Ten years later (... after Season Four/maybe Season Five, Virtual or Real)

Why was it so cold in here? Nikita rubbed her arms. She felt like a side of beef walking through an icebox instead of this schmancy building, which was all gray marble with brass fittings. Even the goddamn vents were cleaned and polished as if someone was going to eat off of them. She walked underneath one, and a refrigerated stream of air ruffled through her hair and down her neck. Air conditioning or nerves? Which was bothering her now? She didn't know, squashed the speculation that only wasted her energy. Fine bumps prickled all along Nikita's skin while she passed through the thickly carpeted foyer, past the potted palms, right by the discretely suited security that guarded all the entrances. This place looked ritzy but it thoroughly creeped her out. It was damn cold. Colder than hell frozen over. Even colder than the ice over steel in Operations' eyes when he'd been denied just five years ago. A lifetime ago. Remembering, Nikita almost smiled with satisfaction as she pulled her moss-green sweater a little tighter around her so that it caught and draped around her rounded belly. For two steps she stared down at herself, still a little amazed by the sight.

It couldn't be true. But it was. She was ... They were ... Jeez, she couldn't even think it - let alone say the "P" word - even as her heart raced like a thoroughbred reaching for the finish line. She had to get used to the idea. More than her life depended on it. More than her life and the life of the man she missed with every aching waking breath like a goddamn broken rib. The man who was a thousand miles away right now on some ultra-secret need-to-know business that he refused to discuss with her.

Leave it alone. Even now, she could hear him say it so flatly, softly. Only the faint quick quirk of one eyebrow betrayed his aggravation. He wouldn't tell her, and that really burned her butt. Still, she had her own resources. She wasn't Number Two in Analysis because of her blonde hair or her fine ability to accessorize. She knew her stuff, her man, and Guangzhou was her best guess. Ninety-percent probability that Michael was sipping oolong with the Big Boys. She imagined him cutting up the world like an order of potstickers, and divvying them out among the Section heads. One for you. One for me. Or maybe they were done with their summit meeting, and he was alone as he almost always was. A solitary man in black, listening to the ferries chug across the Pearl River as he walked along its humid banks. Walking fast but not rushed, powerful and lithe.

He'd be walking like the person just nearing her; ten, nine, just eight paces away. Just like that. That measured jungle cat stride, graceful and deadly. Nostalgia was making her imagine things. It couldn't be him. She denied it even as the first stirrings of her gut told her differently. Michael? He was closer now; close enough to smell his oiled leather coat, and how the spice of his aftershave mixed with his sweat. Why was he sweating? Maybe he'd been rushing to intercept her. Except he wouldn't look like he was rushing: that sienna hair - worn longer at the neck now - each curling strand always in place. His face would look smooth, unstrained, only the fine line at the corners of his eyes. No, Michael never rushed. Even when she wanted him to, when she was desperate for it.

And now he was walking beside her. Here, instead of half the world away. Silently he touched her, his fingertips to hers, and even still, that bare quick contact jolted her.

Must be the static. The thick rug. Our feet. Yeah, that's it. Physics. Nikita barely contained her little jerk, trying to deny that her fingers still tingled. What the hell was he doing here? Delight warred with frustration. Why didn't he ever tell her anything?

"What a surprise. I didn't think you'd be here," she said truthfully.

"Can't go to this appointment ... by yourself."

"No?"

"Everyone needs back-up." He smiled faintly. "Even you."

"Hardy-har har. Very funny. I've done this before by myself." She swallowed hard, suddenly wishing that she wasn't wearing a high-button collar that was choking her, or the sweater she'd bought on their last trip to Kerry. The fields had been green as his eyes, and the grass softer than a down bed. Very soft. Her skin still remembered how it had felt - the fields and Michael, a lovers' moon smiling benignly over them. "You weren't supposed to know about this. Where I was. How did you find out?"

"No secrets."

Only yours. she thought resentfully. Out loud, she said, "I meant to tell you. Things came up. Slipped my mind. I'm so forgetful these days. You know how that is. And by the time I remembered, well, I didn't know how to reach you. That same old message over and over again. 'The cellular customer you are trying to reach is unavailable. Please try again'."

His mouth thinned, then relaxed. "I'll speak to my secretary."

"You do that. Something could come up. An emergency. Then what?"

"Nikita," was all he said. As usual, his sunglasses hid his eyes so she couldn't read them. As usual, it thoroughly annoyed her.

"What is it?" she finally asked.

