"Michael..." she whispered, her voice pleading.

"Tell me," he demanded. His eyes were unguarded, begging for her love and acceptance.

"Yours, Michael. I am only yours." She prayed her eyes were conveying the depth of her love to him. He lowered his lips the final millimeters and kissed her deeply, simultaneously adjusting his position and thrusting inside her. The dual assault overwhelmed her senses and she cried out, the sound muffled against his lips. He pulled back immediately, his eyes scanning her face.

"Did I hurt you?"

She glared at him. "I will hurt you if you stop now, Michael." He smiled and her heart stopped for a second. He brought his head down and kissed her slowly, teasingly. She pulled her mouth away from his, turning her head away slightly. "Michael..." she said mock-threateningly, arching her back to press her body tightly to his. He let go of her hands to thread his fingers through her hair. He kissed her, his mouth demanding a response from hers, and slowly began to enter her again. She wrapped her legs around his buttocks, encouraging and inviting him to continue.

He slid inside her, filling her completely and she sighed at the sensation. Her hands ran down his face as if memorizing his features, coming to rest on his powerful shoulders. She caressed his sweat-slicked skin, pulling him infinitesimally closer to her. He began the ancient rhythm of lovemaking and she rocked with him, begging him wordlessly to stroke faster and harder. She cried out softly as he hit a particularly sensitive spot and her body began to convulse with her climax. Her mind splintered into shards of pure feelings, pure emotion. He followed her seconds later, gasping her name almost painfully in his release.

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

Day Three

The cell phone rang, the shrill noise piercing Michael's sleep. He awoke abruptly; his mind snapping to full awareness as his right hand reached automatically for the phone. He grabbed the phone, flipped it open and brought it to his ear with one smooth movement before the second ring.

"Yes," he said, as his mind processed the fact that he was lying on his back in bed, his left arm around Nikita's shoulders, holding her close. She had awakened at the sound of the phone too, raising her head from his chest, where she had pillowed it in their joint slumber. She was on her side, her slender body pressed to him, her left leg thrown over and nestled intimately between his.

"Jacques," said an unfamiliar voice. He could see Nikita's face in the faint light from the window, her eyes open and wide, a familiar grim look around her mouth. Every muscle in her body was tight with tension.

"Get to your computer. Downloading the text of a conversation now." Michael closed the phone without replying.

Nikita pulled away from him as he replaced the phone on the table. He sat up and reached for his discarded sweatpants, not speaking. Wearing clothes helped him settle back into his Section persona and he turned to the computer, opening it and starting it up. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it off his face and began logging on to Section. He felt Nikita's warmth press on his back, and her hand on his shoulder. He glanced over at her.

"What time is it?" She met his glance straight on, her own 'Section face' dropping into place For one brief moment he was tempted to kiss away the Section operative and find the woman underneath; instead he pushed the impulse aside and began uploading the information from... what was his name? ... Andrew...

"Early," he responded. His voice was rough with sleep and he mentally cursed himself for the curt answer as she withdrew her hand from his shoulder. To his relief, she didn't retreat from him, simply pulled her sleep shirt on over her head and slipped next to him, her sleep-warm thigh pressing on his. Her warm blue eyes caressed his face briefly, then she focused her attention on the information coming up on the computer screen.

***

Using the excuse of another migraine, Michael returned from the kitchen with a tray full of food for Nikita. She continued re-reading the transcript of Mason's late night conversations. At the sound of the opening door, she whirled on the bed, her hand reaching and finding her gun instinctively. Michael didn't pause, simply entered the room quickly and shut the door behind him. She closed her eyes and exhaled heavily, forcing her tense muscles to relax.

"Sandra sends her regrets," Michael said, balancing the tray of food on the bed cautiously. Nikita opened her eyes quickly and scanned the loaded tray. She selected an apricot-filled croissant and bit into it hungrily. "Your headache the other night was fortuitously timed. Another one today made perfect sense to her." He poured her a glass of orange juice and skirted the bed to hand it to her.

"Michael," she mumbled through the food in her mouth, swallowing hard to clear her throat, "take another look at this conversation."

Halfway through pouring himself some juice, he glanced up at her. "What?"

"This doesn't feel right. There's something we're missing here. This conversation sounds like the bomb threat is going to be a phantom bomb. Look, here they're discussing whether to use pig's blood or red paint."

He crossed the room, standing behind her to reread the section she indicated. "We've been over this several times, Nikita. What's bothering you?"

"So why was Section called in? This appears to be a conversation the group has had several times, yet our informant was certain there was something real, something deadly was being planned. If the agenda of the Earth Brigade is simply to disrupt the parade with a flashy publicity stunt, why are we here?"

Michael raked her face with his gaze. "What's your point, Nikita?"

"Simply that there's more intell on this somewhere and we haven't been given all the information we need. I think there may be something more going on here."

"Operations has ordered us to abort and return to Section," Michael responded.

"I know, I know..." she paused, thinking hard. "Do you think he would give us six more hours?"

Michael sat next to her on the bed, his eyes fixed on hers. "What would that accomplish?"

Nikita dropped her gaze to look at her hands. "It would give us time to listen to Mason a little more. Make sure we have enough information to make an informed decision about whether this mission should be aborted."

"A hunch?" Michael's voice held a note of dry humor. She raised her eyes to his in challenge.

"Gut instinct." His eyes held hers. She waited patiently, respecting both Michael's formidable intellect and his own well-honed instincts.

"Let me have the computer," he said as he nudged her gently. "I'll request six more hours before withdrawal." ***

It was raining. Nikita sat in their room at the inn, staring out the window at the gray sky and the equally dark bay outside. The rain had started sometime in the night and continued, without let up, all day, sometimes harder, sometimes more of drizzle, but unending. By now, mid-afternoon, there were puddles visible in the road.No wonder they drink so much coffee, she thought ironically, if the weather is like this all winter. She sat up a little higher as Mason began to speak, hitting a key on the laptop to record the conversation. After a few moments, she shook her head in disgust and stopped the transcription. Another pointless, idle conversation. She thought for a moment; could Mason have realized he was tagged and be taking extra precautions? Possible, but not provable in the few hours Operations had grudgingly allowed them.

She got up to pace around the room restlessly. Michael had gone to survey the park one last time. If he didn't see anything suspicious, and if Mason's conversations continued to be as innocuous as they had been, they would have to abort the mission and return to Section. She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. Every instinct was screaming that there was more going on than what appeared. But she had no facts, nothing solid to indicate a specific threat to convince Operations they needed to remain in Olympia. Even Michael seemed to be indulging her intuition.

As if her thoughts had conjured him up, Michael entered the room, shaking himself off slightly as he removed his wet overcoat. Nikita went into the bathroom and grabbed one of the towels, tossing it to him as she emerged. "Here. You look like a drowned rat," she teased. He toweled off his head and finger-combed his long locks off his face, giving her a cool look in return.

"What's our status?" Michael was in machine mode, all business. Nikita swallowed a small pang at his brusqueness and pushed her emotions down deep within her. He's shifting back to our Section relationship, she told herself firmly, and he's right. She forced herself to respond with equal detachment.

"Nothing. All his conversations have been completely innocent and he hasn't discussed the Earth Brigade or the Procession of the Species at all."

Michael's eyes flickered over her face. "We'll have to go. Are you packed?"

