless being pissed on by Operations and mind-f---ed by Madeline more frequently than anybody else counted as a "privilege," Michael's Class Five status was nothing to be jealous of. To stand out in Section One -- as someone with Michael's unique gifts couldn't help doing -- was to become a target for unceasing abuse.

Events of the past month had hammered this conviction into a cast-iron article of faith. The most salient of those events: The dumping upon him of some of the duties that normally would have been dumped upon Michael.

The announcement of this spread-the-work arrangement had been made at a flash briefing involving about a dozen of the higher level ops assigned to Section One's HQ.

"As I'm certain some of you may have heard by now," Operations had begun, his cold eyes moving from face to face to face as though he was mentally running down a check list. "Michael was transferred to Oversight earlier today."

*As *some* of us may have heard --?* Davenport had echoed sardonically. *More like everybody in the place except that sick twist Frick and Frack have been poking electrodes into!*

"Given that I've been assured this transfer is temporary and that Michael *will* be returning to Section One," Operations had gone on, "I've decided against reconfiguring the current Class Five roster. Instead, Michael's work will be divided up and given to a variety of operatives."

The silver-haired ex-military man had paused at this point, produced one of his thin, slice-to-the-bone smiles, then continued.

"Who knows?" he'd asked, the question clearly rhetorical. "We may find that there's something to be said for a more diffuse distribution of subordinate authority. At the very least, you'll each have a new opportunity to reaffirm your worth to Section. Perhaps, even, to demonstrate that you're deserving of additional responsibility."

Davenport expelled a breath, struggling not to think about the details of the mission for which he'd spent the better part of three long, soul-sucking days running tactical. F--- worth, he told himself bitterly. And double-f--- additional responsibility!

The elevator came to a halt at the floor he'd designated.

The doors hissed open.

He stepped out.

The doors hissed shut.

Davenport turned left and started walking.

He had no illusions about Section One being the guys in the white hats, he reflected. And he *sure* as hell didn't think of himself as some major beacon of morality. But sometimes --

"Davenport."

No.

Oh, please. *No.*

He stopped.

Pivoted around.

Came face-to-face with Operations.

"Sir?"

"Excellent work today, Davenport. Mr. Dauhomane has been an annoyance to us for nearly a year. His disposal eases several problems."

*Disposal.*

Yeah. That was one way of putting it. Section had assigned Nikita to seduce her way in Dauhomane's inner circle, then kill him.

She'd accomplished the former by f---ing Dauhomane's only son senseless. For the latter, she'd used a knife.

And -- because circumstances had required it -- she'd finished off the son the same way.

She'd also unhesitatingly issued the field command that had resulted in the sacrifice of two operatives and at least three innocents.

"Thank you," Davenport said stiffly.

Operations surveyed him without speaking for several moments.

"You're troubled by the loss of Kreegan and Babyak?" he asked.

A trick question? Davenport wondered.

Yeah. Probably.

Some kind of test?

Oh, abso-damned-lutely.

Was he "troubled" by the loss of Kreegan, a proven slacker/screw-up, and Babyak, whom he'd hardly known?

"I don't like casualties, sir," he answered truthfully. "Even when they're within profile parameters and involve members of the Abeyance pool."

"I don't 'like' casualties, either," the head of Section One returned, steel entering his voice. "But I accept their necessity."

"Yes, sir."

There was several seconds of acutely uncomfortable silence.

"Perhaps it's something else," Operations finally said.

Davenport stiffened. "Something ... else?"

"Yes. Despite the fact that closure was achieved within the mandated framework, you obviously have a problem with this mission. I wonder --" a cock of the head "-- could it be related to Nikita's performance?"

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

Employing every lesson he'd ever learned about controlling himself, Davenport kept his eyes fixed on his superior's craggily handsome face.

"I have no problems, sir," he declared almost robotically. "Particularly not with Nikita. She was one-hundred percent on this mission. Everything she did was --" a quick swallow "-- correct."

Whether any of it had been *right* ...

