[Time frame: Mid-Season 3, just before “I Remember Paris” and “All Good Things.”]

“The situation is getting out of control.”

"I agree.”

“Recommendations?”

“A few.”

A lighter clicked, then flared to life.

“Such as?”

“Reprogramming.”

****

Birkoff was shocked into complete immobility as the strains of a whispered conversation wafted to within his earshot. Reprogramming? Who… Him? When?

His hands clenched over his keyboard, then froze.

They knew he was there… Madeline had offered him a thin smile as she brushed past his console and moved toward where Operations was reviewing an incoming file… They knew he could hear them. He was only a few feet away.

What purpose did it serve?

Another test?

Payback for a botched blackmail attempt?

The veins on his neck thickened as he struggled to swallow the saliva pooling in his nervous mouth. Reprogramming… It had an ominous ring.

****

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“What alternative do we have?”

“What happened to your series of punishments and rewards?”

“They’re too smart for that.”

A pause.

“Perhaps you’re right.”

****

Birkoff coughed and choked the saliva down. Jesus…

Reprogramming…

A vision of Jack Nicholson at the end of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest materialized before him as Madeline and Operations sedately exited the room.

They had to have known that he would hear…

Didn’t they?

Then again, perhaps that was the point.

Cold, undiluted fear - the kind he hadn't felt since he'd been left unprotected in the field - slammed into his system. It seemed to affect every cell, every nerve ending, crystallizing him like some mythic Greek who'd been stupid enough to look head-on at a Medusa. Just couldn't let it alone, could you? he chastised himself. Had to listen. Had to be in the know.

What was it Weil said about knowledge?

“Evil being the root of mystery, pain is the root of knowledge”

He was fairly inured to psychological pain. Physical pain, however… He’d rather re-type Section’s mainframe from scratch. Backwards.

Immobility transmuted into activity.

First off, he had to warn Walter. The old man had a right to know if the powers that be were planning on punishing them further for attempting to blackmail the Section. After waiting an appropriate amount of time he set his project to cycle, locked his computer and headed over to Munitions. He found his partner in crime busy soldering a circuit board.

Walter greeted him cheerfully from underneath a pair of protective black goggles. "Hey kid. What's shakin'?"

Birkoff leaned over the table and dropped his voice to a whisper. "We're in for it, Walter. Operations and Madeline are after us. They're not going to let our little blackmail attempt slide. Oh, man… We are toast. I mean it Walter… We are toast."

"Slow down… What are you talking about?"

"You. Me. Blackmail... White organic material subjected to extreme heat."

Walter shifted the soldering iron to his other hand, deftly wielding the tool like a light saber. "Birkoff… Calm down. We already got punished for that little fiasco, remember? Six months without downtime? What else could they possibly do?"

Birkoff gulped. "Reprogramming."

"What?"

"You heard me. Reprogramming."

Walter yanked off his goggles and stared Birkoff in the eye. "Where is all this coming from?" He pointed the iron directly at Birkoff's chest, causing the young man to recoil from the heat.

"I overheard them…" he replied defensively.

"Madeline and Operations?"

"Yeah, just now… They were in Com. They said the situation was out of control. Punishments weren't enough… Something else was needed. They specifically said 'they,' as though they were talking about more than one person. It has to be us. Who else has screwed up lately?" Birkoff took a deep breath and stared at Walter with pleading eyes, willing the man to understand the gravity of the situation. He… They… had never been in so much trouble.

Walter nodded, then squinted as if deep in thought. He flipped off the soldering iron and let it drop to the table with a sharp crack.

Birkoff held his breath, acutely aware of every second that passed while he waited for a response.

His jaw gaped wide open minutes later when Walter let loose a small chuckle and began nodding his head back and forth. "You gotta hand it to them," the older man began, struggling to suppress a bout of laughter. "You really gotta hand it to them."

Birkoff had anticipated a number of possible reactions from Walter: Acceptance, anger, a counter-maneuver… But not amusement.

Definitely not amusement.

Indignant at having his fears mocked, Birkoff straightened and turned to leave. Walter's voice stopped him before he could move more than a few feet.

"Hey, kid," the older man called gently, "they're just playing with you. If you'd been around here as long as I have you'd know that. Reprogramming is a major undertaking… Several weeks of intense psychotherapy, drugs… It's a last resort for someone who consistently exhibits undesirable behavior. What we did was wrong, but not that wrong. And we learned our lesson. What would be the point?"

"You think?"

"Yeah… Relax... Don't give it any more thought." Walter nodded, then grabbed his headgear and got back to work.

Pacified, Birkoff thanked him and returned to his station. As the day wore on, however, his fears returned. Walter might have dismissed the conversation, but he hadn't been the one to hear it.

Birkoff had… And to him, it didn't sound like a mind game.

It sounded like a plan for action.

++++++++++

One month later, despite the fact that he was still having nightmares starring Madeline as Nurse Cratchitt, Birkoff finally accepted that Walter was right on target about the conversation he'd overheard… It had to have been a trick. A sort of psychological ruler to the back of the hand. If Madeline and Operations were going to do something to either one of them, they'd have done it by now.

The feeling of relief was so palpable it practically bubbled inside him.

"What are you smiling at?" Nikita’s soft, breathy voice puffed against his ear.

"Nikita! You're back!"

"So it would seem."

His eyes swept over her lithe frame as she eased herself into the chair next to him. Stunning as usual, she was sporting a healthy tan, a plunging neckline and a sassy grin. "Looks like your mission agreed with you."

Nikita smiled. "Yeah… Four weeks in the Caribbean whooping it up with a bunch of gun-buying cokeheads. Still…" She arched her back and stretched her arms over her head "…Gathering intel by poolside has its merits." Her grin widened.

"I wouldn't know."

"Cheer up, Birkoff. If you want, you can put in a transfer and I'll train you to be a cold op."

The thought was tempting… For about a nanosecond. "I'll pass."

"Thought you might." She considered him for a moment, bestowing a fond sisterly smile, then raised her face to the command center. Birkoff followed her gaze and found the aerie unoccupied. A calculating gleam seemed to come into her eye after she noted Operations' absence. "Is Michael in?"

"Yeah… But look out. He's in a pisser of a mood."

She grinned, stood up and smoothed the fabric of her dress. "We'll see about that."

*****

Nikita found Michael in his office, at his computer, typing. After a month-long separation it was comforting to see that some things never changed. Taking advantage of the fact that her former mentor seemed oblivious to her presence, she struck a suggestive pose against his door frame and poised her right hand lightly against her hip. "Miss me?"

The object of her attention paused typing and raised his eyes to meet hers. "I beg your pardon?" His face was a smooth, unreadable mask.

"I asked if you missed me."

Green eyes coolly surveyed her form, then came to rest on her face. "There's a briefing in twenty minutes."

Well, guess that answers that question, thought Nikita, hurt but not surprised by his reply. What had she expected? A declaration?. Still… He seemed oddly distant. He often spoke with her sharply as a means of gaming the surveillance system, but he always managed to greet her with his eyes… A slight twitch to the lips, a tilt of one eyebrow… She'd come to rely on such subtle signals as a means of communication.

Today, however… She was getting nothing. No vibes, no looks, just… nothing. For a moment she had a flashback to the way Michael used to behave when he'd first started training her. Back when he was a complete machine… Now there was a scary thought.

"Yes, I know," she finally replied. "I just thought I'd come by and say hello first."

Michael met her gaze, unblinking, then dismissed her presence and resumed typing. The steady clicking of his keyboard followed Nikita as she silently exited the room.

++++++++++

Another day, another briefing, Nikita mused quietly as she sat at the conference table waiting for the rest of the team to gather. Birkoff shuffled in and gave her a quick nod and a casual, “Hey.” Mentz arrived with Benson and Baker in tow. Madeline elegantly folded herself into a seat at the far end of the table and acknowledged Nikita with a condescending tilt of her head. “Nikita.”