She suppressed a sigh. "Yes, I'm ready." He nodded and turned away to finish his packing, crouching over the suitcase lying open on the floor. "Michael," her voice softened, and she winced internally as she heard the small note of pleading in her tone, "do you sense the same thing? That there is more going on here than we are able to pinpoint?" Having just reconnected with him in such blazing intimacy, it was difficult to let him slip away from her. She curled her hands into fists, fighting the urge to touch him.

Michael didn't stop working, never raised his eyes from his suitcase. "It doesn't matter what you or I suspect, Nikita. We have no proof, and we're needed back at Section." His voice was cold, unemotional, and she wanted to curl up into a ball, hearing his flat enunciation.

"So, what was last night, Michael?" Her voice was bitter, her emotions flaring resentfully. "Was it just sex? Because I'm tired of one-night stands with you. Turn me on, turn me off. I can't-" her voice broke slightly and she fought for control, "I can't keep doing that. It's too hard."

He sat back on his heels, regarding her solemnly. His equanimity irritated the hell out of her and she turned her back to him, struggling to quell the roiling feelings within her.

"Have you called for a limousine?" She got her voice under control with an effort; it was nearly as dispassionate as his.

His suitcase closed with a sharp click. "It will be here momentarily."

***

Nikita sat in the busy airport concourse waiting for Michael, who had gone to buy coffee for them. Their connecting flight would be departing soon and it would be a long overnight haul back to Section. They were flying a commercial airliner again, for the sake of convenience as well as their cover (it was wasteful for Section to provide a plane for only two operatives). As she saw Michael returning, she began to search in her purse for the documentation Section provided to enable them to carry their weapons onboard the plane. Finding the proper paperwork, she rose to her feet and approached Michael, carefully avoiding his fingers as she took her latte from his hand.

Michael's eyes shifted, swept over her face, briefly meeting her eyes. She was startled to see the flash of pain in his green gaze. She focused on him, not speaking, her eyes locked on his. She watched his familiar blank mask drop over his face and his gaze drift over her shoulder. Oh, good, Michael, retreat, pull back, she thought with exasperation. A flash of anger ran through her, but she pushed the emotion aside. This is neither the time nor the place for a confrontation, she reminded herself. Chicago's airport was the busiest in the world, crowded with people night and day, and there was no place for any privacy. This conversation will simply have to wait.

He turned to walk toward the security gates, gesturing courteously for her to precede him. She stepped ahead of him, drinking her coffee and praying for the caffeine to hit her system; they had been awake and working this mission since the call early this morning. 18 hours, and counting, she thought wearily. There were only a few people in line in front of Nikita when she heard the familiar chime of a cell phone. Her hand went automatically for her purse before her mind processed that it was Michael's phone that was pealing.

Michael stepped out of line, pulling out his phone as he moved to an uncrowded corner. Nikita followed him, moving between Michael and the passengers milling around the security gates.

"Yes," she heard Michael's low voice. There was a moment of silence as Michael listened to the contact on the phone; then Michael responded, "Now?" with such a strange mixture of cold anger and incredulity that Nikita turned to look at him. She was surprised to see a flash of rage pass over Michael's face and the uncharacteristic obscenity that slipped from his lips. "We're in the middle of the concourse at O'Hare Airport, what do you-", Michael paused and visibly got his anger under his usual stolid control. "Fine," he said, his voice icy. Michael snapped the phone shut and replaced it in his pocket, stepping forward to take Nikita's arm. His grip was warm and very firm. She could sense his anger rippling under his superficial calm and refrained from questioning him. "Come," he said, his flinty eyes meeting hers, "we need to talk."

***

The Chicago airport reminded Michael of Section; all cold tile floors and blank walls, although the airport's walls were white, not Section gray. Frigid and comfortless, it was constructed as though the humans it served were an afterthought, not the primary consideration. Michael and Nikita moved swiftly down the hallways until they located the private 'frequent flyer's club' of one of the major airlines. Michael pulled the appropriate identification out of his wallet and they were allowed entrance. This room, at least, was built for comfort and privacy. Large windows overlooked the runways, enabling the viewer to observe the lights of the multitude of planes arriving and departing. Comfortable overstuffed chairs were artfully arranged in small intimate groupings, extending a welcoming cocoon of leisure and ease to weary passengers.

Michael led them to a secluded set of couches set off and back on one side. Not too far back, he calculated, as to raise suspicion among the other travelers in the room, but far enough away to assure them of privacy. Michael sat facing the room, both to assure their security and to prevent any accidental (or not accidental) reading of the computer screen. After waving away the solicitous waiter, he quickly logged on to Section.

His first concern was to inform Section of his insecure location and to warn Birkoff not to use an audio link. His eyes flickered over to Nikita. She sat across from him, her blue eyes cool and aloof as she scanned the area around them. She had not questioned him yet about the phone call or his uncharacteristic response. Michael ran a hand over his eyes, then rubbed his chin absently. He wasn't sure, himself, why he had reacted so angrily to Birkoff's order to obtain secure location immediately. Part of it was his exhaustion, he thought, but certainly he had run missions before on limited sleep. He shifted in his seat. Most of his response had to do with his tangled emotions over Nikita, he realized uncomfortably.

Michael was neither blind nor stupid. He was fully aware of Nikita's simmering anger toward him and that his behavior in Olympia had triggered her fury. One part of his mind realized he had been cold, even cruel to her, that he had shifted too fast from her lover back to her mentor/mission leader. But he was also confused. Didn't she understand yet the danger they were in? The quicksand they were standing on?

It was easier to deal with the mission than with Nikita's emotions. He turned his attention to the computer, typing rapidly.

::Birkoff. Connected, but not secure. No audio.::

::We have updated intell on the Earth Brigade.:: Birkoff responded. ::Downloading parts of the conversation now.::

"Nikita," Michael raised his head and spoke softly. "Come here. You'll want to see this." She rose and crossed behind him, still careful not to get too close or touch him. He took the opportunity to lean back, tipping his head back and meeting her eyes. "You were right, after all. Updated intell coming in." The top of his head brushed her stomach with his movement. Her eyes sharpened at his movement and she gave him a piercing glance. He kept his face under control, silently gazing back at her, hoping she would understand his mute apology. She narrowed her eyes at him. Oh, yes, she understood what he was trying to do. But she wasn't buying it.

He sat up straight as the promised information began to appear on his computer screen. Michael pressed his hands together, resting his elbows on the armrest of the chair and supporting his chin on his fingertips. He felt Nikita move closer to his back, still not touching him, but closer. Well, that's an improvement, Michael thought. At least she's thawing a little bit. The remainder of this conversation will have to wait until we have absolute privacy.

One sentence immediately drew his attention He heard Nikita's breath catch as she read it. Did you get the night vision scope? Mason had made one small slip, just one, but it was enough. Now they knew what they were up against.

He heard Nikita exhale in a soft sigh. "They're going to have a sniper there," she murmured in his ear. Her breath was warm on his neck. He nodded and began to type again.

::Now what? Profile.::

Birkoff was expecting that question; his response was nearly instantaneous.

::Private plane, return to Olympia immediately. Go to Terminal D, Executive Air Service.::

::Possible complications using private aircraft?:: Michael let a small frown crease his forehead and closed his eyes briefly. He didn't like the idea of using an unfamiliar non-Section pilot; that would necessitate one of them staying awake and alert and they were both running on depleted reserves of energy. More likely, they would each take a short nap, alternating with each other. Not enough sleep to refresh, but hopefully enough to dull their exhaustion.

He heard Nikita snort softly at Birkoff's response and focused his tired eyes on the computer.

