Chapter 23: The Prisoner (MA-14, violence)

Michael was being pulled along, his arms bound behind him, a hand on each elbow dragging him when he stumbled. The hood over his head prevented any view of where he was or where he was going. He had struggled when they first brought him out of the vehicle, but the crack of a pistol against the side of his head had convinced him that fighting was not his best option right now. His captors stopped moving and he heard a door being opened. He was roughly thrown into the room and crashed against the opposite wall. He spread his feet, struggling to keep his balance with his eyes blinded. He turned so the wall was at his back, offering him both a sense of orientation and support. The heavy hood was making it hard to breathe; he kept inhaling his own carbon dioxide. His senses were getting fuzzy and his reflexes slow. Rough hands grabbed hold of him and slammed him into something hard in the center of the room. His hands were untied, then retied behind him, securing him to the object. Finally, the hood was pulled off his head. He took a deep breath of cool fresh air, letting his head drop down and his hair fall in front of his eyes. Another deep breath, breathe, Michael, breathe, and he felt the haziness clearing from his mind. He continued to hang his head, appearing weak and completely cowed, while he gathered his physical and mental strength for whatever was going to happen. He peered out from beneath his tangled hair and surveyed his surroundings. He was tied to a large metal pole in the center of a small dark cell. Below ground, he noted; the room practically reeked of mildew and somewhere outside there was water dripping. The lighting was poor and the room was bare. Two burly guards stood at the only door. They looked Central or Eastern European; his mind flickered over their possible affiliation. There had been no indication of the identity of their captors during the mission; his communications with Birkoff had suddenly cut out and he had found himself surrounded by six big men toting bigger guns. A quick glance over his team had found them all in similar circumstances. There had been no talking between their captors on the trip - here - wherever 'here' was. He had no idea who he was dealing with, and no way to contact Section as his communications equipment had been removed before he was loaded into their vehicle. The door to his cell suddenly opened with a loud clang. Michael had complete control of his reaction and did not move. A tall dark-haired, dark skinned woman entered and approached him.

"Michael," she pronounced his name slowly, drawing out the vowel sounds. Michael hid his response beneath his blank face. Fine. They know my name. Michael focused his gaze on the woman's face, maintaining his cold, expressionless demeanor. She patted Michael's cheek, almost affectionately, then stepped back and nodded to one of the observing guards. The heavy-set man approached Michael, shifting his rifle from his shoulder to his hands. In that brief instant, Michael knew he was going to die. He concentrated on his son's face, wanting the vision of his boy to be the last image in his mind. Instead the guard flipped the rifle so the barrel end was in his left hand and swung the butt end of the rifle at Michael's ribs. Michael's body lurched to the right and he felt his ribs crack from the blow. At the apex of the swing, his tormentor reversed direction and brought the rifle around in a backhanded stroke at Michael's head. He reeled from the blow, his feet slipping. He sagged back against the pole, using its stability to maintain his balance, breathing heavily and struggling to clear his vision. Blood ran into his right eye and dripped from his hair onto his black turtleneck. He shook his head a little, ignoring the resultant pain and focused his eyes on his tormentor.

The woman gave a low laugh and approached Michael again, patting the guard on the shoulder in thanks as he stepped back to the door. She nodded to the jailers. They opened the door to his cell and Michael's team was herded into the room. They were all bound and extremely well guarded. His team was lined up in front of him against the slimy wall.

His tormentor motioned to the guard that had beaten him. "Hold him." The man crossed behind Michael and grabbed his hair, forcing Michael to look straight ahead. They began to shoot his team in front of him. Michael held his face and eyes cold and detached as long as he could, then he closed his eyes. Someone pistol-whipped his face and he forced his eyes open. The woman was in his face again.

"Watch, Michael." The cries of the dying filled his ears, the sight and smell of the killing overwhelming his senses. He swallowed hard. He would not add to her pleasure by showing any pain or weakness. His back was rigid against the pole and he stared ahead unblinkingly. He owed his team that much, to watch and not break.

When it was done, the guard behind him released his hair and Michael let his head drop forward. He shut his eyes, waiting for a blow that never came. Instead, he felt the woman's hand on the back of his neck.

"Goodbye, Michael." He kept his eyes closed, refusing to acknowledge her. He heard footsteps retreat, then the heavy slam of his cell door. He opened his eyes, briefly scanning the small room. He was alone, except for the bodies. He rotated on the pole so he was facing the back wall, rather than the carnage in the chamber. Slowly he lowered himself until he was sitting on his heels. He leaned forward as far as he could, lowered his head between his knees and was quietly sick.

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

Chapter 24: Looking for Michael

As Operations descended from his aerie, Nikita moved into action.

"Birkoff, do we have any sleeper teams in that area?" Birkoff typed rapidly.

"Yeah, that's Anatoli's sector."

"Link me up." She picked up an earpiece. Birkoff made the computer connection.

"Yeah?" A deep male voice came over the line.

"Anatoli, this is Nikita at Section. I need to you to check out a locale for me." She nodded at Birkoff, who punched a key on his computer terminal. "Birkoff is sending you the location now."

"What am I looking for?"

"Anything." She glanced over at Operations, who was just entering the Communications area. "We have an unexplained anomaly. We need any information you can send: casualties, indications of who was involved or where they might have gone."

"Got it. ETA in... 2 hours."