Compelled to retaliate, Nikita mirrored her superior’s greeting. “Madeline.”

It was a childish and petty response, but she still couldn’t help it. Trading subtle insults with Madeline helped to keep her mind from concentrating on the chilly reception she’d just received from Michael. What was up with him? Should she be concerned or irritated?

As if on cue Michael glided into the room and took the seat next to her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, searching for a thaw in his icy countenance, then looked away when she found none. Deciding that irritation was the official emotion of the day, she let her gaze drift toward Madeline and found a pair of chocolate brown eyes scanning her face with clinical intensity. Even worse, a familiar self-satisfied smile ghosted the corners of her painted lips.

Nikita could feel the hairs on the back of her neck ripple and stand upright.

Michael was cold, Madeline was smiling...

Coincidence? she asked herself. In Section? she answered disdainfully. Scratch irritated. Upgrade to concerned. She was willing to forgive Michael just about anything when faced with one of Madeline's predatory looks.

A moment later Operations strode confidently into the room, grabbed the remote and enabled the video display. “Two days ago an El Al commercial jetliner bound for London crashed into the North Sea.” He nodded at the corresponding image on screen. “The mass media has attributed this unfortunate event to mechanical failure. However, we know differently.”

He waved the remote and the image shifted to a wiry young man with wrinkled clothes and distinctive black glasses. Despite years of behavioral conditioning, Nikita was unable to keep herself from letting out a surprised gasp.

“As some of you already know...” Operations looked pointedly at Nikita. “...This is Stanley Shays. A brilliant chemist who developed an odorless, undetectable explosive with more firepower than standard C4...”

The monologue droned on, but Nikita found herself incapable of paying attention. Stanley’s memory evoked a series of images that were far more real than the colored pixels vibrating on the holographic screen before her... Michael, handing her a PDA and telling her she could use it to communicate with him from anywhere. Stanley, afraid and quivering with pain. A message telling her to run. Running... Feelings of fear, exhilaration, denial, paranoia, loneliness...

Freedom...

Only, it wasn’t freedom. Not without the man who now sat solidly next to her, his features impassive, his face seemingly indifferent to the picture of the person who was the catalyst for her escape and reintegration. Was he remembering as she was? Was his heart rate escalating at the thought of what had happened between them that night in Lyons? Could he still feel the soul-shattering, obliterating power of their reunion? She could.

Unable to help herself, she let her chair swivel a few inches until her thigh brushed his. The contact was casual, artless even, to an untrained observer. Under the table she let her foot brush up against his leg... A slow, sensual slide against his tailored wool trousers.

He flicked his eyes toward her, then calmly moved his chair and restored the distance between them.

Wounded but determined not to show it, Nikita shifted in her seat and refocused her attention on the screen before her. From behind the animated visual she caught a glint of something unidentifiable in Operations’ eye. Amusement? Satisfaction?

He practically smiled as the briefing continued. “Mr. Shays was terminated a few years ago after he was captured by the Freedom League. We had thought that his formula died with him..." he grimaced "…we thought wrong. Trace evidence indicates that Shays’ compound was used in the El Al bombing…”

“Stanley never gave out the formula,” Nikita interjected emphatically. Stanley had told her so, and she believed him.

Operations gave her a withering look. "We have confirmed that the substance used in the bombing was identical to the sample from Shay’s lab that we tested a few years back. Either the formula was leaked, or someone was in possession of a stockpile of prefabricated material.”

Her mouth moved before her brain had a chance to stop it. “Or someone developed the substance independently.”

"Nikita," Operations' voice dropped to a dangerously low register. "This is a briefing, not a discussion. I talk. You listen." His eyes coalesced into a menacing shade of dark gray. "May I continue?"

Nikita could feel Michael's spine straighten and stiffen with displeasure. Madeline lifted an eyebrow in serene disdain. Birkoff cringed. Great. At the rate she was going she wouldn't have an ally left in Section by dinner time. She fixed Operations with what she hoped was her most contrite expression and nodded her head in assent.

“Thank you." He couldn't have sounded more sarcastic if he'd tried. "We’ve apprehended and interrogated the group responsible for the attack. They’ve led us to this man...”

The monitor shifted yet again, this time showing a handsome young Arab businessman. The surveillance tape had caught the individual walking briskly across a courtyard, briefcase in hand, on his way into a nondescript office building.

“...Amit Uzan... A relatively new player in the market. He’s a lawyer by trade... Recently, through associations with his less-than-legitimate clientele, he has begun expanding his repertoire of available services. He provided the explosive. I don’t care about him, he’s just a conduit. I care about his source. Intel indicates Uzan has scheduled a meet for sometime this weekend while he is vacationing with his family on the Israeli Riviera.” The remote dropped to the table and the screen evaporated in mid-air. “Information is loaded onto your panels. All teams report to Michael. You leave in two hours.”

The team scattered the moment the briefing ended. Taking her time, Nikita eased her chair back and slowly stood up. She shouldn't have been surprised to find Michael waiting for her. Whenever she went head-to-head with Operations during a briefing he was usually waiting with some better-late-than-never piece of advice. When she was a recruit he routinely lectured her. Lately, since he'd lost Adam, he seemed more concerned with guilting her into good behavior. You are all I have left his eyes would implore while his mouth told her to respect the chain of command.

"You are a seasoned operative, Nikita. You know better than to break protocol during a briefing."

She searched his face for the accompanying look. The one that told her he needed her. The one that told her he secretly supported her, he was just scolding her for the benefit of in-house surveillance.

She encountered a very vacant, very familiar, very patented blank stare.

"I…" She sighed, stared at her feet, then lifted her eyes to his. She hated dealing with him when he was like this. "…I didn't think, Michael. I had to defend Stanley. He never would have given up the formula." She reached out and lightly placed her hand against his arm. "I had to speak up for him… You know I did."

Apparently Michael knew no such thing.

"Your defense of him almost got you cancelled once. Next time… Think." He stepped back and the arm beneath her hand dropped away, leaving her grasping for air. The symbolism of the gesture did not escape her.

The lights were on, but her Michael wasn't home.

*****

Nikita needed information. Not the kind that came from a data base, the kind that came from personal observation. Something was going on with Michael and she wanted answers. A quick glance toward Walter’s workstation found him busy equipping the mission so she headed toward her second-best source for Section gossip. "Birkoff."

"Hey. What's up?"

She perched on the edge of his desk. "That's what I'd like to know."

He blinked owlishly behind his tinted glasses, suggesting that there was some correlation between clearing his vision and understanding the purpose of her visit. When realization failed to dawn, Nikita rephrased her question. "What's going on with Michael?"

He quickly ducked his head and focused on his monitor. "I don’t know."

Nikita crossed her arms over her chest and waited.

"Really, I don't know. He’s been in a rotten mood all week.”

“Define rotten.”

Birkoff talked as he typed. “Cold. Ruthless… You guys have a fight or something?”

Nikita narrowed her eyes with displeasure. “Birkoff.”

He at least had the grace to look sheepish. “Okay, maybe not. All I know is he's been over the top since he got back from his last mission."

Ah, now they were getting somewhere. "What mission?"

"Beats me…Something high level, beyond my clearance." Birkoff seemed sincere in his lack of information. "I'd tell you if I knew."

"Yeah, I know." She gave him a reassuring pat on his shoulder. "Let me know if you learn anything, okay?"

"Sure thing."

++++++++++

The mission to capture Uzan's contact was a textbook tag and grab: Tag Uzan, wait for the meet, then grab the target. Since preliminary surveillance had shown that the family spent most of its time swimming in the pool area Nikita found herself strategically placed in a chaise lounge awaiting their early-afternoon arrival. Burning hot rays of noon-day sun beamed down and leeched the moisture from her skin.