::Don't ask, don't tell,:: Birkoff had answered.

Crap, Michael thought, we're dealing with gray matter. Gray matter were non-Section material that were known for supplying a needed service or product with few questions... for the proper price. Michael distrusted working with gray matter, as necessary as they were; he preferred to deal with people with known qualities, their strengths and weaknesses carefully analyzed and their actions anticipated. Gray matter were unknown variables, loose cannons. There were many, many reasons Michael had survived in Section for nearly fifteen years; on the top of that list would be his compulsive analysis and planning of his missions. Michael distrusted anyone and anything he could not completely scrutinize.

He knew better than complain. Birkoff would have done the best he could, given the circumstances.

::Financial arrangements?::

::Settled. Bon voyage, M. and Mme. Bonniere.::

Michael closed down the computer. He glanced over at Nikita, who was wandering idly back to her seat across from him.

"We should be going," he said softly, noticing for the first time the blue smudges under her eyes, the lines of stress in her face. "Do you want anything to eat or drink before we leave?"

Her eyes met his, wary and guarded. "I'm fine," she said, her voice cool. He sat for an instant longer, watching her prowl restlessly around the couches. He was seized by impulse to grab her arms and let her spew her built-up frustrations at him. She might even hit him, which would certain make her feel better and clear the air between them. He rose smoothly to his feet, knowing not even a ripple of his thoughts had crossed his face. There would be a thousand different ways to resolve this if we were ordinary people, with normal lives, he thought with a trace of bitterness. He courteously gestured for her to precede him from the lounge. She'd say her piece, expel her bile, and we'd end up in bed, like any other couple. There was a sour taste in his mouth. Most of the time he managed to disregard the emotionally stunted life he led; but the few times when the realization forced its way through his denial, the truth was galling.

***

Locating Executive Air Service was simple; they were immediately and courteously escorted to the small Lear jet waiting on the tarmac. Nikita preceded Michael up the short staircase, ducking her head as she entered the low-ceiling plane. There were four comfortable leather seats, set singly by the windows with the aisle between them. At the back of the cabin were two seats placed together. As small as the cabin was, the cockpit was even smaller and more cramped, with barely enough space for the two pilots. The co-pilot turned to greet her.

"Welcome aboard Mr. and Mrs. Bonniere," he said, his flat Midwestern accent strangling the pronunciation. "If you'll put your luggage in the area behind the galley and take your seats, we'll be on our way momentarily. I understand you are in a hurry to get to your destination." The statement was not a question. His face was pleasant, if one didn't look to closely at his eyes, which were cold and hard.

This is really a don't-ask-don't-tell operation, thought Nikita as she obediently placed her carry on bag in the compartment indicated, Michael following behind her. She took one of the seats on the right side, pointedly ignoring the joined seats in the back. Although some of her emotional ache had subsided after Michael's behavior in the airport, she was still irritated enough to decline spending another flight close to him. Michael flicked his eyes over her, reading her body position, and she crossed her legs and faced the window, turning her back to him. She heard the leather creak softly as he sat down across the aisle from her. Within seconds, the plane began to back away from the terminal and taxied out to the runway.

Quickly airborne, the co-pilot stepped back into the cabin and gave them abbreviated safety instructions. "Please help yourself to any refreshments you desire," he finished. "The galley is stocked with various alcoholic drinks, soft drinks, and various snack foods. Our cruising speed is 440 knots and we anticipate arriving at the airport in Olympia in approximately four hours. If you require anything further, please don't hesitate to knock on the cockpit door and ask." With a brief nod in their direction, he retreated to the front of the plane and closed the door discreetly behind him.

For several minutes, there was complete silence in the plane. Finally Nikita broke the stillness, glancing over her shoulder at Michael. "Will we be stopping to refuel? He didn't mention that."

"No," Michael responded, turning slightly to meet her gaze. His eyes caressed her face. "This jet can fly about 1800 nautical miles before refueling. It's not that far to Olympia." Silence fell between them again, but their eyes remained locked. Michael looked away first, glancing out the window at the dark sky. "Why don't you stretch out on the seats in back and take a nap," he suggested.

"What about you?" Nikita responded, trying but not succeeding in keeping the challenge from her voice.

His eyes returned to hers and she caught the slight movement of his fingers, quickly stilled. "I'll stay awake," he replied flatly.

Her eyes flickered to the closed cockpit door. "Don't trust our transportation?"

His eyes followed hers briefly, then returned to her face. "Go lie down," he repeated.

She noticed he didn't answer her question. She rose to her feet, remembering to keep her head lowered and dropped her lips near his ear as she passed. "Intuition?" she said half-teasing, half-mocking. How many times had he disregarded her intuition? And she had been right this time.

His head tipped back fractionally so he could meet her eyes. "Just being careful," he murmured back.

She stepped back to the back seats and flipped up the armrest so she could recline across both seats. Careful, she thought with frustration and scorn, Michael's whole life revolves around careful... She squirmed, trying to get comfortable, and mentally scolded herself for being unfair to him. There was a reason Michael has survived all these years in Section, she reminded herself, and it wasn't because he was reckless.

She sighed in frustration at the turbulence of her emotions. I understand why he was so withdrawn, I know that we have to be meticulous about hiding this from Section, she thought drowsily, if only he weren't such a cold bastard about it. Fatigue was overwhelming her. Does it hurt him too, to pull away? was her last thought before sleep claimed her.

***

They took a cab to a small motel down the street from the park. There was no question of going back to the Bed and Breakfast; that part of their cover had been ditched when Michael had claimed a 'family emergency' as their excuse for leaving early. She watched Michael quickly switch his driver's license to change his identity before he walked into the motel office to get a room. Being so close to the Capitol Building, the motel staff was accustomed to various government officials and lobbyists arriving at all hours of the day and night; their early morning arrival raised no questions. Their room was plain and simple, but clean. Nikita craved a shower and a nap, in that order, but first they needed to contact Section. Michael set up the computer with his usual efficiency and Nikita stood behind him, hands linked behind her, to read the screen over his shoulder.

Michael affixed the comm-link behind his ear. "Birkoff."

Birkoff's response was instantaneous. He had obviously been waiting for them to check in. "I'm here, Michael. What's your situation?"

"We're located in a small hotel a few blocks from the park. We'll conduct another visual surveilliance in the morning. What's the status on our back up?"

"They will be arriving in the afternoon, driving from the Western North American Substation. Once you have secured Mason and his sniper, you'll join up with the backup team and return to the substation. Then proceed back to Section."

Michael paused a moment and Nikita indicated their luggage. "We'll need to meet up with the backup team prior to going live," Michael said. "We'll sanitize our location and leave our belongings with the van. Let me know when and where they are upon arrival."

"Gotcha," Birkoff responded.

"Anything further from Mason?" Michael asked.

"Nothing. He's still got the tracker on him, he's just being very careful."

"Or not many people know about his shooter," observed Nikita caustically. Michael gave her a sharp glance and nodded imperceptibly.

There was no further information forthcoming from Birkoff. Michael set up a download of all of Mason's conversations in order to review them personally, then sat back and rubbed a hand tiredly over his eyes. He had let his usual stoic mask slip, exposing his weariness. Nikita stepped forward, turning so she was half-sitting on the table next to the computer. She reached out and raised his chin, sweeping her eyes over his tired visage.

"You should have traded places with me on the plane," she repeated gently. This was a conversation they had had several times since she woke up as the jet descended into Olympia.