"OK, Anatoli. Time is of the essence. The sooner we hear from you, the better." She signed off and turned to Operations, who was looking over Birkoff's shoulder. Operations turned his pale blue stare on her.

"What happened?"

She put her hands behind her to conceal the fact that they were shaking. "We don't know yet. There was unexpected gunfire, Michael indicated 'they' were waiting for his team, then all communications were lost. We just dispatched Anatoli to survey the locale."

Operations spun on his heel and stalked over to Birkoff's station. "How did this happen?"

Birkoff tilted his head up at his boss. "I don't know yet. I'll know by the time Anatoli reports in."

"Do it." Operations headed out.

"Birkoff," Nikita laid her hand on his shoulder. "I need to analyze the mission profiles again. Where can I work that will not interfere with you?" Birkoff ran his fingers through his short hair.

"There." He nodded at a terminal off to one side. "You can access all the intell you need and still be here when Anatoli checks in." She patted his shoulder fondly.

"Thanks, Birkoff." She walked over to the terminal and sat, collecting herself. Her breath was coming short and fast, as if she had been struck in the stomach. For a brief moment, there in Comm, she had thought she would be sick. This is no time to fall apart, she scolded herself, Michael needs you. He told you how strong you are. Show him. She took a deep breath and began to sort through data.

Two hours passed in a blink of an eye. Birkoff rolled from terminal to terminal, muttering to himself. Nikita sat quietly, scrolling down the computer screen, making notes. A loud beep startled both of them. Nikita quickly crossed over to Birkoff, who handed her a comm link.

"Anatoli, checking in early," Birkoff muttered quietly.

"OK, Anatoli, what have you got?" She touched Birkoff's shoulder and indicated Operations' office with a toss of her head. He rolled over to the intercom.

"Sir? Anatoli's checking in now." He rolled back to Nikita in time to catch Anatoli's final comments.

"... from a heavy vehicle, probably several. The tracks lead to a fairly well traveled road, there's no way to determine their heading from there."

"But no bodies anywhere?" Nikita was insistent.

"Like I told you, we looked in a two square kilometer area. You want us to search wider?" Nikita glanced up at Operations, who had joined them. He shook his head.

"No, thanks Anatoli. If the team were cancelled, they wouldn't have bothered to hide the bodies further away. Thanks for pushing to get this done so fast."

"Keep me posted. Signing off." With a click the connection was severed.

"Status?" Operations barked. Birkoff glanced around.

"Sir, we need to discuss this in your office." Operations gave both his operatives a shrewd look.

"Now." They obeyed.

Up in the aerie, Operations leaned back against the glass wall and gave his subordinates a baleful stare.

"What do we know?"

Nikita answered first. "When Michael first suspected a mole in Section, he evaluated all the missions that had misfired, looking for a common denominator. There wasn't one. Today's mission was based on that evaluation."

Operations gave her a sharp look. "And?"

"I did the same search, but changed the parameters. Michael had the wrong target in mind during his search. He was the target." Operations gave her a withering look. He was no fool; he realized Michael had been concerned about her safety, not his own.

"All right. So Michael was the target and they have acquired him. How do we find him, and who is our mole?"

This was Birkoff's topic. "Using Nikita's parameters, we did find a commonality in the missions. Johansen, the profiler."

Operations swore and strode around the room. "How did they get to him?"

Birkoff shrugged. "I'm not sure. Madeline can probably get that out of him. Johansen's been one of our best profilers for the past three years. It's just the last few missions that went wrong, so he couldn't have been turned for very long."

Operations stopped and looked at Birkoff, then Nikita. "We know how they got Michael. How do we get him back?"

Birkoff shrugged again. "Until we have more intell, we can't run a sim or plan a retrieval. Does Michael have a clock frequency?"

Nikita turned her head, giving Birkoff a piercing stare. "Clock frequency?"

Operations waved her question aside. " Michael doesn't have a clock frequency. But Cummings does." Nikita turned and looked at Operations, then back at Birkoff.

Birkoff typed frantically at his terminal, trying without success to ignore the tall blonde who towered over him. The computer began to run the program, and Birkoff felt his chair spin until Nikita's blue eyes were inches from his brown ones. She leaned over him, putting her hands on the arms of his chair.

"What is a clock frequency?" She enunciated the words precisely. "No, let me tell you. It's a small electronic device about," she measured an inch between her fingers, "this big."

Birkoff stared at her in disbelief. "How did you..." She pushed off his chair and straightened up.

"Never mind. But don't bother trying to locate me with mine. Why does Cummings have one?"

Birkoff pulled up Cummings' file on the terminal. "He was in abeyance last year, but the mission didn't go as planned and he returned. His performance numbers went up so he was returned to operative status, but Operations," he glanced up at Nikita again, "has reservations about his ability to remain within Section."

Nikita glanced over the file. Cummings was one of Michael's sharp shooters, on the team to provide perimeter security. "Escape?"

Birkoff nodded. "He's made references to wanting to get out several times, to people he shouldn't have said it to. So they tagged him with a clock."

The computer brought up a map, indicating Cummings' location with a pulsing red dot. Birkoff punched the intercom button. "Sir? We've got a location."

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

Chapter 25: Profile

Nikita entered Walter's work area. Walter looked up from his latest project and gave her a through once-over.

"OK, sugar, what's up? I heard about Michael..." She met his glance unsmilingly and gave the area a quick scan. Walter was partially surprised and partially amused by how Michael-like her surveillance was.