After a while Uzan, his wife and young son entered the pool area flanked by two rather beefy looking bodyguards. The tell-tale bulge of a weapon was clearly visible underneath each man’s linen jacket. A deterrent to attack, she assumed, since weapons were so easy to disguise.

Nikita pretended to immerse herself in her book. A quick peek over her sunglasses revealed that Uzan appeared in person exactly as he had on video. Handsome, confident, purposeful. His wife was a beautiful woman, darkly exotic with coffee skin and obsidian hair. She reminded Nikita vaguely of Elena, which explained perhaps why the child bouncing along next to her seemed so much like Adam. He too had dark black hair and eyes, with a round impish face and a compact little body. Her heart ached as she watched the child shriek with delight upon spying the pool, and she was glad that Michael was off-site and would not have to see such a vivid reminder of his son.

Moments later the child belted out something unintelligible in Hebrew, then ran right by her and took a flying leap into the deep end.

Nikita jumped, but not fast enough to avoid the tsunami-like splash that careened in her direction. Cool, chlorinated water sluiced over her reclining form.

Cannonball

A quick inventory of her person revealed a soaked linen cover-up, a semi-soaked pair of sandals and a trashy book that was now, appropriately enough, trash. She tossed the book in a nearby wicker garbage pail, then grabbed a towel and began to dry off. Her efforts were serenaded by the sounds of Uzan’s wife scolding the child in an icy, cultured voice that brooked no disobedience. Nikita didn’t need to speak Hebrew to know that Amit Jr. was in for a rough afternoon.

“Forgive my son,” a deep voice interrupted in heavily-accented English. “He is... how do you say?... High strung?”

Nikita looked up to find Amit Uzan staring apologetically into her eyes and laughed in spite of herself. The son, who was at that very moment being vigorously toweled off by his mother, looked like an adorable little scamp. She and Michael would produce a son like that, she thought fleetingly. An incorrigible little rascal with Michael’s strong body and her spontaneous personality.

Feeling wistful for things she would never have, she gave the man a forgiving smile. “Don’t worry. This is a pool, and I am wearing a swimsuit.”

“You are very kind.”

Nikita shrugged. “More like practical.” Still grinning, she lifted her foot to shake a pebble out of her sandal. When the offending object failed to dislodge itself, she fixed her target with a hopeful expression and indicated his shoulder with her eyes. “May I?”

“Of course.”

She promptly placed a hand on his shoulder for balance, lifted her foot and removed the sandal so that she could shake the pebble free. Her peripheral vision registered that Uzan’s bodyguards had advanced in her direction and were watching her intently. Seconds later, she stepped back and murmured her thanks.

“It was the least I could do.” He gave her a courtly bow and retreated to where his wife and son were sitting. Nikita looked on with wry amusement as the man barked a command and the young boy quickly fled the area.

Stripping off her wet shirt, she plopped back down on her chair and proceeded to let the sun finish drying her off.

“Smooth... Very smooth.” Birkoff chimed in her earpiece. “The tracker is transmitting. You can come in now.”

“I think I’ll stay here for a bit...” She glanced critically down at her arms, noting that the tan she’d acquired on her recent Caribbean assignment had already started to fade.

The channel was silent for a moment, then Birkoff came back on-line. “Michael says to come in.”

“Why?” She huffed loud enough for the sound to carry across the com-unit. “We’re on standby until it gets dark.” And Michael usually likes it when I have a tan.

Another pause, then the unmistakable sound of a certain French accent. “Now, Nikita.”

Nikita bristled at Michael’s tone.

Who pissed in his Wheaties?

She wasn’t some green little recruit that couldn’t be trusted to use downtime discreetly. If they weren’t on an open channel she’d have been tempted to give him a piece of her mind. As it was, she simply quipped “You’re the boss” and began to collect her belongings.

Be patient she urged herself for the millionth time as she efficiently crammed her soggy belongings into her beach bag. The phrase was rapidly becoming a mantra. Perhaps she should use her mandatory afternoon indoor downtime to whip up a little cross-stitch sampler. Emblazon the phrase in bright, blood-red letters. Sad thing was, Michael probably wouldn’t even notice. In the time since she’d been back from her last mission they had not had one private conversation. Excepting his lecture after the briefing, of course. He had yet to look her in the eye, let alone touch her. Once, on the plane over, she’d asked him if her com-link needed to be adjusted. It was an inane question, asked for the sole purpose of giving him an excuse to engage in a little light physical flirtation. How many times had he used her com-link as a cover for a knee-numbing, brain-frying caress? Too many to count.

Alas, as shots went, that one was a brick.

He gave her a quizzical stare, then told her to go to the back of the plane and check in with Birkoff if she was having a problem. You are the problem! she’d been tempted to stamp her foot and say. But she resisted. Instead, she told herself yet again to wait. To give him the benefit of the doubt. To be patient.

Be patient. She hefted her damp beach bag over her shoulder and let out a frustrated sigh. Yeah, but for how long?

++++++++++

Two teams were in place later that evening as Uzan, followed by his son, strode from the dining room to the main hotel lobby. Although the bug Nikita had placed earlier that afternoon had yielded a time for the meet – 8:00pm – the location remained a mystery. So too did the physical description of the partner. They only knew that he had a Russian accent and was called Ilya. Section did not have anyone on file matching his voice pattern.

The teams were currently employing mobile surveillance, switching in and out so as to avoid being noticed. At the moment Michael and Nikita were on point, with Mentz and Baker hovering just outside. Benson had just come off his shift and was in the van with Birkoff.

After Uzan entered the lobby and seemed content to stay Michael posted himself in a darkened corner where he could unobtrusively observe the entire room. With his eyes he directed Nikita to discreetly follow the mark. Keeping Uzan in sight, Nikita took up residence on a damask settee and made a show of rummaging through her purse and reapplying her makeup.

While the child played a loose version of hopscotch on the tile floor Uzan ambled toward a grouping of ecru sofas. Five minutes prior to the meet he eased himself into a chair facing the hotel entrance. He sipped absently at a glass of red wine and halfheartedly flipped through a magazine. The heavy paneled doors occupied his full attention.

Nikita breathed into her com link. “Looks like they’re opting to hide in plain sight. Uzan’s seated in the lobby staring intently at the main entrance. Chances are the meet will happen right here.”

“Got it, Nikita.” Birkoff replied promptly.

Michael quietly reconfigured the room. “Team two take position, hold for visual.”

Baker and Mentz arrived and anchored themselves next to the entrance. They leaned against a pillar and pretended to chat like old friends.

Sensing his father’s shift in focus, the child soon became bored and started looking for trouble. He tugged at the collar of his dinner jacket, fidgeted restlessly and persisted in kicking his shiny patent loafers against any surface with the potential to scuff. When the tortured squeaks of his shoes failed to roust his father’s attention he opted for a more direct approach: A running, flying leap quite similar to the one he’d used that afternoon by the pool. This time, however, his father’s lap was his main objective.

Apparently Uzan was accustomed to such behavior from his son. He quickly intercepted the boy and plopped him securely on his lap. The child immediately noticed his father’s wine and pleaded for a glass of his own. The older man regarded his offspring, smiled, and shook his head no.

“A sip? Please?”

“Perhaps…” Uzan rolled his eyes and made a great show of picking up the glass and swirling its burgundy contents. “…But just this once. And don’t tell your mother.”

The boy smiled impishly and grabbed the goblet with both hands.

For a split second Nikita was transported back in time to the evening she’d been required to witness Michael’s attempt to poison Elena. Testing his boundaries, Adam had boldly asked for a glass of wine and his father had humorously obliged him. The gleeful smirk Adam had given Michael... Seeing that same expression on Uzan’s heir... Nikita could feel her throat constrict with emotion. Quickly, she shifted her eyes and settled her sympathetic gaze on Michael.