God.

He'd had to listen to her screwing Dauhomane's son -- both literally and figuratively. The experience had chilled him to the core. Sickened him a little, too.

*This isn't Nikita,* he'd found himself thinking over and over again.

But it had been.

Oh, yes. It surely had been.

She was one of Section's finest now. A beautiful machine who could suck an orgasm out of a man one moment, slit his throat the next.

Ruthless.

Relentless.

Wholly without remorse.

There'd been a time -- not all that long ago -- when Davenport had been ready and willing to trust Nikita with his life. He would have considered himself fortunate to have her at his back or by his side in the field.

But now ...

He didn't want her anywhere near him.

And he wasn't alone in this feeling of revulsion. Veteran members of the cold op cadre - those who "knew" Nikita -- were giving her wide berth. Recent additions to the ranks were steering clear, too. And at least one of them -- a probationary candidate named Bosco -- had made no bones about why.

"That blonde bitch scares me shitless," he'd declared.

"'Correct,'" Operations repeated, seeming to taste the adjective and find it unpleasant. "I see. Tell me -- when is the team due back?"

"In about ten minutes. Actually --" Davenport cleared his throat "-- I was heading to van access to meet them."

"Commendable. I'll expect your report by midnight."

*Midnight!?*

Hell. He probably would have expected Michael to have it on his desk already.

"Fine."

"Debrief Nikita personally. The profilers can handle the rest of the team."

"Yes, sir."

Operations nodded -- a dismissal, not a farewell --, then started to walked away. Davenport moved off in the opposite direction.

Debrief Nikita *personally?*

Jesus.

Just how personally --

"Davenport."

*F---!*

Now *what?*

Davenport turned back. He wasn't really surprised that Operations had pulled the just-one-more-thing gambit. It seemed to be a favorite ploy of his.

"Yes, sir?"

"You were recommended for promotion to Class Four shortly after the Velden mission. Frankly, I had a few questions about your suitability. You've managed to resolve them, in your favor. The promotion is approved."

"Thank you ... sir."

"Change of status is effective as of now."

"I understand." Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't.

"You have a question?" The inquiry was trenchant.

*A* question?

No.

Several dozen?

Yeah. At the very least.

Davenport shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Decided to ask the question that seemed most important, given the current circumstances.

"Who made the recommendation?"

Operations lifted a brow. "Does that matter?"

The newly elevated Class Four operative knew the politic response to this. After a moment's contemplation, he also knew he wasn't going to give it.

"Yes, sir," he said firmly. "It does."

Something -- anger? approval? apprehension? -- streaked through his superior's pale blue-gray eyes.

"In that case ..." the older man replied. "The answer is Michael."

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

Davenport was still grappling with the implications of his sudden elevation -- and the circumstances that evidently had led to it -- when he arrived at van access a short time later. The bright red read-out over the ingress/egress passage informed him that his team was due back on-site in six minutes.

*Class Four,* he thought, settling his broad shoulders against the corridor wall opposite the door and crossing his brawny arms over his chest. *Who'd've figured --?*

It felt a little weird, he acknowledged. Knowing that *Michael* had been the one who'd recommended him for promotion. And the timing! *After* the Velden mission, Operations had said.

After.

Jesus.

Davenport shifted, grimacing inwardly. The Velden mission had begun with him as team leader and Michael relegated to a humiliatingly unimportant position on the periphery of the action. It had ended with him willingly obeying orders while Section's top operative took over and saved the day by flawlessly orchestrating a third party ripoff scenario.

He honestly hadn't known what to expect when they'd returned from the field. On one level, the mission had been a complete success. They'd nailed Velden and forced him to do a major U-turn, allegiance-wise. But on another, potentially more significant level ...

He wasn't stupid. Although it probably had taken him longer than it should have to tumble to the truth, he realized that the personnel configuration for the Velden job -- and for several assignments that had preceded it -- had been part of a scheme to break Michael down and bring him to heel.