He pulled himself together with a visible effort; his eyes were dull and slightly bloodshot. "Let it be, Nikita. There'll be time to rest before we need to go out for surveillance." Stung, she dropped her hand and walked away from him, blinking back the tears that came too easily to her eyes. She heard him lever himself out of the chair, walk into the tiny bathroom and turn on the water. She took the respite to put herself together, rubbing her hands over her eyes to hide any evidence of her tears, pushing her seething emotions down and locking them away. I'm exhausted and over-reacting,she told herself firmly. I'll just take my shower and get a few hours' sleep. To hell with him.

She heard his quiet footstep as he returned to the room. She spoke without turning around. "Go to bed, Michael. I'm going to take a shower first."

The bedsprings creaked protestingly as he sat down heavily. "It wasn't just sex," he stated bluntly.

She turned around carefully and deliberately, not believing her ears. "What?"

He didn't move. He was sitting with his back to her, his shoulders slightly slumped, his head hanging down. His hair was wet; she realized he had soaked his whole head, not just his face. He was obviously exhausted, every inch of his body seemed to droop wearily, but he continued the conversation. "It wasn't just sex," he repeated stubbornly.

She stalked across the room to stand in front of him, her body rigid with disbelief and her long-repressed fury. "You want to go into this now?"

He raised his head; the movement seemed almost painful for him. "I want to get this settled between us."

She reached over and grabbed the chair from in front of the computer, spinning it to settle with its back facing Michael. She sat on the seat, straddling the back and resting her chin on her crossed arms on the back of the chair. "OK, Michael, it wasn't just sex. So what was it?" Her voice was challenging, unforgiving.

*** (Language warning)

Michael exhaled slowly, feeling every muscle in his body scream for sleep as he sat on the bed. His eyes were dry and scratchy and his eyelids felt like sandpaper; he pushed the minor irritations aside and refocused his gaze and mind on Nikita. Her azure eyes were boring into his. He inhaled deeply, deliberately, and tried to verbalize the thoughts that had been running through his mind the entire flight back from Chicago.

"You're angry with me," he began. She snorted. OK, that was a little obvious, he thought. He raised his hand to forestall her retort. "Let me say this." She paused, considered, and nodded silently.

He took another conscious breath, gathered his thoughts, and continued. "It wasn't just sex," he repeated again carefully. "But no matter how we feel about each other, in the end Section owns us." He met her unflinching stare. "What we have... we have to take whatever we can, whenever we can and then return to Section. To who and what we are." He paused for several long seconds. "I've told you several times that I live my life in two. It wasn't just Elena and Adam... every moment of my life is divided. What I feel for you, how I feel when I'm with you... that part of my life has no place in my existence in Section. It can't. I couldn't survive it." His eyes dropped to his hands, his voice becoming a harsh whisper. "My need for you makes me weak. It endangers your life. And I don't know how to stop needing you."

She got to her feet and circled the chair to approach him. "You," she said slowly and clearly, "are a cold-hearted manipulative bastard. And there are times I really hate you." She exhaled, hard, and stroked one hand down his cheek. She cupped her hand under his chin and raised his head. "And then there are times when you are the kindest man I have ever known. And I don't know how to balance one with the other."

He met her gaze and scrutinized her silently. Stop forgiving me, he thought bitterly. Stop making excuses for me. He was relieved when she continued, her voice hardening again. Her hand dropped from his face.

"You may be able to command your feelings on and off, Michael, but I can't. I don't come with a little on/off switch in my back." Her sarcasm was sharp. "One of those things they missed during training, implanting an emotional thermostat." She paused momentarily, and he watched her emotions flow across her face as she reined in her temper. She moved away from him, shoving her fists into her pockets, and took a few steps before turning back. Her voice was soft but vehement. "I need to know when you are switching back to your Section personality. One minute you were my lover and the next you became Michael-on-a-mission. And that hurt like a son of a bitch."

Her clear blue eyes met his and he could see the depth of her pain. I'm always hurting her, he thought. All he could think of to say was the same hackneyed phrase he had said over and over, every time he injured her. "I'm sorry." He spread his hands helplessly, at a loss how to assuage either her anger or her pain. He was acutely aware the little he could do was insufficient for her.

She gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah, I know," she responded sadly. "Both of us, we're always sorry." Her mouth curved in a small forlorn smile. "Go to sleep, Michael. I'm going to take a shower." She stepped into the small bathroom and shut the door; within moments he heard the water start. He pulled off his shoes, folded his jacket and shirt neatly and lay down on the sole bed in the room. Perhaps I should leave the bed for her and sleep on the floor, he thought as he drifted off. But even a cheap hotel bed was more comfortable that the floor and he was asleep before he could decide whether to move or not.

***

Nikita stepped out of the bathroom, barefoot but dressed again in her sweater and slacks, a towel wrapped around her wet hair. The sight of Michael, asleep on the bed clad in his undershirt and pants, greeted her. Even in sleep, he's courteous, she thought, noting how he had carefully positioned himself on one side of the bed, leaving plenty of room for her to stretch out. She shook out her hair and combed through it, regarding him thoughtfully.

He had apologized.

More than just the trite words 'I'm sorry', she had sensed his real regret for having hurt her. The words came so easily for him, but the remorse that should accompany them was a rarity. She remembered the brief moment of pain that he had shown when she purposely avoided touching him. So it hurts him, too, to have her pull back from him. She sighed to herself and put her comb down. This wasn't resolved, not by a long shot, but at least her anger and hurt were eased. She stepped over to the bed, arms akimbo, considering. Do I join him? Behind her, the computer gave a muted beep as it completed its assigned download task. That made her decision. Mission tomorrow. I need the best sleep possible. Stripping off her sweater, she lay down on the open half of the bed. She moved as little as possible to avoid disturbing Michael, but within moments he had rolled on his side and wrapped an arm over her, pulling her close to his warm body.

"Nikita, I'm sorry," he murmured sleepily.

She patted the arm that draped over her stomach. "Go back to sleep, Michael."

His arm tightened fractionally. "Yours," he whispered. "I am only yours."

She felt a sting of tears and swallowed hard. "I know," she whispered back. He was already asleep again.

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

Day Four

Nikita awoke to find herself still wrapped in Michael's arms, his breath caressing her back as he slept. She didn't move, enjoying the sensation of his muscular body pressed to hers and impulsively decided not to wake him. Sometime during their early morning sleep he had pulled still closer to her; his hand had crept under her T-shirt and was pressed against her stomach, his rough, stubbled cheek tickled the back of her neck. He had also thrown a light blanket over them, but she had no recollection of his doing so. She felt his grip tighten as he awoke. He has the reflexes of a cat, she thought; even asleep he must have sensed the change in her breathing pattern.

She rolled onto her back so she could see his face. It pleased her to see how rested he looked. Amazing how a few hours' nap could refresh a person who was running on minimal sleep. His long hair was tousled around his face, making him appear much younger and more vulnerable than usual. Or perhaps it was the expression in his eyes; his luminous gaze was open and unguarded. How did I ever doubt his feelings? And why do I let his mask fool me time and time again?

"Good morning," she greeted him with a warm smile. He let go of her to check his watch. She followed his glance. "What time is it?"

"10am," he answered. His voice was lower than usual, as deep and sensuous as only a sleepy man can be. She felt a small shiver creep down her back and a flush of desire run through her body.