"I need some advice, Walter...," she began to move deeper into the Munitions area. Walter followed her, touched by her uncertainty and her trust in his judgement.

He led her to the back of a shelving unit, bristling with weapons of different sizes and equal deadliness. "OK, sugar, talk to me." She gave the area another quick glance, the same eerie Michael-like mannerism.

"We have a location and I have drawn up a profile. It's just - I'm not sure -,"she stopped, struggling for words.

"You want someone to give it a review?" She met his eyes.

"Someone who can be relied on for secrecy," she stated baldly. "This is Michael we're extracting, there is no room for error. I need someone to check over my plan and ascertain I've haven't missed anything. But they can't be running back to Operations telling tales..."

Walter nodded. Of all the operatives in Section, he understood more than anyone what she was going through. He thought over the dilemma for several minutes. Nikita stood silently, waiting for him. A woman who appreciates when a man needs silence, he thought approvingly, man, if I were a few years younger... He brought his mind back to the question before him. "Liu," he said firmly.

"Liu?" Nikita echoed hesitantly.

Walter met her gaze. "Liu. Tell her I sent you. She's the one you need."

Nikita hesitated outside a closed office. She raised a hand to knock, paused, then took a deep breath and finished the motion. A soft female voice answered her knock and Nikita opened the door.

"Liu? I'm sorry to bother you, but I wanted to ask your opinion." Liu looked up, gazed at Nikita for a long moment then nodded her head. Liu was a petite Asian woman, with straight black hair cut bluntly at her chin line. Nikita had seen her often at various briefings, but had never spoken to her. Liu was a Level Five like Michael and lowly Level Two operatives did not simply approach a higher level operative without a very good reason. Liu gestured gracefully to the chair opposite her desk. Nikita sat down, wondering how to ask the older operative if she had a screening system like Michael's. They sat for a moment in total silence, then Liu slid open a drawer and entered a series of numbers. The security system gave a small beep and Nikita took a deep breath.

"I need to ask a favor." Liu gave no reaction except for the slightest of nods.

"This has to do with Michael?" Nikita gave an equally small nod back.

"I have drawn up a profile and mission plan. I would like to have someone with more experience look it over."

A small frown creased Liu's face. "You have been a mission leader before. Why do you need someone holding your hand now?"

Nikita bit back a sharp retort. She hesitated, realizing she what she was about to expose could ultimately come back to bite her. She took another deep breath. In for a penny, in for a pound. I've already exposed myself by telling her this much .

"My - objectivity - isn't what it should be, for this particular mission." Liu looked unconvinced. "Walter suggested you would be the best operative to review my profile." At the mention of Walter's name, Liu visibly relaxed.

"The safest operative, you mean." She gave Nikita a smile, one that lit up her whole face. Nikita felt herself relax as well. Trust Walter, he always knows the good ones. "Michael is one hell of an operative, and a friend, as much as anyone is a friend here. I'll look it over for you right away, Nikita. When are you going out?"

Nikita got up to leave. "A couple of hours." She resisted the urge to fidget, god knows what could happen to Michael in two hours, and continued her sentence. "Madeline wants to finish with Johansen before we go out." Liu simply nodded. She reached over and deactivated her screening system as Nikita walked out.

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

Chapter 26: Retribution (MA-14, Violence)

Michael was sitting on the floor, his head turned away from the bodies of him team, his legs drawn up and away from his own vomit. He tipped his head back on the pole and attempted to rest. His shoulders ached from the constant pulling of his bonds and it hurt for him to breathe deeply. Cracked ribs, he thought, and adjusted his breathing to minimize the discomfort. So far his vision was all right, except for a nasty headache. The blood had dried, leaving strands of auburn hair hanging stiffly in his eyes. He let his mind wander, trying to connect the few clues he had regarding his captors. Someone with access to Section records, he reflected, and a score to settle with me personally. That had to be the reason he was alive and the rest of his team had been slaughtered. No questions: retribution. The purpose here is torture, not to obtain information. He almost felt relieved. At least he would not have to worry about being given some obscure drug and disclosing intell. They had no interest in accessing his information, they just wanted to beat the hell out of him. Michael had no illusions about his ability to withstand torture and beatings. He knew exactly how much he was able to tolerate; he had approached his limits only a few times in all his years in Section.

The door opened. He lifted his eyes to see the woman enter again, followed by two thugs. Her eyes flickered over him, evaluating his body language, his apparent strength. He kept his face impassive.

"Well, Michael," her voice caressed his name, "how are you feeling?" Michael continued his stoic gaze, not bothering to answer. She reached down and grabbed his hair, jerking his head up, craning his neck at an uncomfortable angle. Her eyes caressed his face. "Would you like some water?" He clenched his teeth over his screaming thirst. She eyed him for a moment longer; he knew he was in complete control of his eyes and face. She glanced over her shoulder and one of the burly men brought over a bottle of water. Releasing his hair, she wrenched the lid off and offered him the open bottle. He let his lips part slightly and she poured the water on his face. Most of the water ran off him, but he was able to get a couple of gulps, feeling the liquid sooth his raw throat. She watched him with what he thought was amusement. She tipped her head to her accomplices. "Take him."

They dragged Michael outside. It was pouring rain and the sky was dark with overhanging clouds. He had not attempted to fight his captors; they simply retied his hands and pulled him up the stairs, flinging him to the ground. He landed heavily on his right shoulder and a bolt of pain shot through him. He lay still for a moment, gathering his breath and his strength, then he rolled to his knees and struggled to his feet. The woman stood in the doorway, watching him.