His lips tightened at one corner. "Watch ... out." He reached up, touched her arm, and guided her just in time to the left so that her stockinged leg only brushed the rim of the tinkling fountain. She teetered, still unused to the ungainliness of the extra weight. When his hand cupped her elbow and steadied her, Nikita huffed a little breath, more aggravated with herself than his solicitude. She'd almost fallen into that damn fountain like some green-gutted rookie.

"I'm fine," she puffed, trying to subtly pull her arm away from him. His fingers circled, then tightened so that it looked like a caress but felt like a restraint. She wanted to pull harder but knew that she'd just fall over like an overstuffed duck. Hell, she was waddling like one right now. Feet apart in a wide, hip-rolling shuffle. She hated this part, really hated it. "It's okay, Michael. I'm fine. I'm just ..." She bit her lip. "I'll be more careful. It's just the hormones," she added lamely.

She gave him a look that dared him to say something, anything back, but of course, he didn't. He never did. His face looked imperviously handsome, insufferably masculine, no sign of the feelings that rioted through her all at once like a carnival. Mister Silence. Goddamn Granite Face. She didn't know whether it was his experience in Section or with three wives that kept him quiet.

Smart move, Samuelle.Nothing bothered her more, and he knew it as only a husband did. Nikita conceded the point to him as they walked past the people dressed in silks and linen, dull gold and twinkling diamonds. Power and privilege hung over the hallway as heavily as exclusive French perfume. She recognized two premiers, a president and his mistress, the head of a Fortune 500 company. It seemed like a soiree instead of a hospital, and Nikita felt miserably out of place. She always had. Every waddling step forward just stoked her aggravation. She didn't care if she had to do this. She didn't want to. She hated doctors.

They arrived at the double smoked glass doors of the medical suite. Nearby a discrete sign warned that local radiation may effect pacemakers and electrostimulatory devices. The printing was as fancy as a wedding invitation. Its frame was baroque.

Michael reached for the doorknob, his Rolex softly clinking along his wrist as he opened the door. Classical music filtered out. A string quartet, slow and soothing and unbearably civil. Give her kickass rock 'n roll any day over this sedating stuff. Man, the things she had to do. She knew she was whining, but she didn't care. Damn it. She was entitled.

Nikita walked over the threshold, her hand resting over her belly. "I wish you were happier about this."

"Who says ... I am not?"

She clamped her mouth shut so her hot reply couldn't spill out and cause more damage than was already done. Instead she surveyed the waiting room. Looked more like a damn spa, where everything was colored shell and bone instead of pink and white. And no one here was reading dog-eared copies of National Geographic. They were occupied, doing other things. My God, that pregnant lady was getting a pedicure while she waited for the doctor. And the two women over there compared notes on Yves St. Laurent versus Gucci while a nurse poured their tea into thin porcelain cups.

Nikita found a seat by the door with a good view of the other exit and solid wall behind her. The magazine rack and buffet table were across the room from her so that she could view the foot traffic without being caught inside it. Perfect placement. She slowly sat down, Michael guiding her into the chair with one hand, the other hand on her back.

"I feel like a barge," she muttered. As she bent over, her belly pushed upwards, squashing her lungs. "Oof."

Michael rubbed a small circle along the bottom of her spine. It felt good, reassuring. She melted a little, her back uncurling into the surprising warmth of his palm. Nikita mouthed a "thank you" and offered him a peacemaking smile as she settled back into her chair. Her fingers nervously rearranged her sweater, then pulled her handbag on to what was left of her lap. She played with the clasp.

" 'S okay," he murmured.

"Huh, easy for you to say. You're not the one getting her guts rearranged every time the doctor examines you. I swear my kidneys end up near my ears. And that lube's cold. Yuck."

Lips twitching, Michael turned to the nurse, informed her of their appointment, and declined her offer of a glass of Merlot. Nikita accepted the tea so that her hands would be busy. She carefully sipped, tasting something soothing and daisy-like. Over the thin gold-tipped rim of the cup, Nikita watched a young woman knitting across the room. She looked different than the others - elfin, almost a child herself, her auburn hair parted plainly in the middle and falling loose to the shoulders instead of swept into a elegant style. But the girl's silk suit was cut along classic lines, and made her look as if she'd dressed up in her mother's clothes. A daughter? No, must be a trophy wife by the way the older man next to her was looking impatient and proprietary. He scowled away the nurse, then scanned the room as he talked on his cell phone, not bothering to mute his voice.