She braced herself to see anything from amusement to abject pain reflected in his eyes.

Instead, she saw indifference.

Indifference

Immune to the scene playing out before him, he stood masterfully still like some creepy replicant from a wax museum. His head remained locked while his eyes shifted and coolly tracked the room. He noted the child, the father, the guests, the team, the door...

The child, the father, the guests, the team, the door...

Again and again he repeated the scan. Rhythmically and precisely, like an assembly line worker. Like a machine. He broke the pattern only once when his focused gaze suddenly shifted and locked on to hers. He stared so hard he seemed to be looking right through her, then he turned away.

A familiar rash of goosebumps tickled down Nikita’s arms.

Something’s not right.

She didn’t have time to do more than make a mental note of Michael’s disturbing behavior. Within moments the heavy doors swung open and a large man appeared. He was a tall, weathered Slav with high cheekbones and a butch haircut. Aviator glasses were perched securely over a reddened bulbous nose.

"Potential target on premises," she voiced quietly to the team. “Looks like he could have a weapon concealed in a rolled-up newspaper. Right side.”

"All teams hold position for verification."

The man crossed the lobby, peeling away his glasses to reveal a set of red-rimmed cerulean eyes. He glanced at the boy and lifted a questioning eyebrow at Uzan.

Uzan nodded, then separated himself from his son. He set the boy down, patted the child on the rear and ordered him to go back into the dining room and find his mother. As soon as he saw that the boy was headed in the right direction he turned his attention back to his guest. By now the man had collapsed his bulky frame into a nearby chair.

“Ilya...”

Birkoff was on-line in a flash. “Target verified.”

“Do we move?” asked Mentz.

“No,” Michael replied. “Too public. Take him when he exits.”

The meet was brief. Information was exchanged, a payment was transferred and a second meeting to deliver the goods was arranged. In less than ten minutes Ilya was back on his feet and walking purposefully toward the door.

"Team two prepare to intercept target."

There was no way Ilya could have heard Michael’s order, and yet it seemed to Nikita as if on some level he had. Perhaps it was a sixth sense, a highly developed radar for impending danger. Whatever the cause, the man increased his pace, eating up the tile floor as he neared the exit. His eyes tracked the room, zeroing in on the two operatives stationed in front of him. He shifted his eyes and noted Michael’s position. Then hers.

“We’ve been made,” Baker murmured into his com link and reached for his weapon.

The newspaper fell away. A black Glock gleamed dangerously at Ilya's side.

Mentz flipped off the safety on his pistol and stepped in front of Ilya. “Come with us, please.” The syntax may have been polite, but the gravelly voice that uttered it most definitely was not.

The target was blocked and outnumbered.

He knew it.

They knew it.

It was only a matter of time.

"Daddy!"

Everyone in the room suddenly froze as if in suspended animation. Everyone except the child, who was innocently running toward his father, and the target. Ilya’s rheumy eyes zeroed in on the boy, then quickly tracked all available exits. Michael, Nikita, Mentz, Baker…

There was no way out…

The boy hopped between Mentz and Ilya. The Russian lunged and seized the child against him, dangling him in mid-air as a shield.

The child instinctively sensed evil. He cried, screamed, and squirmed against his captor. Ilya’s arm banded tightly across the young boy's chest, cutting off his air. Wailing cries were reduced to pitiful mewls. A ripple of muscle as Ilya’s arm clenched even tighter. The boy wheezed and gasped for air, but continued to fight for his release.

Uzan sprang forward to rescue his son and was leveled by Michael with one efficient stroke.

"Do we have an open shot?" Birkoff questioned.

"No. He's turning too fast.”

Nikita felt as though her limbs were weighted with wet concrete. The target backed away…

Michael advanced, gun drawn.

One step.

No…

Another.

Too risky…

A red laser beam streaked across the room, igniting particles of dust suspended in the air.

Please, no…

The report of a gun.

No!

A bullet slammed into the target's shoulder with enough force to whip him backwards. The child spun out as if tossed by a centrifuge, arcing through the air and then landing on the polished tile floor with a sickening thud. Still conscious, he curled up into a defensive ball and began to cry for his mother. Tearful hiccups neutralized the room. Nikita rushed to his side and soothed him as best she could. When she refocused her attention on the mission she turned back to see Michael standing over the target.

"Get up," he ordered. It was the same intimidating tone he used on recalcitrant recruits.

The man grunted, slowly rose to his feet and clutched at his wounded shoulder. The harder he pressed the more blood seem to pulse between his fingers. Michael was unfazed by his discomfort. He nodded toward Mentz, who quickly led the prisoner away.

Nikita left the boy and stormed to where Michael was standing. "You almost shot a child!"

Michael behaved as if her outburst had never happened. He dipped his head and spoke into his receiver. "Target aquired. Engage backup. We'll need medical on site."

Before he could move she grabbed his arm and held him in place. He looked down at her hand, then her face. His voice was infuriatingly calm. "Secure the collateral…” he indicated Uzan with a quick nod “…Meet at rendezvous point in ten minutes."

Nikita gasped. "Secure the collateral? Haven’t you been listening? You almost shot a child!”

He holstered his weapon and started to walk away.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

He stopped and regarded Nikita over his shoulder through opaque eyes. “Nothing.” A minute later she was once again staring at his retreating form.

Nothing?

With a single look he’d thrown her emotions into a full tailspin. The man walking away from her wasn’t her friend, or her occasional lover. He was... different. The change was intangible... It wasn’t something she could name or define. It was something she sensed. Intuited.

As the boy keened in the background she felt her entire world tilt on its axis.

++++++++++

Nikita should have known that Walter would see something was wrong the moment she neared his station. He looked at her with a lecherous grin and started to say something suggestive, then pulled back and carefully scanned her features.

“Hello, Walter.” Her tone sounded tired and troubled, but she was too disturbed to do anything about it. She wanted to say more, but was prevented from doing so by the presence of the rest of her team. Mentz and Baker were busy disassembling their weapons and logging them back in. Birkoff was burrowing around the table in search of a better com-link.

“Hello yourself,” he offered with an easy grin. “Come here for a sec. I’ve got something in back I need to show you.” With a nod toward his storage area he started walking. As soon as he reached safe distance he turned and placed his hands on his hips. “Okay, Sugar, spill it. You look like someone just ran over your puppy.”

“I don’t have a puppy, Walter.”

“Of course you don’t. Who among us does? Now… Tell your Uncle Walter all about it.”

She took a deep breath. “Something is going on with Michael. Something serious.”

“What?”

“He’s acting strange,” she began slowly. “Ruthless. He’s achieving results, but he’s endangering innocents to do it.” She could tell from the puzzled look Walter was giving her that she had yet to say something that warranted serious concern. “I know he’s risked innocents before… Trust me, this is different.”

He nodded, encouraging her to continue.

“You heard about today’s mission?”

“Only that you achieved closure.”

“Oh yeah, we achieved closure.” Nikita laughed sarcastically and seated herself on a nearby stool. “Michael came within an inch of shooting a child who looked exactly like Adam to do it.”

“He did what?”

“Thought that might get your attention… The target made us moments before we were going to pick him up. He pulled his gun, we pulled ours, then the whole thing went to pieces because the contact’s son came running into the room. As you might imagine the target grabbed the boy and tried to use him as a shield.”

“Then what?”

“Michael shot the target in the shoulder. Didn’t blink. Didn’t bother to check on child afterwards, either. And the boy was hurt.”

Walter’s eyes bulged out of their sockets. “Jesus.” Deep in thought, he took a step back and leaned against a shelf. He blinked rapidly while he assimilated her story. “You were on that Caribbean assignment for… what? Four weeks?”

“Yeah.”

“And Michael was sent on an extended mission as well…” Walter sounded like he was talking to himself rather than her. “…Something high level. Classified…”

“Yeah, that’s what Birkoff said. Apparently the weird behavior started after Michael got back.”