"Any guesses as to our identity, Michael?" her voice taunted. One of the men struck Michael on his left side, where he had been hit with the rifle. His legs crumpled under him and he fell again, feeling the rocks scrape his face. His inhaled breath was shallow and painful. "C'mon Michael, " she continued, "you're the best of the best. Show me how good you are."

He forced himself up on his knees. The rain was running down his face and he had to blink to clear his vision. He focused on the woman and staggered to his feet. The other man struck him across the face and Michael reeled. Somehow he managed to keep his balance. The first thug kicked at the back of Michael's knees, sending him sprawling. Michael felt an intense burst of pain from his bruised and cracked ribs as he landed. He closed his eyes, concentrated on remaining conscious. The woman crouched down close to him.

"Who am I, Michael?" she whispered.

He pulled himself up to a sitting position. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his throat parched and sore. He wondered if he would be able to talk at all. "I've never met you," he managed to say, "but you must have met me to go to this length for revenge."

Her eyes lit up. "Oh, you are good. This has been several years in the making. Ever since Jovan Milovich."

Michael forced his brain process the information. Milovich... that had been four, five years ago? He and Nikita had foiled an assassination... who had been the group involved? Finally the pieces fell into place. "The Legion," he whispered.

"Ah, Michael, I am impressed. After all these years... We have been studying you ever since that attempt failed. We decided your Nikita was nothing more than a puppet for your directions, but she is your weakness. You became so focused on her possible danger that you missed your own. This way, I damage Section by your loss and revenge the death of my compatriots on your sorry carcass." She looked away and Michael let his eyes close for a moment. He didn't see the blow coming, only a blinding pain when it connected with the right side of his head, then blessed blackness.

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

Chapter 27: The White Room

Nikita walked down the empty hall toward the White Room. Madeline had specifically requested her presence during Johansen's interrogation. She paused for a moment outside the closed door and gathered her thoughts and emotions, putting them under firm control. She hated interrogations, as necessary as they were, and Johansen was a nice guy, someone with whom she had chatted casually several times. She centered her energies on her concern for Michael. Focus on Michael, and nothing else. She pushed open the door and walked in.

Madeline was stalking around the room. She was dressed impeccably, if severely, as was her habit, and her high heels made a loud click as she paced the room. Johansen was a large, teddy-bearish type of man, his long brown hair and beard making him look more like a peaceful aging hippie than a mission profiler for the most covert anti-terrorism unit on the earth. He was strapped to a chair; Nikita refused to think about how he was confined or whether he was in any pain.

"Nikita," Madeline greeted her, "we're just starting to look for the information that would be most helpful for you." She turned her cold brown eyes on the imprisoned man. ""How did they find you?"

"I don't know," Johansen responded. Nikita tried to evaluate his vocal clues. Truth so far, she thought. "They only said that Section One isn't as hidden as well as we like to think." Nikita frowned. That sounded familiar. Who had said that?

"And they told you they wanted what?" Madeline's cold voice echoed slightly in the room. Nikita brought her attention back to the scene in front of her.

"To let them know about certain low-level missions. Nothing too big or too important."

"How did you get the information to them?" Nikita let her concentration wander. The actual process of transferring the information was not her concern. She worked through her memory, trying to identify the sentence that had sparked recognition.

"Was anyone in particular their target?" Madeline's voice broke through Nikita's preoccupation.

"Not at first. Eventually they began to ask for more mission information on Nikita and Michael." Johansen's eyes flickered briefly over to Nikita. She kept her face and eyes impassive and did not respond to his unspoken apology.

"Did they say why?"

"No. I didn't ask." Suddenly her memory clicked on past events and Nikita felt a slow burn of rage start in her stomach.

"How long?" Nikita's voice echoed icily, making both Madeline and Johansen turn toward her. Johansen looked at her blankly. She strode over to the imprisoned man and leaned over him, her hands resting on his confined arms and her face inches from his. "How long have you been telling The Legion where they could get their hands on me or Michael?" She saw Johansen's fear in the minute tightening around his eyes.

"I- only a few months. Nikita - I ..." Nikita spun on her heel and stormed out the door. Madeline followed behind her.

"How do you know?" Madeline's voice was cool and calm as always.

"They said the same thing to me, years ago. That Section wasn't as invisible as we believe. But why now? And why go after Michael?"

Madeline looked her over. "We may never know that. You need to finish updating your mission profile, you're going on line in an hour. I'll finish here." Nikita gave her a brief nod and walked away.

Liu found her at the computer station a few minutes later. Nikita was accessing the mission profile when Liu's slim hand touched her shoulder.

"Updating the mission?" Nikita gave Liu a brief glance over her shoulder.

"Yeah, we just found out a little more about our adversary." Liu leaned in over Nikita and read the computer screen.

"The Legion? They haven't been very active in the past few years."

"Trust me, it's them. I don't know how or why, but they managed to get to Johansen and have been aware of several missions in the past few months. I also don't know why they're going after Michael." Liu reached down and tapped a couple of keys.

"I made a few minor adjustments to your profile. Did you get a chance to look them over?"

"Madeline called me to the White Room to observe Johansen's interrogation, so no, I haven't..." Nikita's voice drifted off as she read the screen. She spun in her chair and gave Liu a frosty stare. "You made yourself mission leader?"