By stepping aside and unilaterally ceding command, he -- Davenport -- had screwed up that scheme for The Powers That Be. Or so he'd figured. And given this, he'd accepted that it was entirely possible that he'd be ordered into Abeyance -- or canceled -- as soon as he set foot back in Section.

Neither of those things had happened, of course. In point of fact, there'd been no one waiting in van access when they'd returned. No icy-eyed Operations. No grim, would-be executioners from internal security.

Why he'd felt compelled to say what he'd said to Michael after they'd disembarked, he still wasn't sure. But he was glad that he had.

*"I couldn't do what you did out there,"* he'd declared, addressing his supposed subordinate with the deference due a Class Five. *"I learned a lot."*

There'd been a brief pause. And then, very quietly, Michael had thanked him.

A short time later, he'd been informed that Michael had been restored to full status. In return, or so the grapevine contended, he'd pledged to end his personal relationship with Nikita.

If there'd been such a pledge, it obviously had not been kept. Operations' unsuccessful attempt to trap Michael and Nikita in *flagrante delicto* -- complete with a bring-them-back-dead-if-necessary edict -- was proof of that. And since defiance of any kind, from any source, was anathema to Section's leaders ...

They'd taken Nikita's soul in retribution. They'd left her physically whole, but they'd gutted her of her humanity.

Davenport shifted, his muscles tightening. His thoughts skipped back to a deeply disturbing conversation he'd had about a week after completion of the Cardona transfer. The venue had been a hole-in-the-wall bar in one of Paris' less savory neighborhoods. His companion had been the man whom Nikita, to a lot of people's astonishment, had tapped to replace Michael as her undercover partner.

"You know what it means when people drink alone, don't you, Weitz?" he'd asked, sliding into a rickety chair opposite the burly, Class Two operative.

He hadn't planned to try to engage the other man in some major heart-to-heart. No matter that he'd followed him from Section to the bar. He'd had no intention of making contact. None! He'd just wanted to make certain that Weitz was okay. But after nearly forty-five minutes of standing around outside in the freezing cold, fending off junkies, panhandlers and trolling transvestites, he'd reconsidered his observation-only plan.

Weitz had looked up from the empty, fingerprint-smeared glass sitting in front of him. He hadn't been drunk. But he'd obviously been working on it.

"Yeah," he'd growled. "It means they want to get plastered in peace, without interference from f---ers like you."

Oooookay.

Davenport had called for a beer. It had been plunked down in front of him a minute or so later by the bar's scar-faced and none-too-gracious proprietor. The man had refilled Weitz' glass at the same time.

After paying for both drinks -- Weitz clearly hadn't chosen an establishment where patrons were allowed to run tabs --, Davenport had taken a cautious sip. He'd nearly spewed. God! The stuff had tasted like recycled yak piss.

"You wanna talk about it?" he'd finally asked.

"No," Weitz had responded with a contemptuous snort, then knocked back most of his drink.

"Maybe you should."

"Why?" The remainder of the drink had sluiced down Weitz' gullet. The dirty glass had been slammed back down on the table's dingy tablecloth. "So you can run back to Madeline and tell her I'm f---ed up?"

Davenport had let the insult pass. "After that broken arm you gave Pollard, I think she already has a clue you're a few degrees off mental north."

Weitz had scowled. "Big mouth bastard. I should have yanked his goddamned tongue out and shoved it up his goddamned ass."

Davenport hadn't witnessed the set-to during what ostensibly had been a martial arts training session, but he'd heard detailed accounts from several operatives who had. The short version was that Weitz had gone off after Pollard had made some obscene reference to the Cardona mission.

It had been widely assumed that one or both of the operatives involved would be disciplined for what had happened. So far, though, there'd been no repercussions. More than a few people -- Davenport included -- were finding this lack of response from Section's leaders singularly unnerving.

"Yeah, well ..." he'd said, then taken another drink of his alleged beer. The brew had seemed marginally more tolerable. Probably because his initial drink of it had destroyed a bunch of taste buds.