“Weird behavior… Of course.” Walter nodded to himself, suggesting to Nikita that he’d suspected something and just had it confirmed. Then he asked, “How’s he treating you?”

“Me? He’s not avoiding me, but he’s not exactly talking to me, either.”

“Has he touched you?”

Nikita gasped at the gall of her friend. “Walter!”

“Look, I know there’s something between you two. You may not be dating but there is something going on. There has been from the day you arrived in Section. And trust me, now is not the time to act missish and pretend that there’s not. Tell me exactly how he’s behaving toward you.”

Silently, Nikita considered the question. How was Michael behaving toward her? Like she didn’t exist. Like she could have been any old operative. There were no smoldering looks, no quiet caresses, no secret signals meant only for her. There was only the mission. The final objective. She stared dejectedly down at her feet and muttered, “He doesn’t seem to care where I am or what I’m doing. Unless I’m not obeying orders, of course, and then he seems to care a lot.”

Walter reached out and gave her arm a quick pat. “I’m sorry, Sugar. I know this must be tough.”

She took a moment to accept the pity her companion was offering. Not one to wallow in it, however, she soon bounced back with a surprising observation. “You’re accepting this pretty readily.” Her eyes narrowed into tiny blue slits. “What do you know that I don’t?”

“I forget how quick you are sometimes. Sorry…” He tugged on his bandana “…Your words triggered a memory of a conversation I’d pretty much buried.” He seemed to lapse into his own little world, once again talking more to himself than to her. “Damn, I should have listened to Birkoff. Should have given the boy more credit, not just assumed he was being paranoid. Damn, damn, damn…”

“Walter, you’re starting to scare me. What conversation? When?”

“Look, it doesn’t matter. Bottom line, I think I know what’s wrong with Michael.”

“What?”

He inhaled deeply and looked her straight in the eye. “He’s been reprogrammed.”

“Reprogrammed?” Nikita lifted her hand and placed a quivering palm against her forehead. Oh, God… Reprogramming. It all made sense… The mood change, the renewed focus on protocol, the lack of affection… He wasn’t in a blood cover anymore so it wasn’t like Section valued what was left of his humanity. They didn’t need it, and if they felt it was affecting his performance…

She raised her eyes and met Walter’s sympathetic gaze. “What do we do?”

“There’s nothing to do.” The old man shook his head sadly. “I’ve seen them do it before. It’s irrevocable.”

“I… I can’t accept that Walter. There has to be something.”

“There isn’t.” Next thing she knew Walter had pulled her against his wiry form and was gently rubbing her back as a parent might soothe a child. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

Nikita turned her head so that her cheek was resting comfortably against his denim shirt. When tears threatened to fall she closed her eyes tightly and hugged Walter closer. A callused hand stroked up her back to rest at the nape of her neck. Gently, with thumb and forefinger, he tried to massage her tension away.

“I can’t just let him go on like this, Walter…” Her words sounded muffled against the fabric of his shirt. “I can’t.”

He continued his gentle ministrations. “You have to, Sugar.”

“No.” She took a deep breath, separated herself from him and stood up. Once she was standing straight she fixed him with an intent stare. “There’s a way… And I’m going to find it.”

He smiled at the stubborn tone of her voice. “I’ll be here if you need me.” He gave the appearance of a man who didn’t believe that she would succeed, but was willing to let her try. And when it was all over he would be there to help her pick up the pieces.

“I know.” She leaned down and placed a girlish peck on his leathered cheek. “Thank you.”

Unsteady legs transported her away from Walter and back under the watchful eye of the command center. Operations stood formidably at his window, keeping a watchful eye on his concrete kingdom. Bastard, she thought quickly, feeling a spurt of adrenaline inject itself into her bloodstream. Cold, inhumane, son of a…

“Good evening, Nikita…”

Startled, she turned her head to find Madeline standing just a few feet away. How long had she been there? The older woman was once again studying her intensely, marveling at her like some child with a captured animal. “Congratulations on a successful mission.”

The casual way in which Madeline catalogued her features, clearly searching for her reaction to Michael’s behavior in Israel, rocketed her blood pressure sky high. “Yes, I suppose you would consider it a success.”

An eyebrow lifted. “And you would not?”

“Well, that all depends on how you define success, now doesn’t it?” She grinned smartly, taking pleasure in the way Madeline’s lips pursed with suppressed irritation. “I mean, if accomplishing your objective is all that matters, then I suppose it was successful. If you’re like me, and you actually care about innocent children, you might qualify the outcome another way.”

Madeline rewarded Nikita’s outburst with one of her slow, feline smiles. “I see.”

No you don’t, Nikita wanted to say. You don’t see at all. You don’t see anything except your grand plan, your manipulations, and your compulsive need to control everyone around you. If someone disobeys, you don’t compromise. You eradicate.

Though her thoughts were unspoken, Madeline seemed aware of their general gist. “Is something wrong?” she inquired acidly.

Nikita threw her shoulders back and beamed confidently. “Nothing I can’t fix.”

Another Cheshire-like grin. “I see.” If Madeline had been in possession of a tail, she’d have swished it as she pivoted away and headed for the command center. As soon as she was out of sight Nikita made a beeline for Birkoff’s station. If anyone could secretly hack into Section’s knowledge base on reprogramming, it would be him.

*****

Birkoff had been only too happy to help once he knew why she needed the information.

Reprogramming?, he’d squeaked like some prepubescent junior high school student. He kept muttering about being right, and learning to trust his intuition. When he launched into a diatribe on insane asylums and frontal lobotomies she told him to can the talk and scour the system.

He did.

Hours later, Nikita’s positive rush of adrenaline had faded into despondency.

Research had confirmed what Walter told her… Reprogramming was irrevocable. A cocktail of drugs and psychological conditioning strong enough to completely alter a subject’s behavioral pattern. There was some memory modification involved, but for the most part the procedure focused on personality. Likes, dislikes, priorities. Perception of past events was changed, which in turn affected actual behavior. Throw in some light brainwashing and voila! - An über-operative was born.

The only positive outcome, from Nikita’s perspective, was that the procedure was incapable of completely changing an operative’s psychological make-up. Usually one or two undesirable traits were identified and erased. It was impossible to do more without risking brain damage.

She could only assume that Michael was, for the most part, intact.

At the same time, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Michael’s affection for her was a casualty of the procedure. Gone… Removed like an unwanted growth.If the Uzan mission was any indication, Section had also reined in his tendency to stretch mission parameters to protect innocents. A trait which Nikita had personally cultivated in him.

Also gone.

How much was left? Anything?

He had to have his memories intact. When he’d chewed her out after the Uzan briefing he alluded to Stanley Shays being responsible for her brush with cancellation. She assumed he knew about the events leading up to her escape, he just didn’t seem to care. Section had obviously engaged in a little revisionist history. Change perception of past events, change current behavior.

Which again begged the question… What was left?

Could Section erase events of which they were completely unaware? Say… A secret midnight rendezvous on a boat?

There was one way to find out.

++++++++++

Days passed before she came into contact with him. It was an accidental encounter… She turned a corner, he turned a corner, their bodies came within inches of a collision. The metal grating of the catwalk bounced as they each recovered their balance.

“Sorry,” she gasped.

He placed his arms against hers and gently pushed her back. “No problem.”

It was not the location she had planned, but she’d make do. Thankfully she’d dressed appropriately. A tight black number with a long skirt and a very high slit. “Actually, I’m glad I ran into you…” One knee bent and the soft fabric swished open to reveal a smooth, tanned thigh. “…Do you have a minute?” She pressed her hand to the small of her back so that her chest thrust slightly forward.

“Yes… A minute.”

Bad sign. He looked bored.

“Well, I was sort of hoping we could have coffee.” She fluttered her mascara-laden lashes.