Liu raised a hand deprecatingly. "Not that you are incapable. Hardly that, I reviewed several of your earlier missions. I thought that since you have a ...", she gave Nikita a meaningful look, "...vested interest in this particular mission that we should use it to the team's advantage." She turned Nikita's chair back to the computer. "I thought you would rather be posted here," Liu indicated a position on the topographic map, "rather than stuck in the van, coordinating the attack." Nikita turned and looked Liu straight in the eye.

"Yeah, that might be a better use of my abilities," she responded, a small smile pulling at her mouth. Liu nodded, her eyes sparkling in suppressed humor.

"I thought you might agree."

"What did you think of the team I selected?" Liu reached around her and scrolled down the computer display.

"Tyler, Stillman, Chavez. You've picked some of the best operatives available. It's a good team and has the best probability of success."

Nikita nodded. "So when do we brief?"

Liu stepped back. "Right now. We go live in an hour."

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

Chapter 28: Assault (MA-14, some violence)

Nikita sat in the cold dark field, her back against a tree, looking up at the stars. The Northern Hemisphere constellations were so different from the ones she had seen growing up. She recalled sitting on various missions with Michael, listening to him tell her the names of the different star patterns. Her stomach twisted into a tighter knot. What will I do if..., she refused to let herself complete the thought. Instead she concentrated on Orion, rising higher and higher in the sky. The Milky Way was a faint rainbow of stars shimmering in the cloudless night sky. No moon. That was good, it meant the darkness was more complete and the incoming team would be harder to spot.

Liu's soft voice came over the comm unit. "Start sequencing."

Nikita rose silently and followed the shadows she knew were Tyler and Stillman ahead of her. Chavez was to be a few seconds behind her. They crossed the field swiftly. Their target was a bunker set into the base of a low-rising hill, about a half-kilometer away. They moved swiftly and soundlessly across the ground, staying in the shadows as much as possible, crouching low to the ground when there was no cover. She crept up next to Stillman and Chavez joined them a few seconds later. Tyler had gone on ahead to clear out any exterior guards. Nikita felt her adrenaline course through her body and her nervousness heightened her senses. The area around them was clear, perhaps there were guards at the entrance, but she had complete confidence in Tyler's abilities. Her earlier worry for Michael had transformed into the fatalistic certainty that carried her through most of her missions. If I live, I live. If I die, I die. Just do the job. The possibility of Michael's death was shoved ruthlessly aside, not to be dealt with now.

She ran her mind over the details of the bunker, the few details that they had had for their briefing. Several small rooms, two entrance points.

She spoke quietly into her comm unit. "Birkoff. Number of adversaries." She could hear the faint tapping of the computer keys in the van.

"Hard to tell," Birkoff's voice came back quietly. "Being below ground screws with some of the surveillance equipment. Best guess is six to ten enemies stationed around and within the bunker."

"Less two," interjected Tyler's voice. "We have access."

Liu joined the conversation. "All teams to second mark." Chavez moved off silently to join Tyler at the secondary entrance. Nikita and Stillman moved forward soundlessly. Stillman stepped over the body at the doorway and entered the bunker, Nikita close behind him, giving him cover. In her comm unit, Nikita heard a burst of gunfire. That's it, they know we're here, she thought, and began to move quicker, with less caution. She moved from room to room, searching. Stillman was clearing the hall of any hostiles; she heard his gun fire several times as she checked the next room down the hall. Still empty. She moved down the hall toward the next door.

Michael awoke slowly. His head throbbed and he had a hard time getting to complete consciousness. When he opened his eyes, the room swayed around him. He closed his eyes again and concentrated on the cold floor beneath his cheek. The room is not moving, he told himself firmly. He opened his eyes again and struggled to get into a sitting position. They had not bothered to confine him to the pole again; they had simply dumped him on the floor after he lost consciousness. He attempted to focus his eyes on the doorway, but the door tipped from side to side, like a boat on the sea. He felt a wave of nausea pass over him and gritted his teeth to keep control of his stomach. Concussion, he told himself firmly, keep control. The door crashed open, the sound making a deafening echo in his aching head. The woman entered the room, accompanied by the sound of shooting. Gunfire? he thought hazily. The woman ran behind him, wrapped an arm around his neck, and forced his head back. He felt the cold blade of a knife against his throat. She was waiting for someone, who?

For a few endless moments, Michael held perfectly still, waiting. Then Nikita appeared in the doorway, her gun at the ready and aimed over his shoulder at his captor.

"No further," the woman hissed. Nikita made a short abortive move to the left and the woman pressed a little harder on the knife. He felt the cold blade slip into his skin and a warm trickle of blood run down his exposed throat. Nikita hesitated.

"Do it, Nikita." Michael's voice was hoarse. She fixed her gaze on him. He stared at her meaningfully. He didn't mean to drop her weapon and he knew she was fully aware of that. "Do it."

"You know I will slit his throat before the bullet hits me," the woman responded. "Put your weapon down." Nikita glanced back between the woman and Michael, indecision written plainly on her face. "Do it!" the woman cried.

"Nikita, don't..." Michael grated out. The knife was pressed harder against his throat and more blood burned down his neck. Nikita crouched down and put her gun on the ground.

"Push it over here," the woman instructed. Nikita stayed crouched and pushed the gun towards them, then suddenly rolled in a somersault over to the side. There was a quick burst of gunfire from the doorway and Michael flinched. The woman behind him was hit in the face and he felt her blood and bone strike his back as he fell.