"In position," Nikita murmured. "Target sighted."

###

"Are you sure about this?" asked Nikita.

Michael made a soft sound - the closest he ever came to sighing. He removed his sunglasses and pocketed them. His eyes were dark and direct. "Yes."

"But we don't know for sure." She leaned closer to him as if she were kissing his cheek. "No direct proof. No visuals on Donnelly. We still don't know if his group's connected to Sinn Fein."

"No." His lips hovered near hers for one slow breath, then two. Then he kissed her lightly.

Heart pounding, Nikita broke away. She rested her forehead against his, looked lovingly at him as if this were their last chance, the last moment. She wasn't faking it. She never knew. She only knew that she needed to grab each moment when they came, when she didn't feel like murdering him. She murmured, "But we know the Leader's here every four weeks at this clinic. That's all we know about him. The only pattern. Our only chance to stop him. Jeez, this sucks."

"Yes," said Michael. His eyes deepened, looked sadder.

What is it? What does he know that he's not telling me this time? She wondered what was behind his look, the next layer beyond that one, then the next layer deeper. She never knew with him, and she hated it as much as she'd learned to accept it. She waited, hoping, but he didn't elaborate. He never did. Nikita said, "And you wish it wasn't me doing this. I'm out of the field now. And now, I'm back in. Just this once."

His lips pursed, but still he said nothing.

"I know it's dangerous. Only one entrance, egress. Level ten security all the way around. Just what you'd expect for a private facility catering to this group - the elite, the powerful. No one wants ... unpleasant surprises."

He lifted his chin in the barest sketch of a nod. Michael's acknowledgement, that was it. Then he straightened away, moving back a crucial two inches. It was time.

Here goes nothing. Nikita tried to stand up, but she was firmly wedged into the chair so that it started to lift off the floor with her. She lowered, wiggling a little, praying that no one else would notice. Michael deftly extracted her, a touch here, silently setting the chair there, again disguising his assistance as a caress. Flushing, she stood up. Level Seven Operative, my ass. I can't even get out of the damned chair by myself.It was humiliating.

So awkward. Hopeless. Need every extra edge. Her hand automatically curled around the strap of her purse as if it were her security blanket. This device better work. It wasn't one of Walter's gizmo's, and she didn't trust anyone else. What other choice did she have? One guided shot, no scatter, minimal collateral - or so Munitions had said.

But so what? That kind of promise was just spit in the wind because this device had never been tested in the field. Once again, she was just another human simulation for the Backroom Boys and their toys. The price of her goddamn competence: always pushed harder, faster, riskier than the others. She could do without it. She wanted to settle into some place comfortable instead of always living on the knife's edge. That would be a switch all right. A real switch for her and Michael: a little peace. All she wanted was some peaceful place - calm and constant, where mistakes were just human, could sink down without a ripple, without causing danger or death. But instead, here she was, pregged up and walking - no, running - along the highwire of another crazy mission. An untested device, some fuzzy I.D. on a terrorist that even his own mother probably wouldn't recognize. In other words, business as usual. Standard F.U. Operating Procedure.

Praying that nothing else would go wrong, Nikita crossed the room to the buffet. She ignored the man's glare and stood next to the knitting girl. Closer up, the girl looked milky pale as if she'd spent all her life indoors. There were hollows under her cheeks, and her wrists were bony. The girl didn't glow like the other women, like herself. She puffed through her lips instead of breathing through her nose. Something's wrong with that girl, thought Nikita, wondering about the mother's frailty, worrying about the baby's health. No wonder Donnelly risked everything to come to these appointments with her. He was afraid for her. It was something Michael would do, and suddenly she felt sick for using that man's need to Section's advantage. How often had she told Michael that love wasn't a weakness? And here she was exploiting that. The sickness coiled deep in her belly, but she controlled it. She had to. Nikita tilted her head and pretended to read the little engraved signs on the teapots.

"It's the Darjeeling you'll be wanting. Light on the tongue. Nice today," said the girl. She didn't look up as she spoke, her needles steadily click-clacking.

"Not English Breakfast?"

"Why spoil such a fine morning as this with a drink like that. Sassenach swill."

"You're Irish, then."

"Oh, aye. That I am, and proud of it. So's that sweater you're wearing. Sure as not, it's Kerry wool."

"Yes. From Killarney. My husband and I ... we went there for our honeymoon. The mountains and that wide big lake ..."

"Lough Leane..."

"Yes, that was it."