There'd been another pause. Finally, Davenport had decided to grab the bull by the horns. Or, more accurately, the cold op by the balls.

"It was just a mission, Weitz," he's said flatly. "You did what you had to do."

"Oh, yeah. *Right."* Weitz had gone back to staring into his glass.

"Hey, Cardona flipped. There was closure."

The other man had muttered something. Although Davenport had caught a syllable or two of it, he'd refused to accept that he'd heard correctly.

"Huh?" he'd asked.

Weitz had lifted his head. "I said: I. Couldn't. Get. It. Up."

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

*"You couldn't --?"* Davenport's voice had been harsh with disbelief, but he'd remembered to keep it low. There were civilians around. Not innocents, by the looks of them, but still non-Section. "Don't give me that, man! I was on surveillance!"

He fervently wished he hadn't been. He could have done without being forced to watch a bare-assed Weitz humping an almost buck-naked Nikita against a wall.

"I -- *we* -- were faking," had come the bitter retort. "She manipulated the whole thing. And she was cold as f---ing ice from start to finish."

Davenport had taken another drink of beer. A deep, slightly desperate one. He'd stared at the operative on the other side of the table, trying to make sense of what he'd just been told.

He hadn't been able to deny that the sexual encounter he'd monitored had exuded the mechanical frigidity of a porn flick. But the idea that it had been entirely phony ...

"So, you ... didn't," he'd finally said, wanting to make absolutely, positively sure he understood.

"No. We didn't."

"Would you have?" It had been a dangerous question to ask for a lot of reasons. But he hadn't been able to stop himself from uttering it. "If you ... could've?"

"Done the horizontal mambo with Blondie, you mean."

"Yeah."

Weitz had started to signal for another drink, then apparently thought better of it. He'd glanced around, the small muscles along his jaw quilting as though he was grinding his molars.

"I don't know," he'd finally admitted, his face darkening. He'd shaken his head. "I honestly don't know, Davenport." He'd shaken his head again. "But I'll tell you something. *She* would've. There isn't a doubt in my mind about that. She would have f---ed me and it wouldn't've meant jacks--- to her."

"Like it would've been supposed to?" Davenport had countered. Although he'd concurred with Weitz' assessment -- and been repulsed by it at a very primitive level -- he'd felt strangely compelled to defend Nikita. "We're talking Valentine work!"

Weitz had shot him a scathing look.

"I know how the whore corps does its business," he'd spat out, invoking one of the cruder nicknames for those Section operatives whose main stock in trade was sex. "But this would've been different. This would've been *Nikita,* man. Or at least ... what's left of her."

There'd been another break in the conversation. Davenport had finished his beer. Lousy though it had been, he'd known it wasn't responsible for the ugly taste that had filled his mouth.

"Damn Michael," Weitz had suddenly sworn.

Davenport had sat up. *"Michael?"*

"Yeah. He should've fought them on this. He should've f---ing--"

The sound of the van access doors sliding open recalled Davenport to the present. Exhaling heavily, he uncrossed his arms and shoved himself away from the wall.

The team filed out, with Nikita bringing up the rear. Where her colleagues were stone-faced, clearly determined to hide their thoughts and feelings, she seemed chillingly serene.

She obviously was at ease with herself. With how she'd performed. With what she'd ... become.

"Nikita will be doing a singular with me," Davenport announced when the team had gathered around him. He glanced from operative to operative, but avoided the blonde's soulless gaze. "Everybody else, debrief with the profiler then check out. You're down until further notice."

The other team members immediately headed off to the right. Nikita remained where she was, calmly undoing the front of the black leather jacket she was wearing. The garment gaped open, revealing a skintight black tank top. The neckline was deeply scooped, baring the creamy upper curves of her plainly unfettered breasts.

Davenport's memory flashed back to the hoarsely exultant sounds Dauhomane's son had made in the throes of sexual climax.

He remembered, too, the hideous gurgling noise that had come from the young man when he'd died.