Michael lay where he had fallen. He had landed on his left side, on his injured ribs, although thankfully he had not fallen very fast or far and therefore had not put one of the ribs through his lung. But the pain was sufficiently acute to prevent him from trying to rise.

"Michael!" He heard Nikita cry his name as she scrambled to her feet. Ken Stillman was at his side before her, gently helping Michael back to a sitting position. She moved behind him, and began to cut his bindings as Ken rose and holstered his gun.

"Good shooting, Ken." She spoke over his head, to Stillman.

"Luckily Michael had the sense to get out of the way," Stillman replied with dry humor. The last of the ropes gave way and Michael could not suppress a grunt as his arms and shoulders adjusted to the sudden freedom. He put his hands on the ground and got part way to his feet, but his numbed arms gave way. The room gave a sudden lurch and he reeled, falling back to his knees.

"Michael?" Nikita's face entered his narrowing field of vision.

"Concussion," Michael managed to get out. He felt her strong arms on his, helping to support him. Stillman's voice was in the background, calling for backup. Within seconds, he heard footsteps, and then strong arms helped get him on his feet. With Stillman on one side of Michael and Tyler on the other, the team moved out.

"Liu, we need a closer van pick up," Nikita called on her comm unit. Michael found it disconcerting and more than a little annoying that he could not be part of the conversation. "Michael is injured and cannot be transported back to your location." That was annoying, too. He was not a child to be discussed as if he were not present. Apparently receiving new instructions, the team began to move. Nikita and Chavez went out first, protecting the others as Michael was assisted out of the bunker.

Michael lowered his arms from the supporting shoulders. "I can walk. Give me a gun," he ordered. The three men glanced at him sideways, then all their eyes turned to Nikita, looking for approval. She looked him over, assessing his status. Michael bit back a sharp comment; I am not a new recruit that needs her approval, for God's sake! Even as the thought crossed his mind, the ground shifted beneath his feet and he wavered. Stillman moved quickly and put his shoulder under Michael's again, stabilizing him. Michael opened his mouth to order him away, only to be cut off by Nikita.

"Michael, shut up and let us get you back to the van." Michael felt his whole body tense with his fury.

Stillman felt it too, and interjected softly, "Michael, please, let us help you to the van. You're in no condition to fight now." Michael met Stillman's eyes and read the concern written there. He nodded and let the other operative help him move as quickly and quietly as possible to the van.

Nikita entered the van, gave her team a quick once-over and nodded to Liu. Liu knocked on the van partition, instructing the driver to go. Michael was sitting, slumped, in one corner. The pose was so different from his usual erect posture that Nikita felt her minor irritation at him slip away. Idiot man, even when he's injured he can't stand to take orders from anyone, she thought with amused affection. She reached behind Chavez to pull out the van's first aid kit, then sat down next to Michael.

She touched his hand gently when he did not respond to her movement. "Michael?" He slowly raised his head and turned his eyes to meet her gaze. Nikita took her first good look at him. He looked terrible. His face was bruised and scratched, there was a huge swelling over his right eye and his hair was sticky with dried blood. Thin trails of blood ran down his neck; fresh blood from the shallow cuts just inflicted, dried streaks from his ears from earlier beatings. She raised a hand and gently brushed his filthy hair off his face. "Are you all right?" She touched the kit in her lap. "Anything in here you need?"

He shook his head, wincing at the motion. "Nothing in there. I need..." his voice drifted off and his eyes drooped. He seemed to gather his thoughts together with difficulty. "How long to Section?"

She put the first aid box on the seat next to her. "A couple of hours to the airport, another two hours in the air." She gave the van a quick scan; the men were either sleeping, or pretending to, and Liu and Birkoff had their complete attention on the computer, writing the mission report. "Why don't you sleep, Michael?"

He tipped his head back against the wall of the van. He let a long sigh slip out, then wrapped his arms around his midsection protectively. She caught his movement and gave him a shrewd glance. "Michael? What else hurts?"

He opened his bleary eyes. His pupils were huge and dark; he appeared to be struggling to focus his vision on her. "Ribs," he responded hoarsely. "I think they're just cracked." Birkoff appeared in front of them, a bottle of water held out to Michael. Michael raised his eyes to the younger man and nodded thanks as he took the offered liquid. Birkoff moved as if to touch him, stopped and reconsidered, then simply nodded back and returned to Liu and the computer. Michael opened the bottle and drank thirstily.

Nikita put a hand on his thigh. He winced involuntarily at her light touch. She gave him a rueful smile. "Does anything not hurt?" He glanced over at her and his mouth twitched in a small smile full of black humor.

"No. They were very thorough."

Nikita pushed the first aid kit aside and slid over on the seat, away from Michael. She patted her lap invitingly. "Lie down," she murmured. He gave her a glance, the blank look on his face conveying his response. She leaned over to speak softly into his ear. "Michael, look around you. Everyone on this van came on this mission because they like and respect you. Do you think any of them will go running to Operations or Madeline?" His eyes flickered around the van, assessing his companions. His eyes met hers and she watched his blank mask drop. The fatigue and pain he had been trying to suppress came out from behind his stoic facade. She took one of his hands and pulled him gently towards her. He lowered himself to the seat slowly, letting his breath out in a soft grunt as he stretched out, his head in her lap. She ran her fingers lightly over his temple, brushing his tangled hair off his face. "Go to sleep, Michael. I'll wake you when we reached the airplane."