Business, Nikita, back to business. "Do we need to be going?" Her voice was matter-of-fact, but she couldn't resist giving him her best come-hither look.

"We should..." he responded slowly. He propped himself up on his right elbow, returning his left hand under her shirt. His fingers caressed her navel. "We should..." he repeated and deliberately raised his eyes to meet hers.

A multitude of thoughts ran through Nikita's head, churned in her stomach and pounded through her veins. The knowledge they were a few hours away from a mission, where a simple miscalculation could result in the deaths of one or both of them. The specter hanging over their heads: when they returned to the crypt that was Section, there was no way to know how long they would have to wait to be together again. The loss of this intimacy between them, so hard-won and so difficult to create. And her simple, constant, all-consuming desire for him.

For all these reasons, and for a thousand more, flowing unformed and unintelligible through her mind, she wanted him. Now. And she knew he was thinking along the same lines; as he pressed closer and gently continued stroking her abdomen, she felt his rising arousal press on her leg through his clothing and hers. She reminded herself to proceed carefully; the peace between them was so fragile, so delicate, it would be all-too-easy to say the wrong word and lose this precious connection.

Humor was always a good tactic. Not many people tried humor with Michael; using it kept him a little off-balance. "Should is never an effective word for me," she murmured invitingly.

The flame of desire flickered brighter in his luminous eyes. "Oh, no?"

She reached over and stroked the riotous curls off his face. "No, it tends to make me want to do the opposite," she whispered. Her hand slipped around the back of his head, pulling him to her. Her lips parted and she kissed him tenderly. She felt him respond, his lips softening as he kissed her back, then his muscles tensed slightly; he pulled back and regarded her seriously.

"Last night you wanted nothing to do with me," he began. She reached up and laid a finger on his lips. So much for being careful, she thought. But this issue needed to be settled between them and now was as good a time as any.

"I meant everything I said last night," she replied honestly. "Sometimes you drive me crazy and I hate you. But I also know the kindness you are capable of showing. What a good man you can be." She locked her eyes on his, willing him to believe her next statement. "I know I can't live this life without you." She heaved a small sigh and ran her fingers through his hair again. "It's not much of a life, but it's the only one I've got now. And if all I can get are stolen moments with you, I guess I'll have to accept that." Her fingers tightened on his hair and her gaze became fierce. "But this must be more than simply sex... it has to be, or I'm nothing more than a convenience for you. You told me last night what we have is more than that. Is it the truth?" She gave him a hard, knowing look. "Truth, Michael."

His eyes closed briefly. Would he tell her the truth? Her mind ran over the memories, too many memories, of Michael's lies, deceptions and manipulations. Michael, the consummate actor, who could portray any emotion the mission profile required. Her mind shifted direction, recalling his despair over his son. Michael, who watched her back as protectively as she watched his. Michael, who no longer lied to her, (except by omission of facts, jeered one part of her consciousness, such was life in Section... the other part retorted), who was now as honest as he could be within the confines of Section's procedures.

He took a deep breath and she returned her focus to his face. "I don't know what love is," he said, his voice raw with painful self-awareness. "Love is a commodity that Section uses and abuses for its own purposes." His gaze drifted off her face to focus on the wall behind her. "All I know is I need you as much as I need air to breathe." The silence stretched on for several seconds, finally, hesitantly, he returned his eyes back to hers.

She had heard what she needed; she was very well aware of his inability to articulate his emotions and knew he had given her all he could. She closed her eyes with relief. They had negotiated that particular quagmire successfully.

She sensed his hesitation in his body language; the way he held himself so still, the intense look he gave her. She felt a brief moment of uncertainty. Now what? How do I prevent him from pulling away again? Her mind flickered back to her thoughts a few minutes ago. Humor. She relaxed into his embrace and gave him a teasing smile. "But the sex is usually good, too," she said playfully.

He feigned injury. "Usually?"

Her smile grew broader. My God, how I love his sense of humor. She stretched, twisting to entwine her body with his. "Maybe you'll need to convince me to change my opinion," she prodded.

He leaned over her, rolling her to her back and pressing her tightly to the mattress. "Is that a challenge?" His voice dropped to a sibilant whisper. "Do you know how I react to challenges?" His lips were inches away, his body a crushing comfort on hers. She shook her head, never taking her eyes off his face, watching the amusement dancing in his limpid eyes. "Badly. I have a competitive streak in me. A need to prove I'm always right." His mouth descended and captured hers. His kiss was penetrating, demanding and commanding. It left her gasping and desiring another.

"I'll have to remember that," she murmured, encircling her arms around his neck and pulling him down for more.

***

They lay together in the aftermath of their passion, limbs entwined, chests heaving, pulses pounding. Michael's one-day beard stubble scratched her neck pleasantly as he turned his head to place a soft kiss in the crook of her shoulder. Her fingertips stroked his back, delighting in the feel of his powerful muscles. With a low groan, he raised himself up on his elbows and looked at his watch.

"Now we must be going," he murmured, leaning down to place a kiss on her lips. He adjusted his position and slowly withdrew from her, rolling onto his side. She moaned softly at the loss of his warmth and rolled over to cuddle closer to him. His arms surrounded her and pulled her close. She lifted her head to place a kiss at the base of his neck, feeling the strong beat of his pulse beneath her lips. A deep aching sorrow swept over her, and she felt the tingle of tears threaten her eyes. She blinked desperately, trying to forestall the tears and only succeeded in pushing the offending moisture down her cheeks. She slipped an arm out from under his and surreptitiously tried to wipe her face.

He realized her distress immediately. She wasn't sure if he felt her sobbing intake of breath, her tears on his chest, or if it was simply his incredible awareness of her. But he knew, and before she had a chance to disguise her feelings he lifted her chin to look into her face.

"Nikita?" Her name rolled off his tongue. No one said her name the way he did, the syllables slightly spaced as if he were learning to say her name phonetically. His voice stabbed at her, making the tears flow harder. His callused fingertips stroked her face, wiped her eyes gently. "Nikita? Talk to me."

That nearly made her laugh. Michael, asking her to talk to him? Talk about role reversal... But that thought led her back to her original discomfiture. She swallowed hard, forcing back the sobs that rose in her throat and tried to put her thoughts into words.

"I just realized I'm going to lose you today," she managed, repressed tears making her voice hoarse. "No matter what happens with this mission, you'll be gone from me. God forbid something should happen tonight, but even if we're successful, we're headed back to Section. And all of this," her arm swung in a vague circle, encompassing them, the bed and the room, "will be like a dream. A wonderful dream, but only a dream." Her voice caught. She stopped for a moment and wiped her eyes. His eyes were dark, almost black, reflecting her pain. She tried to continue and her voice was a thready whisper. "I miss you already, Michael. I don't know how I can go back there, back to who you... we... are there."

He gazed unblinkingly at her. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could say to ease her pain. She didn't expect him to answer, so she was startled when he took a deep breath and began to speak.

"I won't tell you to wait for someday," he said, his voice low. "You asked me for honesty and I won't lie to you now. Someday does not exist, it will never happen." He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close to him. He dropped his voice more, down to a harsh whisper. "You must remember... I love you and I need you. Hold on to that thought, Nikita, hold on to it tight."

She wrapped her arms around his broad back, memorizing the feel of his body next to hers, the unique smell of sated man, the warmth of his embrace, his powerful yet tender strength. They lay together for several minutes, holding each other, committing every sensation to memory. Then he kissed her forehead, her eyes and her lips and pulled away. He walked into the bathroom to start a shower, closed the door behind him and never looked back.