“Coffee.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

“We used to go out for coffee, remember? In Lyons?” she teased.

Maybe he did remember, maybe he didn’t. He sedately clasped his hands and regarded her with a frustratingly blank expression. “I don’t have time for coffee, Nikita. What do you want?”

Uh oh. It was the voice he used on unruly recruits.

She leaned forward so that her breath mingled with his. “I want to talk to you.”

Cool, jade eyes bored into hers. “So… talk.”

“I’m concerned about you,” she tentatively began, suddenly unsure of the wisdom of her tactic. “You’ve had some stressful missions and I wanted to see if you were okay.”

“I’m fine.” He stared over her shoulder, mentally dismissing her as he’d done so many times before.

“Fine,” she repeated with obvious disbelief.

He continued to stare off into the distance. “Yes, fine. Thank you for asking.”

His gracious indifference stung like a cut in salt water, but she persevered. Slowly, she raised her hand and placed it on his forearm. Hoping for a miracle, hoping that her touch would restore the bond her words had failed to find.

He seemed surprised by the attention, staring at her arm as though it were a foreign object. Beneath the course wool of his jacket she probed for a physical reaction, a twinge, a spasm, something that proved he recognized her on an instinctive level.

Nothing…

Not a reflex, not a quiver…

Despair caused her hand to jerk back. She let it fall to her side, useless. Impotent. If he wasn’t reacting to her on a physical level, what did she have to work with? There didn’t seem to be any memories of the passion they’d shared. He didn’t even blink when she’d thrown out Lyons. There was no apparent attraction, no chemistry.

She raised her eyes to his, lovingly scanning his features for a sign of the man she knew. She traced the strong line of his chin, the erotic curve of his upper lip, the profile of his Gallic nose. How could such a familiar face become so foreign? The eyes that had once burned for her now seemed flat and dark. The lips that had fed ferociously on hers were uncharacteristically cold. And the lyrical voice that had once pronounced her name like a prayer now uttered it like an epithet.

There was no way he was faking. Not after what she’d witnessed in that hotel lobby in Israel. Plus, he’d been blisteringly honest with her since he’d lost Adam and Elena… He trusted her with his secrets. He’d have trusted her with this one…

He was gone… Really and truly gone…

There was an overwhelming urge to scratch and scream. To fight him, to rail against him, to physically awaken the memory of the man he once was… But she recognized it as the futile desire of a first-year recruit. A seasoned operative knew better than to go against the system. What had Operations once told her? That Section was a living, breathing organism?

Walter had tried to tell her… She just hadn’t been ready to believe. She’d refused to accept that Section could – in a matter of weeks – destroy the mind of a man as strong and as capable as Michael. She’d honestly thought that his love for her was stronger than that. Stronger than Section. Stronger than a bunch of chemicals.

Apparently not.

“Was there something else?” he inquired politely.

She stepped back, undone by courteous tone of his voice. “No,” she whispered. “No…” Before he could say another word she turned and walked away.

++++++++++

Days passed, then weeks… Michael performed flawlessly.

Nikita did not.

She’d noticed that her performance numbers were starting to slip.

With every mission she could feel herself getting more and more sloppy. Never enough to jeopardize the goal, or even a fellow operative, just enough to inflict a little injury on herself. A bump, a scrape, a sprain. The pain actually felt good. At least it was something… And it was easier to master than her shredded heart.

At times she wondered if she was doing it subconsciously. Was she trying to get herself hurt? Trying to jar Michael back to reality? Placing herself in jeopardy had certainly worked once, it might work again.

Assuming that deep down Michael still cared, which was quite an assumption.

He continued to request her to be on his team, despite his altered state. Apparently Section hadn’t taught him to avoid her, or even to hate her, only to be indifferent to her on a personal level. He seemed to consider her to be an integral part of his unit. At the same time, he treated her exactly the same as everyone else. Which meant he showed no preferential treatment, and was therefore just as inclined to risk her life as much as anyone else’s.

Apparently he was also just as inclined to save it.

On a particularly harrowing mission against a Red Cell substation Nikita was separated from the rest of the team and pinned behind a generator. For several minutes she was trapped, lacking a safe exit in any direction. When her clip emptied, she pocketed her weapon and decided to make a run for it. She’d almost made safe distance when an assailant materialized out of thin air and raised his weapon to fire. She’d thought for sure that she was going to die. Before the man could squeeze the trigger, another weapon discharged and the man crumpled to the ground with a bullet through his skull.

She turned and found Michael not ten feet away.

Not trusting herself to say much of anything, she just gulped and uttered, “Thanks.”

He nodded toward egress. “Get to the van. We leave in three minutes.” There was no silent communication accompanying his command. Certainly, there wasn’t an iota of concern in his eyes or his voice. But it was enough to spur Nikita into giving him another try. Perhaps enough time had passed… Perhaps Section’s hold over his psyche was weakening.

Their paths crossed by the briefing table later that evening. She was heading back from her debrief. He was heading toward the command center.

“Michael…” she called as he passed.

He stopped and turned toward her with his usual inscrutable gaze. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if you wanted to grab a cup of coffee later.”

A pause, then a look of confusion. “Why?”

Nikita smiled cynically to herself. Why, indeed. “Because we used to enjoy each other’s company.”

Silence.

Had she really expected him to say yes?

“Never mind. I was heading out soon and thought you might like to join me.” Without a glance in his direction she resumed walking. After a few steps, however, something made her stop. She turned and found Michael standing in the exact same position as when she’d left. He was watching her intently, a deep furrow between his brows.

She offered him a small smile, which he failed to return, and then she veered toward Munitions.

“I can’t take this any more, Walter...” Nikita let out a wounded sigh as she seated herself at her friend’s workstation. Somewhere in the back of her mind she had harbored the hope that Michael’s reconditioning would fade over time. Yet in the wake of yet another polite rejection, it became more and more obvious that her dream was just that… a dream.

He hadn’t saved her earlier that day, he’d saved a fellow operative who was in need of assistance.

Walter placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “Sugar…”

“…I can’t. I just can’t. I look at him and I want to scream.” She ran a hand roughly through her hair, trying unsuccessfully to scrub her mind clean of evil thoughts. “Why do this to him now? His efficiency levels were back up to normal. It’s not like the bond between us was a new thing. Madeline probably recognized it long before we did.”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Nikita turned and looked at him, then focused her attentions on the opposite side of the room. “He started breaking protocol to protect me. That was new.” She shuddered.

“Yes, he did. But that was his decision… This is not your fault.”

Yeah, right.

“Don’t roll your eyes, Nikita… And don’t you dare put this all on yourself.” He pointed a gnarled old finger in her face and poked her playfully on the forehead. “Section lost control over Michael when they took away his son… He floundered. He started acting reckless and he became a liability. Finally, he recovered, but instead of opting to live for Section he started living for you. Maybe he’s always done that… But he shouldn’t have let them see it. Section One won’t tolerate coming in second with anyone… Especially with Michael.”

Walter’s words warmed her, but they didn’t ease the permanent ache that had settled in her chest. Perhaps he was right… Perhaps there was more to the whole reprogramming thing. Perhaps Michael’s affection for her was a symptom of a much greater problem. But still… Understanding Section’s motivations couldn’t bring him back. At the end of the day, Michael wasn’t Michael.

That was what mattered.

She turned her head and glanced up at the command center. There stood Section’s triumvirate… Operations, Madeline, Michael… The parents and the prodigal son, together like they always were these days. It was stupid of her to feel excluded. After all, when had she ever enjoyed a trip to that room? And yet… It hurt so much to see them together. To see him trade time with her for time with them…

“At least he doesn’t remember what he’s missing,” she murmured quietly.