Nikita pushed her hair back off her face, fighting her overwhelming weariness. Michael was stretched out on the seats next to her, his head pillowed on her thigh. She had awakened him when they transferred from the van to the plane: he had been groggy and unfocused, but able to answer basic questions, which was a good sign. She had realized how exhausted he was by the fact she had not had to convince him to lie down for the plane flight. She heard soft footsteps behind her; Liu walked up the aisle and bent to speak softly in her ear.

"We'll be landing in a few minutes. You should wake him up," she nodded at the sleeping man.

Nikita tipped her head up to met Liu's eyes. "Have you notified Medical? I don't know whether he'll be able to walk down there by himself."

Liu nodded. "They're on alert and will come on board to take him off."

Nikita nodded her thanks and returned her attention to Michael, stroking his hair gently. She had complete confidence that the team would protect her and Michael; neither Operations nor Madeline would hear of any 'inappropriate' behavior between them. But he needed to be awake and responsive before the Medical team arrived.

Michael stirred in response to her touch. She leaned down to whisper to him. "Michael? Michael, you need to get up now. We're almost at Section." His eyes opened slowly, his fingers flexing on her leg as he regained consciousness. She helped him up to a sitting position. His hands went to his head, rubbing his temples absently. She let some of her concern seep into her voice. "How are you feeling?"

He glanced at her, barely turning his head. "Fine." She turned away. Her face must have shown the hurt she felt at his standard answer, because he reached out and turned her face back to his. His voice was pitched low and soft; it would not carry back to the rest of the team. He amended his statement. "I will be fine." He paused, his look intense. "Thank you for coming after me." She slid her hand up to the one of his that rested on her cheek, turned her head and laid her lips on the hard callused palm of his hand.

She lifted her eyes to meet his. They sat, unmoving, their gazes locked on each other until the plane landed with a slight bump and she let his hand drop.

Nikita waited and watched Michael disembark the plane. She bit back some acid words for him as he refused to leave the plane except on his feet. Offers of a wheelchair or a stretcher were sharply denied. He finally consented to hold onto one of the technicians after she caustically remarked on the possibility of his falling on his face in front of Operations. Damn the man, his pride would kill him yet, she thought with exasperation. She pushed herself up to her feet, feeling her own exhaustion pulling at her, and left the plane with the rest of her team. As she expected, Operations and Madeline were waiting for them. They were speaking with Michael as she entered Section and she felt a flash of anger. Whatever it was, it could wait until the man got down to Medical. Even as the thought crossed her mind, Michael turned and walked away, obediently accompanying the technicians. She followed him with her eyes, watching him move stiffly down the hall.

"Nikita." Operations' voice brought her attention back to the pair in front of her. His eyes turned to watch Michael's painful progress, then the cold gaze returned to her. "It seems your mission was successful."

She kept her voice cool and unemotional. "Yes, it was."

"Debrief with Madeline now." He turned and walked away, Madeline following behind him. Nikita paused for one brief second, tempted to tell him to go to Hell. She wanted to go down to Medical immediately and check on Michael's condition. What would Michael do? She felt she should have the initials WWMD tattooed on her wrist; it certainly had become her credo in the past year. What would Michael do? - Michael would debrief. Dutifully, she turned her back on Michael and followed her superiors.

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

Chapter 29: Picking Up the Pieces

Nikita hated Medical. She hated its sterility, its pristine whiteness, and especially the scent of antiseptic and blood that no cleaning could every completely eradicate. She sat next to Michael's bed, watching him and waiting for him to wake up. After her debrief, which she suspected Madeline had extended as long as possible just to annoy Nikita (and, of course, note and evaluate any possible reactions she might have shown due to her annoyance), she had showered, changed into street clothes, written her report and checked her PDA for upcoming assignments. Only when she was sure she had spent sufficient time 'taking care of business' did she find her way to Medical and Michael. Michael would be proud, she thought, putting him at the bottom of the 'to do' list. She hated it. She wanted the right to show her concern, the prerogative to put his well being above anything else in her life. In her present mood, she almost hated him, knowing he would approve of her actions. He would be annoyed to find her by his bed, feeling her mere presence would reveal too much to Section.

Her eyes slid over him. He lay on his back, his breathing shallow but regular. He was dressed in 'Medical whites', loose fitting drawstring pants and a sleeveless T-shirt. She could see the bandages wrapping his ribs under the shirt. Someone on the Medical staff had given him a bath; his hair was clean and spread across the pillow as he slept and the deep bruising was more evident on his pale skin. He had not been joking about The Legion's thoroughness; nearly every visible part of his body showed deep purple and black marks. Nikita moved silently across the floor and picked up his file from the end of the bed. His injuries were pretty much what she had expected; a concussion (recommendation: bed rest for 48 hours), cracked ribs (recommendation: bandages and no active duty for at least two months, Michael will argue with the doctor about that,), general bruising, contusions and lacerations. There was a note from one of the nurses indicating that Michael had refused any pain medication and that this was a 'standard response' from this particular patient. She shook her head slightly. If there were a more stubborn man than Michael, she'd be damned if she knew of any. She put the file back down and glanced up to see Michael's eyes on her.