*** (language warning)

Nikita sat in front of the computer and logged on to communicate with Birkoff. Behind her, the water continued to run as Michael took his shower. She picked up the communications unit and affixed it behind her ear.

"Hey, Birkoff," she said, trying to sound casual and confident.

"Nikita! Where have you guys been? Operations-"

The next voice she heard was Operations himself. "And where the hell have you been?" he demanded.

Nikita bit the inside of her cheek to control her temper. God, how I hate that man. "We were down, we went to sleep for a few hours. Birkoff told us there wasn't anything new on the Earth Brigade. Michael's downloaded transcripts of Mason's conversations for his review this morning." She hoped her voice wasn't as defiant as she felt.

"You should have maintained open communication at all times," Operations snapped back.

"Sir, the parade will not be starting for six more hours. We have no target, no suspect besides Mason- who is tagged and accounted for- and no indication of where the shooter will be placed. Michael had been up for 24 hours and I had had 3 hours of sleep in the same time. We felt it would be prudent to get some rest in order to perform at our optimum capabilities. Were we wrong?" The line was silent for a moment and Nikita felt the warm glow of satisfaction. Take that, Operations, you son of a bitch...

"Nikita." Michael's clear baritone sounded behind her. She started, only now realizing the water had stopped. He had shaved and was dressed in a midnight blue turtleneck and black slacks, his wet hair slicked off his face. As he approached her he motioned for the comm unit; she was surprised to read his approval of her retort to Operations in his peridot eyes. She handed the unit over to him and rose from the chair. He seated himself and began talking to Operations. She stood silently for a moment listening to his cool, accented voice calmly deflecting Operations' irate questions, then ran her fingers softly over his head before walking away to take her shower.

***

She ran a hot shower, the temperature just below lobster boil. Steam rose in clouds around her. She was sitting, her head hanging forward, arms wrapped around her legs, hugging them close to her chest, letting the heated water flow over her, the spray pounding her shoulders. She sat for what seemed to be hours and tried to reconstruct her emotional walls. She had done it before, she could do it again. What was harder, she mused, trying to rebuild the intimacy with Michael on the rare occasions they had the privacy to be human, be honest and make love to one another, or the necessary severing of that same intimacy when it was time to return to Section? She squeezed her eyes in pain, and concentrated on the sensation of the water running down her face. Michael, oh, god, Michael... Perhaps Michael's way was better, to be closed down, shut off from emotional contact. But even as she considered the thought, she knew that method was impossible for her. And, if she were honest, Michael's method didn't even work for Michael. Although he was more adept than she at hiding his emotions, at protecting himself, the cold withdrawn man she had once known existed no more. The loss of his son had rocked Michael like an earthquake and his emotional barriers were now cracked and crumbling.

So now what do I do? she thought, letting her contemplation of Michael slip to the back of her mind. She thought again of his final words, to cling to the knowledge of his need for her. Hold tight, hold tight... She turned off the water, pushed her hair back off her face and straightened her spine. She climbed out of the tub and walked over to the mirror, wiping the condensed moisture off the glass to look closely at her face. She stared into the reflection of her eyes and willed her emotions to retreat. She watched her face harden and the glow disappear from her eyes; she saw her mask come over her features and her Section persona emerge again. She slipped on some non descript dark clothing and ran a comb through her hair before taking a final glance in the mirror. Her cold façade felt uncertain and weak; one word or touch from Michael would cause it to collapse like a house of cards. She took a deep breath and repeated her new mantra, hold tight, hold tight before stepping out of the bathroom to rejoin Michael.

***

Michael was reviewing the transcripts of Mason's conversations when Nikita stepped back into the room. He gave her a quick glance over his shoulder, noting immediately that despite her difficulty earlier, she had completed her transition back to Section operative. Like him, she was dressed in dark clothes; a charcoal gray sweater and black leggings. Not speaking, she stepped behind him and read the computer screen over his shoulder as she braided her flaxen hair. He continued regarding her as she finished both activities. She shifted her eyes to meet his gaze, her face controlled and remote. Their eyes held and locked, green and blue bound together. Although neither of them showed any overt emotion, Michael felt the synergetic pull between them. He shut the computer down without looking, keeping his vision fixed on her, and rose from the chair.

"You OK?" he asked softly, trying to ease the building strain between them.

"Fine," she replied shortly, shifting her eyes away briefly, then returning them to his face as if drawn by a magnet.

"Hungry?" His hands itched to stroke her face; he pushed down the impulse. She has herself under control, let her be, he chastised himself.

She gave him a smile, a small one, but it was a smile nonetheless. "Starving."

He finally broke their locked stares to glance around the room. "We need to pack everything up. There's a small bakery down the street, we can get something to eat there. Then we should move down to the park and conduct reconnaissance."

It took only a few minutes to gather their belongings and stash them in the luggage. Michael picked up his shoulder holster and buckled it on, checked and secured his pistol. He covered his weapon by putting on a light jacket, adjusting the folds of fabric to disguise the telltale bulge. He turned to watch Nikita finishing her check of her small caliber gun; she wore a holster designed to fit around her waist and slipped her gun into the small of her back, the protuberance easily disguised by her hip length sweater. He eyed the room cautiously to be sure they were not leaving any evidence of their occupancy. Their luggage, two suitcases and a shoulder bag, were carefully placed by the front door. He decided to leave the computer on the desk for now; they would need to check in with Section after checking over the park. His eyes met Nikita's and he courteously opened the door for her, his hand lightly touching her back as she passed him. He felt her immediate tension; her back straightened slightly and she quickly stepped away from him to break their physical contact. He let his hand drop, his fingertips burning where they had brushed her.

***

The afternoon passed uneventfully. They had grabbed a snack and a coffee at the bakery, then walked the few short blocks to survey the site. Small Italian lights had been strung on the gazebo and around the trees; the park would be a beautiful backdrop for the festivities tonight. They had both spent time scrutinizing the gazebo, trying to locate the bogus device that the Earth Brigade would detonate tonight. Unsuccessful in locating the bomb, they had also spent some time evaluating the surroundings of the park. There were three potential sites for the sniper: a three-story apartment building situated over commercial businesses, an old hotel converted to senior housing and the former county courthouse, an imposing turreted gray limestone building towering over the east end of the park.

They had opted to stay close to the park and chose a small restaurant across the street to eat. The weather was nice enough, sunny and slightly cool, that the restaurant had 'al fresco' dining; tables set outside on the sidewalk. Michael sat with his back to the building, Nikita to his left, both of them positioned in order to have clear views of the park and especially the gazebo. Mason's transcripts, which Michael summarized for Nikita over their meal, had indicated the remainder of the group was unaware of Mason's true agenda. The sniper was to be Mason's private arrangement. The remainder of the group appeared to be young and idealistic; Michael shrugged his shoulders eloquently as he described his opinion of the Earth Brigade's objective in detonating the dummy bomb.

"They believe the parade tonight is hypocritical. That a community celebration of the environment is a sanctimonious feel-good ploy when society is destroying the environment with logging, development, nuclear power... pick a cause." He shrugged again, the Gallic mannerism conveying his cynicism.

Nikita glanced up at him when he paused in his recitation. His eyes were hooded, half hidden behind his lids, a sure sign that he was hiding his emotions, perhaps even from himself.

She stirred her tea thoughtfully. "So do you think the majority of this group just needs a good scare to prevent them from escalating their violence? To teach them not to play games like setting off mock bombs?"