She remembered all too well… It seemed ironic that what Section had done to Michael had hurt her more than him. He couldn’t regret the loss of something he couldn’t remember. She could, and did. Every time she was forced to look into his eyes and see his ambivalence. Every time she had to hear him pronounce her name without pausing to savor each syllable.

Walter opened his mouth to offer her his support but she waved him off with her hand. Moments later she stood up, grabbed her daypack and headed for home.

As she crossed the main floor she couldn’t help but look up to where Michael was standing. She watched him constantly, always hoping that the day would come when he looked at her and really saw her, not just a member of his team. Fate was cruel that evening... Rather than encountering Michael’s gaze, she met Operations’. She stared, transfixed, as the older man looked straight into her eyes and smiled.

It was the subtle, gloating smile of a victor.

Cruel in its simplicity.

It hurt.

++++++++++

“Three weeks ago you recovered this man… Ilya Petrovich.” Operations began, referring to a holographic image of the target they’d recovered in Israel. “After recovering from his injuries, Mr. Petrovich was greenlisted and sent back out into the field. Today we received word that he has made contact with his supplier.”

“Anyone we know?” Michael queried.

Actually, no.” Operations seemed pleased that they’d uncovered a whole new organization to squash. “Apparently the old guard in Russia is merging with the new guard. Petrovich has ties to a faction comprised of former KGB officers and some young scientific geniuses from Moscow University. They developed the explosive in a small city on the outskirts of the region…”

“So Stanley didn’t leak the formula.” Nikita murmured. Not even the risk of cancellation was enough to keep her mouth shut.

“No, he did not…” Operations practically gnashed his teeth.

Ah… Vindication…

It was a petty victory, but a victory all the same.

“…They are selling the explosive to raise money to fund their political efforts at home,” he continued. “They don’t care who the buyer is as long as they get paid. Which makes life fairly easy for us… Michael will be posing not just as a buyer, but also as an interested investor, so that he will be positioned to visit their production facility. The objective is to discover the location of their stockpile, and destroy it.”

Destroy it? Blow up a warehouse filled with explosives?

“Uh, sir,” Birkoff interrupted. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

“We’re not razing the site,” he explained with exasperation. “Walter has prepared a chemical gas that will neutralize the explosives on contact.” Operations glanced quickly at his watch. “Information is on your panels, you can review it on the plane. The meet happens tomorrow. You leave in one hour. Any questions, see Michael.”

*****

Two hours into the flight and Nikita was still unable to sleep. A quick glance around the plane revealed that the rest of her team was sacked out. Birkoff, especially… He’d dozed off while in a reclining position and was breathing so heavily he was practically snoring. She’d have to remember to tease him about it later.

Alone with her thoughts, she took a deep drag from her water bottle and zeroed in on her former mentor. Michael was awake, of course. He was busy reviewing the profile on his panel, the unit’s green light casting his features with an eerie glow. He was so completely different from the man who only months ago had been grieving for the loss of a beloved child. Had he ever been so vulnerable? So lost?

She could still remember that conversation like it was yesterday…

You’ve got to find a reason to live she’d urged him quietly, fearing that he was on the verge of taking his own life.

Where? he’d replied with complete disinterest.

And she’d said, Anywhere you can.

The words haunted her, especially now. Anywhere you can. How sad that she was unable to take her own advice… But then, what did she have left? He’d still had her. All she had was him. She supposed there were friends such as Walter and Birkoff who could be relied on. But everything just seemed hollow… Pointless.

It wasn’t even like she and Michael had been an item. At least, not in the Biblical sense. But there had always been the idea of him to sustain her. There was always hope for the future. A sense that somehow, some way, through some karmic event they would end up living happily ever after.

As if. She snorted indelicately. There were no happy endings in Section. Why try to pretend otherwise?

She recalled all those times in the past when he’d manipulated her… When he’d lied and cajoled and used her affection for him against her. At least his machinations were a form of attention… They might have been perverted and sick, but they were something…

The “new” Michael had no hidden motivations or suppressed feelings. What he did, he did for Section. He didn’t bother to spend enough time with her to mess with her head. He just gave her an order and expected her to follow it. She hadn’t worked up the courage yet to disobey him simply because she feared that rather than take time out to lecture her he’d just put her on the shelf and pick another operative.

Anywhere you can

What if there was nowhere else she wanted to be?

*****

The meet took place in an airplane hangar off an abandoned airstrip just outside Moscow. The structure had obviously been out of use for some time. Dirty gray paint hung in curls off the side of the structure, revealing a corrugated skeleton of rusted metal underneath. Large windows were cracked and crusted with dirt.

A cold, wet wind blew in from the northeast, causing Nikita to wrap herself tightly in her coat.

She was on primary with Michael, paired as his assistant. They were to meet with Ilya’s contact, then travel to see the facility. Once the location was confirmed the back-up team would be engaged to neutralize the compound.

“Satellite just picked up a convoy approaching from the South,” Birkoff reported via com-link. “It appears to be a limo accompanied by a military truck of some sort. Looks like a full house. Are you in place?”

“Yes,” Michael replied.

Gravel crunched outside the hangar. Seconds later a dusty, black limo turned the corner and drove to where Michael and Nikita were standing. A medium-duty hauler filled with young men in fatigues soon followed it. The limo’s driver door opened, revealing a seven-foot mutant who could only be a bodyguard. The man sniffed at Michael and Nikita, then walked back and opened the rear door of the vehicle.

An older man of medium height stepped onto the cement floor. He was dressed in a thick wool coat and polished boots. A wide brimmed hat concealed most of his facial features.

“You are Mikhail?” His English was fluent, but heavily accented.

“Yes,” Michael nodded. “This is my assistant, Nikita.”

“I am Natanek.” The man removed his hat, exposing a bald head and a pair of piercing blue eyes. He scanned Nikita from head to toe, lingering on her face. “You are a woman.” He said it like it was a bad thing.

Not good, Nikita decided, inwardly recoiling from the malevolent look emanating from their contact’s eyes. She wisely did not reply to his statement.

“I don’t like women,” he continued. “Especially women who have the names of men.” He walked to within inches of Nikita’s frame and stared up into her eyes. He seemed irrational, out of control.

She flicked her eyes in Michael’s direction. He’s high on something…

Let it be, he ordered.

A gun suddenly emerged at Natanek’s side. He cocked it and thrust it in Nikita’s face in one fluid motion. Her head flung back as the butt of the pistol connected with her skull.

She dropped to one knee, stunned.

What the…?

He raised the gun and pointed it at her forehead, ready to fire.

“What are you doing?” Nikita dimly registered Michael’s voice through the throbbing pain in her head. He didn’t sound indignant, just curious.

The man laughed. “I do not like blondes.”

Michael pulled out his gun, so did the bodyguard and several of the men in the truck. “I do.” It was a nice gesture, but a futile one. With ten armed men just twenty yards away, did he really think he was going to accomplish anything?

Apparently Natanek thought the same thing. He laughed, almost to the point of giggling, and said, “Too bad.” His arm lowered, then fired.

Twice.

The first bullet slammed into Nikita’s kevlar vest, cracking a rib and sending her flying backwards. The second impacted her unprotected side. She cried out, then was silent. Her hand reached up to staunch the flow of blood. It flowed through her fingers, hot and sticky. The air became ripe with the smell of oxidized iron.

Her breathing became raspy, labored.

Breathe she ordered. Just breathe…

She’d imagined her death hundreds of times. But never, not once, did it occur to her she would be killed by a drugged-out Russian who had a thing against blondes. Of all the stupid…

The pain escalated. Deepening, widening, spiraling.

Michael, please Michael…

She turned her head, the concrete floor cool against her flushed skin.

Where was he?

There, still standing in the same spot. His gun hanging limply at his side. His face filled with sorrow, regret. It was more emotion than she’d seen in weeks. The Russian was still laughing and waving his gun around.