"Hi." His voice was hoarse and he glanced over to the water pitcher next to the bed. He reached over to get it, and grunted as the movement pulled at his ribs. He looked at his hand, where the IV was attached, and let his head drop back, both pain and frustration evident in the motion. She walked around the bed and poured him a glass, putting a straw in the cup and slipping a hand behind his shoulders to help him drink. He stiffened slightly at her touch, but apparently his thirst overrode his concern about their contact as he relaxed against her arm and drank. Her arm absorbed his body heat; just touching him was like a drug. She released him unwillingly when he finished, and stepped away, turning her back to the ever-present camera to hide her reaction. When she had her face under complete control, she looked at him. He was calmly waiting, his hands folded over his abdomen.

"Hi yourself. How are you feeling?" Her fingers itched to stroke his jaw. It was a mistake to come, she thought. He wouldn't have been hurt if I wasn't here and I don't have sufficient control. His pale green gaze seemed to read everything in her face.

"I'm fine." His voice was cool. His control helped her regain hers. "You looked at the chart. What is this," he indicated the IV, "for?"

"Antibiotics. You were pretty filthy when they brought you in." He nodded. "The file says you're going to be here a couple of days."

He blinked, hiding any reaction. "If they say so." She gave him a hard look. If he thought he would disregard medical advise, he'd have another thing coming.

"Why won't you take some pain medication? Your ribs must be sore and it may help you to sleep."

"No." No emotion, just a simple statement. His face was blank, his eyes shuttered. She felt the hurt and frustration rising within her again and fought to push the emotions aside. Welcome back, Michael... she thought, knowing even as it crossed her mind that she was being unfair. "You look tired," he continued, his voice still calm and unemotional. His glance flickered over her face, and she could suddenly read both caution and concern in his gaze.

"I am," she answered honestly. She stepped up to him and brought the water glass to his lips again. Her hand slid behind his head for support and she let her fingers slip into his hair, gently stoking his scalp while the camera view was obscured. He tipped his head up to her as she released her hold on him and returned the glass to the bedside table. She did not step back this time, choosing to stay close to him. She ran a finger down his bare arm, feeling his muscles twitch slightly in response to her caress. "I'm done for today," she said, finally breaking the companionable silence. "I'm going to go home and catch up on a day's worth of sleep. I'll stop in and check on you tomorrow, all right?" She kept her voice friendly but impersonal; her eyes were fixed on his.

He held her gaze with his own clear stare. "I'd..." he paused briefly, "I'd like that." She let a smile curve her lips, very slightly. For Michael, that was one hell of a breakthrough. Almost ranks up there with kissing me in Section. She stroked his arm with her index finger again.

"See you tomorrow," she murmured. She left his room, then turned and looked at him once more through the closing glass doors. His eyes locked on hers. They stared at each other, unblinkingly, for several long seconds. Finally Michael blinked, and she saw his pain and exhaustion cross his face. He gave her a tiny jerk of his head, go on home she interpreted, and she gave him a slight nod in response.

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

Chapter 30: Epilogue

Michael sat at his desk, reviewing a profile for an upcoming mission. Another mission he would run from Comm, not in the field. He shifted slightly in his seat; the bandages around his chest were not painful, but definitely annoying. His fingers flew over the keyboard, inputting his instructions even as his mind calculated exactly how many hours remained until Medical would release him back to active status. His peripheral vision caught her movement as she passed the open window of his office. He finished entering the necessary information, hearing the click of the door as he typed, then sat back and looked up at her.

Nikita stood in his office doorway, shoulder pressed against the jamb. Her hair was freshly washed and still damp as it hung down her back. For a brief moment he recalled her scent and the feel of her in his arms. He quickly pushed the memory aside.

"Finished your debrief?"

"Yes." She stepped further into the office, and leaned a hand on the chair. "I'll be glad when you're back in the field with us, Michael. They're your missions and it's good to have you on tactical, but I -" she caught and corrected herself, "-we - like having you in the field with us." He nodded, his eyes caressing her face.

"Going home?"

"I'm done for today." She paused. "Want to get a coffee?" Her eyes caught and held his.

He tipped his head slightly to the side, considering. "Why not?" he said. He caught the quick flash of pleasure on her face, quickly hidden. He shut down the computer and rose to his feet with barely a twinge of pain. His hand touched the small of her back as he courteously held the door open for her, then he pulled back. His fingers tingled from the electricity that arced between them. He found it somewhat amazing that sparks didn't physically fly when he touched her. Habitually he scanned the corridor for any observers; the hallway was deserted. They walked side by side out past Comm, their strides matching.

"Night, Birkoff," Nikita called, her voice casual, as if she and Michael always left Section together. Birkoff gave them a shrewd look, but made no comment, simply waving his hand at them as he rolled off to another console. Michael gave Operations' aerie a quick reflexive glance; he saw the older man turning to watch them leave. He felt the skin between his shoulder blades twitch, as if expecting a knife. Perhaps this wasn't the wisest move, to be seen leaving Section together, but maybe he was absorbing some of Nikita's recklessness. What was best for Section was not always best for Michael. Not a particularly radical thought, perhaps, but one he had not entertained in a long, long time.

At the coffee shop, they sat in a corner booth towards the back. He allowed several minutes to pass, carefully observing the clientele, before he laid his hand on the table, palm up. She stared at his hand for a moment, as if she had never seen it before, then raised puzzled eyes to his. Slowly, tentatively, she put her hand in his. He stroked her fingertips gently with his thumb. They sat together, in comfortable silence.

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