"A beautiful place. Beautiful, it is. Your honeymoon, you say. The tall one over there. Is that your husband?"

Nikita nodded, managing a blush.

The girl leaned forward. Eyes twinkling, she whispered, "If that's your man, I'm surprised you noticed the scenery at all."

"Oh. Umm." Nikita set her cup down on the table, and poured herself some more tea.

"There now. I've embarrassed you, sure as that or my name isn't Katie Donnelly."

They talked about strollers and nannies and whether prenatal programming made any difference at all. Katie was for it. "Every night we play music to the wee one. Music and languages, don't we, Sean?"

The man folded his arms and grunted.

Katie laughed. "It won't be long now. I'm thinking there's barely enough time to finish the Spanish tape as it is. You'll be teaching yours French. That's your man's tongue. You must."

So Katie had already pegged Michael. What else had the girl overheard? Startled, Nikita only managed a feeble, "Oh, well." She stupidly watched the needles nip and tuck. Purl one, knit two. The same hypnotic twist and click, over and over until finally she gathered herself together again and cleared her throat. "I haven't, Michael and I ... we haven't talked about it yet."

"There now. Talking and understanding. Communication. Why, there's nothing more important than that. 'Tis the very blood of the world. The planet's pulse, you might say. But there's still time for you. Time for your wee one there. I can see you've a kind heart. A fine mother, you'll be. Maybe I'll be knitting you a pair of booties. Yes. What will you be having? Do you know? Do you want to know?"

"Katie," the man warned.

"A ... a girl. A daughter," said Nikita. It was harder to say out loud than she'd thought. Saying made it so. More real and wonderful and dangerous.

"What color, do you think? Yellow? A safe choice. Just in case?"

Black,thought Nikita.Mission black.

"Pink then. Pink booties for your girl. For you and Michael."

"Leave it be," said the man.

Katie smiled enigmatically before launching on to another topic. She knitted at least three more rows before she let Nikita return to Michael. She stood in front of him, her stomach knotting. She found herself liking Katie and her bright chatter, the friendly offer to knit a pair of baby booties. Nikita wished they had met under different circumstances. She didn't want to be the one to change Katie's life forever.

Michael was looking at her. His brows lifted.

"You're right. It's him. Sean Donnelly," said Nikita under her breath.

Michael stood up in one smooth movement, taking her elbow again. "There is another bathroom down the hall," he said in a louder voice. He turned, guided her across the room. As they walked by, Nikita held her purse, her fingers twisting the clasp hard to activate the device. One turn, then click. And the electromagnetic beam pulsed. Invisible, colorless, soundless, it shot across the room towards its intended target. Nikita wasn't supposed to notice a thing, but behind her eyes, she saw flashing spots like penny squibs - a pop here, there. Then the lights burst faster, one after the another.

No. Not again. Not now, she moaned silently, dread licking at her like the first fingers of flame. Her old enemy was coming. There was no running away. No place to hide. No way to fight this. God knew she had tried. Bargaining was futile, but still she tried, begging for a few more seconds. Get out. Fast. Half-way there. The target behind her, now the door just ahead, half-hidden by some electrical snow that only she could see.

Nikita heard a woman gasp - that short sharp sound of air squeezed out by pain. Was it her or someone else? She couldn't tell anymore because the snow turned into flurries before her eyes. It was all she could do to concentrate hard as she saw those spots coalesce into lightning that seemed to jag across the room and slice it in half. And she heard her pulse pound, grow into a rumbling inside her head that began to drown out her surroundings. Frowning, she concentrated even harder, willed herself to keep moving.

Right foot. Left foot. One more step. Just one more meter to the blurry door. Her head thundered louder and louder until electrical explosions filled her whole head, shoving everything else into the periphery so that the room seemed distant, maybe as far as the moon; as if she were looking at everything through the wrong end of a telescope. Michael's hands propelled her forward, and she was only vaguely aware that somewhere far away two knitting needles clacked to the ground, then the softer sound of someone's body dropping.

"My God. Katie," said the old man from the edges of her mind.

Then even the man's voice, the alarmed cries, the sound of the nurses running disappeared from her mind so that Nikita no longer heard anything, could see nothing else any more except for that familiar wall of pulsing white flame that burned brighter, incandescent; so hot that it consumed all of her. And at last she was alone, completely lost in a firestorm of pain.

continued in The Greening of Nikita

All non-LFN characters copyright (c) Bonnie Bo 2000. The right of Bonnie Bo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her. All rights reserved.

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