He gave her a sharp piercing glance. "What are you suggesting, Nikita?"

She paused to collect her thoughts. The idea had been a spontaneous one, but it just might work. "Only that if the Earth Brigade is given a short lesson in what a dangerous game they are playing, they may decide not to continue. Say when we recover Mason, we make a point to warn his compatriots that what they are doing is extremely dangerous."

Michael was silent for a moment, running the idea through his head. She waited and watched him sift through possibilities, scenarios, and potential repercussions. She took a bite of her sandwich and scanned the park again.

"It might work," his voice brought her attention back to him. "But we need to be sure we avoid any entanglements with the local police. Retrieving Mason and preventing the shooting are the priorities, not warning off the remainder of the Earth Brigade." She nodded, understanding and appreciating once again everything Michael did for her. Her compassion for innocents (and she considered the bulk of the Earth Brigade to be innocents unaware of the possible consequences of their well-intentioned action) was a vital part of her emotional makeup. For Michael to consider, accept and design a mission that enabled her to act on her impulses was a gift she was only now becoming aware he gave to her.

She slid a hand across the table, and touched his hand where it lay next to his plate. "Thank you, Michael," she said softly, meaning every word. He looked down at their clasped hands, then raised his eyes to meet hers. He let his blank, controlled mask slip for a second and she gave her Michael a small smile. He let his gaze drift back across the street as she continued regarding him silently. Does he realize he is doing this for himself? That, had someone given him the same warning all those years ago, he might not have gotten involved with Rene Dian and L'Heure Sanguine? His fingers tightened imperceptibly, pressing gently on her fingertips, then he slipped his hand out from hers to raise his glass to his lips, his eyes continuing to scan the park across from them. Or that I do this for him, her thoughts continued, that I want to warn these kids for Michael's sake? For the sake of an angry young man who made one fatal error and destroyed his own life?

"We should return to the room," Michael's low voice broke her reverie. "Our back up should be arriving soon and we need to tighten up the profile before presenting it to Operations."

***

It was time to move out. The sun was beginning to slide down the sky, leaving orange and crimson streaks in its wake. Nikita moved carefully through the van, slipping through the crowd of five large male bodies, maneuvering to reach her bag and pull out another sweater. It was warm in the mission van, but it would be substantially cooler outside. Her chosen item was a heavy hand knitted wool sweater, thick and bulky and dark enough to be unobtrusive. Michael glanced over at her, then reached into one of the van's many compartments.

"Wait on the sweater," he said, and tossed a lightweight Kevlar vest over the heads of the surrounding operatives, "put this on under it."

Nikita caught the vest easily, internally smiling at Michael's over protectiveness. "Only if you do," she challenged. He glanced over at her, his face and eyes already in the stern lines of his 'mission face'. "Come on, Michael," she continued when he didn't respond, "you're the one going after the sniper. If anyone needs to be wearing a vest, it's you."

The profile had been set and approved by Operations. Michael would be handling the sniper; Nikita would be extracting Mason. Neither target was expendable; there was no housekeeping team with them. Somehow both targets would need to be located, detained and delivered to the backup team waiting in the van. In the privacy of their hotel room, Michael and Nikita had discussed the additional off-profile mission of confronting the Earth Brigade in hopes of preventing any further violent action by them, but that particular piece of intelligence was not shared with Operations. Need to know basis, thought Nikita with sardonic humor, and Operations does not need to know about that plan.

Once the backup team arrived, Michael and Nikita had sanitized their hotel room and joined the newcomers in the van. The backup team consisted of four members, all from the substation and unknown to Nikita. They were all typical Section operatives, burly, muscular and taciturn. Nikita missed working with familiar faces and the comfort of dealing with known quality in her backup. She shrugged mentally and pulled her mind back to the present. It doesn't matter how I feel about these guys. We shouldn't be needing them for assistance to get this job done.

Michael's eyes were fixed on her face, evaluating her comment to him. She kept her eyes fixed on his, willing him to accede to her demand for his safety. He shrugged his shoulders slightly and reached back for a second vest. Nikita was peripherally aware of the scrutiny of the remainder of their team; they had been flicking their eyes between her and Michael, silently observing. Like watching a tennis match,she thought sourly. Apparently the infamous Michael-and-Nikita reputation had preceded them. What exactly their reputation was, she didn't know and wasn't sure she want to know. Sometimes it was better to pretend to be ignorant.

Michael had finished putting on the required vest and was in the process of reaffixing his holster. He gave her a pointed stare, focus, stop daydreaming; she understood him as clearly as if he had spoken the words aloud and she hurriedly began to slip on her own protective gear. Michael pulled another sweater out of his suitcase and pulled it on over his vest and gun. He had chosen a loose fitting fisherman's sweater; a subdued black, it was cut large enough and loose enough to disguise both his vest and his gun from outside observers.

As he finished dressing, Michael stepped over to the computer set up in the command and communication section of the van. He pulled up the mission profile and also spread out a paper map of downtown Olympia next to him for the team's reference. Nikita stepped up next him, behind his left shoulder, and the remainder of the team circled around the two of them.

"The parade route is here," Michael began, indicating the red lines on the map. "The parade will begin and end here, at Sylvester Park. The gazebo is located here," he pointed to the west end of the park, "where the target group plans to detonate its false bomb, and where we expect to find Mason. The sniper could be located here-" he pointed, "here- or here." He punched a key on the computer and brought up a picture of Peter Mason. "This is our target. Nikita will be handling his capture and extraction to the van. We don't know who has been contracted for the sniper hit, or who the planned target is. It is possible there is no specific target in mind." The team nodded in understanding. "I will be locating and neutralizing the sniper. Communications will be handled here in the van; this will enable Nikita and me to be in contact with each other as well as with you at all times. You are not to egress the van unless specifically requested. This is a low profile mission; we must avoid contact with the local authorities at all costs. Questions?" His pale green eyes swept over the assembled group; there were no hesitations in the nods that responded to his query.

***

Nikita and Michael moved through the parade participants as they circled the perimeter of the park. Nikita glanced around as they maneuvered silently through the crowds. The parade would be huge, she thought, there were easily a couple thousand people milling around the area. Stilt-walkers dressed as storks and herons. Young children carrying cardboard cutouts of salmon and bumblebees. A huge paper mache gray whale. A lion with a large head and extended body, designed similar to a Chinese dragon, with several pairs of legs underneath the body, dancing down the street. And music, music everywhere. Dancers dressed in leopard-print leotards dancing to a samba band. A drum band stepping in rhythm together. They passed a group of musicians shaking hollow pipes; the song emerged as they moved through the group, first the treble notes, then the middle tones and finally low bass notes rattling from huge pipes.

There was some kind of organization to the mayhem; there were signs indicating sections of the parade: air, water, earth and fire. She swept her eyes around the bedlam, searching for Mason, any indication of trouble. Instead, her attention was caught by a group of children, a school group? a scout troop?, dressed as a pack of wolves and practicing their howling. A smile she couldn't resist crossed her face and she glanced up at Michael. He had a faint smile hovering around the edges of his mouth, lightening the dark intensity of his eyes.

They moved through the streets surrounding the park and entered the park itself. There was still more chaos here. A band was setting up within the gazebo itself. Parade spectators wandered through the park on their way to locating a spot to watch the show. It was an eclectic mix of people, everyone from young families with babies in strollers and carriers to college age students with wanna-be Rastafarian dreadlocks to well-dressed older couples. Nikita felt the contagious happiness of the crowd and had a brief moment of envy for their uncomplicated lives.