"Problem, Davenport?" Nikita drawled, straining her flaxen hair through her fingers. A faintly mocking smile slid around the corners of her ripe mouth. But the look in her eyes remained eerily unchanged.

Something inside Davenport snapped.

"Michael wouldn't have done what you did during this mission," he hissed.

Even as he gave voice to the accusation, the newly promoted Class Four knew it was grossly unfair. Michael was no white knight in shining armor. He'd killed. Seduced on command. Given orders that had consigned innocents to undeserving deaths.

What's more, he'd trained others -- Nikita included -- to do the same.

And yet ...

Nikita seemed to flinch from the sound of her ex-mentor's name. Then her expression went entirely blank. The coldness in her sapphire eyes became an arctic emptiness.

"I'm not Michael," she returned. There was a feral edge to her voice.

Having crossed a line he hadn't realized existed, Davenport discovered that he wasn't prepared to retreat.

"True," he acknowledged tersely. *"And you're not --"*

***********

*"-- Nikita anymore, either."*

The head of Section One switched off the surveillance feed from van access with an abrupt gesture.

"You have the latest cohesion numbers?" he demanded of the poised brunette standing to his right. He kept his gaze fixed on the darkened monitoring screen.

"Yes."

"And?"

"They continue to deteriorate."

"If we restore her to her previous ... mindset?"

"Problematic, at best. There's no guarantee such an action would reverse the damage. And the sims indicate there'd be a precipitous decline in our performance levels. Oversight would register it within a few cycles."

Operations took a deep breath. He thrust his hands down into the pockets of his trousers, fisting his fingers.

"What if restoration coincided with a personnel reconfiguration?" he asked after a moment.

"That might rectify the situation. Unfortunately, George has given no sign he's ready to transfer Michael back."

For the first time since this tense exchange had begun, grey-blue eyes met brown ones. There was a long staring contest. In the end, brown eyes looked away.

Nothing else was said.

There was no need.

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

It was not the head of Oversight's habit to invite his subordinates to dine with him. But in Michael's case, he was prepared to deviate from custom.

After spending nearly five weeks observing the Class Five operative function -- and function superlatively -- within the most challenging of professional arenas, George did not expect him to let down his guard in a social situation. But he *did* hope that the younger man might relax ... just a bit.

"I gather you've been devoting some of your spare time to adjusting Greg Hillinger's view of the universe," he commented after their entree -- rare tenderloin of beef with truffled wine sauce, *gratin dauphinoise* and haricots verts -- had been presented.

"Do you object?" Michael responded.

George suppressed a smile. This was the -- what? Two-dozenth time his dinner companion had parried a question with a question?

He could have categorized the conversational ploy as evasiveness, he supposed. Indeed, that had been his irritated impulse the first three or four times Michael had used it. Gradually, however, he'd begun to perceive that this apparent sidestepping was really a subtle method of cutting to the core of a subject.

*And* of attempting to control the agenda. Which was to be expected, all things considered.

"On the contrary. I very much approve. I admire your ability to secure an improvement in attitude without inflicting permanent physical damage."

Michael accepted this evaluation with a small inclination of his head, then applied himself to his food. His table manners were refined. He'd acquired the basics in childhood, George suspected, then had them polished to an upper class gloss by Madeline.

He was also a very spartan eater. While he appeared to appreciate the sophisticated fare he was being served, his consumption of it was sparing.

George sampled a forkful of the *gratin* he had ordered to accompany the meat. Excellent, he thought. Simply excellent. The nutty-mellow flavor of the dish's delicate Gruyere topping complemented the voluptuous richness of the cream-and-potato casserole perfectly.

"You enjoy it, don't you," he commented after a few moments.

Michael looked at him inquiringly, a hint of wariness in his changeable eyes.

"Enjoy --?"

"Teaching."

"Mmm."

Neither a confirmation nor a denial. Typical.

"I believe you contemplated an academic career for a time." George took a drink of wine. "While you were at university."