Help me, Michael she pleaded with her eyes, not trusting her voice. Before it’s too late. She pressed harder against her side, welcoming the numbing sensation spreading through her body even as she recognized that it did not bode well for her survival.

Natanek holstered his gun and turned back to Michael as if nothing had happened. Gone was the tinny, rabid sound of his voice. “A stomach wound is best. It takes the longest time to kill.” He grinned. “You come to do business, no? Come… I will take you to see our facility.”

Nikita felt gravel spit into her face as he turned and headed toward his waiting limo.

Michael stood, rooted in place.

Please…

“Are you coming?” Natanek was sounding impatient.

Michael, please…

Time seemed to take on a life of its own, expanding, contracting, hovering between them. Just them… He stared down at her fallen form. She gazed up with dilated eyes.

His mouth opened, answered… “Oui.” The word flowed gracefully from behind sculpted lips.

Nikita blinked. No… She hadn’t heard him correctly.

But she had.

Without another word her former lover holstered his weapon, turned and walked purposefully toward the limo. She let her hand fall away, biting her tongue as her wound bled freely. Warm, viscous liquid pooled around her. Ambient light seemed to take on an almost surreal glow, burning brightly at the edge of her vision.

Lethargy reigned… Rendering her body and her mind void of activity.

He’d left her to die…

Her breathing slowed…

And slowed.

Then everything went black.

++++++++++

Sound.

Light.

Pain.

Nikita shifted, easing into consciousness.

She was still lying down, but not on a cold concrete floor.

Had she been moved?

Her body felt like a war zone. A throbbing ache at her temple, a searing pain in her side, a bruised, cracked rib. Her hand skimmed lightly over her form, identifying and evaluating injuries. Her side had been bandaged and taped. She’d been stripped of her bloody coat. Another, softer, material covered her. Wool?

Where was she?

Eyelids fluttered open.

She was in a room. An office? It was old, the air stale and dry from lack of circulation. She’d been moved to a couch, her head pillowed against one arm. A course army blanket covered her from toe to chin.

It certainly wasn’t Heaven, and she doubted it was Hell.

Must still be alive…

A sound from across the room. Metal connecting with cement. A chair scraping across the floor? She took a shallow breath, careful not to jar her cracked rib, and turned her head.

He came back…

Michael was just a few feet away, seated carefully in a folding chair. Never, not even after Adam, had she seem him looking so lost and disoriented. Features that for weeks had been as smooth as granite were etched with pain.

“Michael?” her voice rasped.

His head jerked up, green eyes drawing her in like a tractor beam. “Medical is on the way.”

“What…” she coughed “…happened?”

Like the Michael of old, he opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. His eyes focused on a point beyond her, off to the right. “As soon as the location was confirmed, I killed them. All of them… I came back as fast as I could. ” He seemed dumbfounded, at a complete loss to explain his behavior.

She trembled. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” His hand reached up and slowly combed through auburn spikes of hair. “I… I couldn’t let you die.” His voice was tremulous, tentative… Lost. His eyes shifted toward hers, silently asking her for answers to questions he couldn’t even formulate.

Nikita absorbed his broken form. “God, Michael…” her voice cracked “…What did they do to you?”

Again, that look of confusion. Of tortured pain.

Her heart went out to him… How many times over the past few weeks had he felt different, out of sorts, and not known why? How many times had he behaved as programmed and felt his inner soul rebel?

Does he know?

Yes… He knows.

Somewhere, deep down, buried so deeply he couldn’t consciously recall it, he knew. The seeds of his former self were there, they just needed to be nurtured.

“Do you remember us?”

He answered with a pale echo of his usual voice. “Us?”

“Yes… us.”

Her eyes locked onto his and wouldn’t let go. She laid her heart bare, communicating silently to him the depth of her feelings, willing him to understand how much she loved him. How much he meant to her. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyelids, then coursed down her cheeks. But she wouldn’t let go… Wouldn’t let him retreat back into himself.

He’d revealed himself that day… He’d gone against his programming to save her. If there ever was a time when she could return the favor, it was now.

Lightheaded from blood loss, she couldn’t summon the energy to speak.

Her hand beckoned him.

Spellbound, he stood up and slowly approached her. The couch sagged under his weight as he perched at her side. He raised his hand to her cheek, then slowly used the pad of his thumb to brush her tears away. Gentle fingers continued their exploration, rediscovering her features. A forefinger dipped down and traced the line of her lip. Another grafted to the line of her eyebrows.

Her eyes bored into his.

Come closer.

Leaning down, he closed his eyes and placed a kiss against her forehead. Another, against her lips.

“I don’t remember us…” He gathered her hand in his and pressed it against his chest. Underneath his wool sweater she could feel his heart beating strong and steady. “…I feel us.”

Familiar green eyes, rich with emotion, lovingly caressed her.

He knows.

Nikita’s eyelids drifted shut as he gathered her in his arms and held her. Her cheek pressed against his chest, her ears picking up the sound of the heartbeat her hand had felt only moments before.

For the first time, she felt hope.

++++++++++

Epilogue

The command center was deathly quiet as Madeline entered. Operations stood off to one side, a cigar in hand, intently surveying the activity below. A faint cloud of smoke pooled around him.

“Michael has taken Nikita to Medlab,” she offered, moving forward to stand beside him. Her arrival caused the smoke to shift and swirl in diaphanous circles.

He nodded, his eyes still focused forward, then took a quick drag off his dwindling cigar. “It didn’t take.”

Madeline pursed her lips and shook her head. “In Michael's case we aren’t dealing with a learned behavior that can be adjusted.” Her tone was more factual than apologetic. “His attitude where Nikita is concerned has evolved into a fundamental aspect of his character. It is strong enough to override any of our capabilities.”

“Can we try again? Escalate the intensity of the procedure?”

“Not without decreasing his functionality. I’m afraid we’re going to have to take a step back.”

Operations scowled with displeasure. “Meaning?”

Madeline allowed herself the luxury of a frustrated sigh. “If memory serves, I believe you once mentioned something about a system of punishments and rewards.”

“Yes, I did...” He flipped his cigar into an ashtray and forcibly ground it out. “...And if your memory serves, you’ll recall that it didn’t work. That’s why we had him reprogrammed.”

She bit off another sigh. “What exactly do you want from Michael?”

He remained silent, suggesting that the answer to her question was obvious.

Controlled ambition...

She nodded in understanding. “Nikita is the key to his behavior. She has been from the moment he started training her. We can’t erase his attachment... The only alternative, short of cancellation, is to manipulate it. If you want to ignite a thirst for power, you’ll have to use her to do it.”

“What... We reprogram her this time?”

Patience, Madeline urged herself. “No, we offer her to Michael as the ultimate reward.”

“How is that different from what we tried before?”

“Scope... I’m not talking about looking the other way when they have dinner together. I’m talking about offering him a life with her. Giving him a taste of what it would be like to be in charge of Section with her at his side.”

A pause, followed by searching glance. “Actually put him in charge? Temporarily? Interesting...” He took his time mulling over her proposal. After a few minutes his head listed to the right and a white eyebrow lifted and curled in open curiosity. “And this will keep him in line?”

“For the time being.”

Operations seemed to consider her reply as he reached into his pocket, pulled out a new cigar and lit it. He slowly inhaled, then exhaled. “And if it doesn’t?”

Spirals of smoke drifted toward the observation window and dispersed in narrow streams. Madeline closed her eyes and licked her lips, tasting the acrid, chalky essence of tobacco. “That which can be given can also be taken away.” The mere thought of retribution caused her body to suffuse with heat.

She watched through heavy-lidded eyes as Paul’s lips compressed into a cynical grin. “Yes...” His hand drifted toward her face and she let his thumb graze the soft flesh of her lower lip. “...it can.”

THE END

Send suggestions and comments to ranma.
OR
If you would like to send a comment to Caro click HERE.