"Johnson," Michael spoke quietly to the operative handling communications in the van. "Where does Birkoff say GPS puts Mason?" Nikita heard the faint taping of the keys in her own earpiece.

"Two blocks north, one block east," Johnson replied. Michael glanced over at Nikita and tipped his head fractionally to the right. They began to walk down the street, scanning the crowded sidewalk as they passed. Turning at the appropriate corner, they continued down the street. People were standing three and four deep on the sidewalk, blocking the way and making the street the best way to maneuver around. Nikita scanned the sidewalk to their left, Michael to the right. Nikita looked over the heads of the younger children sitting on the curb and concentrated on the crowd of adults behind them on the sidewalk. Michael suddenly took her hand and she immediately turned to look at him. He pulled her into an embrace, turning his shoulders so her head was directed to one section of the horde waiting for the parade.

"Straight ahead, wearing a black baseball cap," Michael whispered in her ear. Her eyes flickered over the mass of people in front of her, searching. There.

She ran a hand into his hair, pulling his ear closer to her mouth. "Got him," she responded.

"Target acquired," Michael murmured into his comm device. He released his hold on her and took her hand again, leading her across the street from their target and courteously maneuvering into the mass of watchers on the sidewalk.

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

The Procession

Nikita found she enjoyed the Procession more than she had anticipated. Although she had to continually skip her eyes to the crowd across the street to keep their target in sight, there was plenty of time to enjoy the spectacle unfolding in front of her.

The parade began with two costumed participants walking the route with long arching vine-covered sticks. Between them was a sign, the only written words in the entire parade, describing the burning of the vines as a symbolic cleansing. The pungent smell of the burning vines wafted over the crowd and she exchanged amused glances with Michael. Although she was certain they were burning hemp and not its illegal cousin, the smell was similar and the idea of parading through the streets with an oversized doobie was unusual.

A huge papier-mâché sun kicked off the first segment of the parade, Fire. At least 500 people marched by dressed as endangered species; tigers, salmon, whales and bald eagles among them. The climax was a samba band, some 50 or more members strong, beating drums of all shapes and sizes, shaking cows bells and xylophones and accompanied by a large group of dancers, both male and female, gyrating down the street.

Water came next, marked by a huge windsock tie-dyed in blues and greens. A group of parents and children were dressed as jellyfish, their oversized headdresses bobbing precariously as they walked; the younger children tripping on the dangling crepe paper tendrils. There was also an octopus, easily 10 feet in diameter, its legs coiling in papier-mâché splendor. Another band completed the segment, the members drumming on various items, from paint cans to large garbage cans.

Forests of trees indicated the start of the Earth section. Nikita caught a brief glimpse of the pack of wolves she had seen earlier. The dancing lion was in this segment too; followed by a group of kindergarteners dressed as bumblebees and carrying cardboard flowers. A billy goat with beautiful golden horns held the hand of a tiny pink-eared mouse. Still another band finished this portion; a jazz band with trumpets, trombones and (of course) more drums.

Finally Air. Another windsock heralded the start of the final section, the blue and green fabric whipping in the rising wind. The outstanding participant was a huge heron, standing about 10 feet high, rising from the back of a participant, two partners manipulating the wings up and down and a third raising and lowering the neck and opening the mouth. The group cawed in rough unison and encouraged the watchers to answer back.

A final band and it was all over. Michael took Nikita's arm to prevent them from being separated, and they both moved as quickly as possible across the street to keep up with Peter Mason. Mason was headed south, toward the park, his black baseball cap bobbing in the milling crowd.

It was difficult to track Mason through the surge of people all headed toward the park. Eventually they lost sight of him but continued walking, letting the flow of the crowd move them along. At the corner of the park, Michael took Nikita's arm and drew her aside under the overhanging awning of a storefront. Unspeaking, they both conducted individual surveillance scans of the park and the surrounding buildings, searching for any clue to the whereabouts of the gunman.

"Nothing," Nikita murmured. She slapped her hand against the cold red brick of the building. "Damn it, there's no indication of the sniper at all."

Michael's face was completely controlled as he turned his eyes to hers. "We need to locate Mason again and get the location from him," he said quietly. He indicated directions with a tilt of his head. "You go to the west, then circle south, I'll take the east side and meet you at the southwest corner of the park. Keep in contact." She touched the small comm unit behind her ear reflexively, then nodded in agreement and moved off in the instructed direction.

She threaded her way through the mass of people, her eyes constantly scanning the crowd around her. The percussion band in the gazebo had begun playing and the deep bass notes of the drums resounded in her abdomen as she approached the park. She paused for a moment, looking up at the three buildings Michael had indicated were the primary concern for the sniper location. Nothing. Not a window open, a curtain moving, a hesitating shadow. She felt her adrenaline course through her veins. Damn it, where is he? She directed her attention back to the milling crowd in the park. Find Mason, she told herself coolly, the only chance of stopping this is to get to Mason.

"Nikita," Michael's voice echoed in her head, "any success?"

She blew her breath out in a quick expression of frustration. "Not yet, Michael, I'm just entering the park from the northwest corner. I'm headed toward the gazebo area. Seems to me that would be the logical place to find the Earth Brigade." She halted as another band entered the park, having just completed the parade route. The band in the gazebo picked up the rhythm of the new arrivals and the air around Nikita seemed to shimmer with the pounding drumbeats.

She moved silently to the north side of the gazebo, always observing, always scanning the faces around her. She crossed in front of the structure, weaving through the throng of people. Small groups had broken out into spontaneous dancing; parents and children, couples, even one man dancing with his rather large dog in his arms. She sidestepped to avoid a young man with long cornrow braids flying as he spun one way and another. The dim Italian lights and streetlights surrounding the park played havoc with her vision; the shadows seemed deeper and faces around her changed their appearance as they turned and the light played across their features. Her eye was caught by a group of people hovering on the edge of the grove of trees. What caught her suspicion, she wondered, clothing? Attitude? Or just the well honed sixth sense that had kept her alive all these years on Section missions? Nikita eyed the group carefully; had anyone noticed her interest? No, their attention was completely contained within their own group, they paid no attention to anyone else around them.

She took a few cautious steps closer. There. In the middle of the group she spotted the black baseball cap, now turned backwards in a jaunty 'gangsta' look. "Michael," she called quietly into her comm unit, "I've got him."

***

Nikita moved through the crowd, never letting Mason leave her sight. She wasn't sure where Michael was exactly, and couldn't afford to take her gaze off Mason long enough to look around for Michael. She moved closer, observing the group of people that eddied around Mason, watching him dance with several sycophantic girls in his group. Mason's eyes kept returning to one girl in particular, a striking black-haired beauty that watched him back coolly. A weakness, Nikita noted, filing that information away for further use.

"Nikita." Michael's voice echoed in her head. He drew out the pronunciation, his voice conveying both his concern for her safety and their time constraints.

"He's here, Michael. I have him in sight."

"Where are you?"

"Still close to the gazebo. South side, under the large oak tree. What's the status on our shooter?"

Instead of answering, Michael deferred to the team in the van. "Johnson?"

Johnson's voice came back, his deep baritone overriding the faint clacking of the computer keys. "Nothing. No demands, no calls to the local media. No prior indication of their action to anyone in a position of power. The local police have no idea what is going to go down."