Disclaimer:"The Quality of Mercy" is my interpretation and 'fleshing out' of the Season One episode "Mercy", and contains massive spoilers for that episode. The characters of LFN remain the property of WB, USA and Fireworks Entertainment. This story contains both dialogue written by (and belonging to) The Powers That Be and original dialogue written by myself, and at times contains adult situations and language.

Many thanks to Asrai for the German translations, and more thanks than I can ever express to my long-suffering beta-reader (especially for the "flying elephants".)

No profit will ever be made from this story.

The Quality of Mercy

"The quality of mercy is not strained,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blessed;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes" ~ William Shakespeare

I have no idea who laid down the unspoken law that operatives don't bring coffee to early morning briefings, but it's enough to make me want to start a union movement. It's one thing to be dragged out of bed at four in the morning. It's another thing entirely to have to listen to tales of murder and mayhem without being able to clutch an emotional caffeine prop. I open my eyes wide to disguise the fact that I'm about to fall asleep on the spot and let Operations' deep monotone wash over me.

"Gabriel Tyler is a former member of the IRA and, until he left Ireland five years ago, a driving force within Sinn Fein." Operations pauses and looks at me, as though considering whether or not he needs to explain further. I raise an eyebrow in his direction and look pointedly at the briefing screen, annoyed by his lack of faith in my knowledge of current affairs.

Operations pushes another button on his remote and Tyler's face appears in profile. Not bad. Pity about the terrorist part. I rebuke myself silently for my wayward thoughts. I just have to get out more.

"Tyler has been discreet in his activities in Europe, and we were not able to prove a link with any known terrorist organisation...until four weeks ago." Operations pauses expectantly, but no one speaks. Sighing silently, I have to fight the urge to raise my hand before asking the obvious question.

"Four weeks ago?"

The screen changes again, and we are suddenly watching what is obviously surveillance footage of Tyler. Operations paces slowly up and down behind the screen, studying the flashing images carefully.

"Four weeks ago..." He gives me a wry look of acknowledgment before continuing. "A member of an organization that we know now as the Freedom League was picked up by Section on a routine sweep of a disused Red Cell base." Operations slants an almost gleeful look at Michael. "He was mostco-operative. He was able to provide us with information regarding Mr. Tyler. Two years ago, the Freedom League made recruitment overtures towards Tyler, apparently impressed by his terrorism pedigree." Operations stares at the image of Tyler on the holograph screen with unexpected venom. "They were quite anxious to make use of his talents."

He pauses for a moment and smiles ironically. "They were also eager to enjoy the benefits Tyler's financial backing could offer them. His considerable personal fortune would enable them to step up their campaign against what they see as the imbalance of wealth and power in Europe."

"According to our guest, Tyler took them up on their offer and is now controlling the European operations."

"Does the Freedom League have ties with Red Cell?" Michael calmly asks the same question that I was just about to blurt out and I glance at him gratefully. At least when he asks the questions he gets a straight answer, rather than the weary rolling of eyes that I usually end up with.

Birkoff leans forward, looking around me to see Michael. "Not as far as we can tell. The Freedom League is a relatively young organization...its doctrine seems to be more idealistic than Red Cell's. As far as we can ascertain, they were simply planning to search the abandoned camp in order to learn more about Red Cell's method of operation."

"In the last month, the Freedom League's activities in the Balkan region have been stepped up. They have also been concentrating on strengthening their toehold in Northern Europe but as yet, we have been unable to discover why." Birkoff avoids Operations' gaze as he admits this last fact. "Tyler has a meeting tonight with an as yet unknown contact in Prague. The meet is scheduled to take place in an up-market nightclub. Nikolai's...usually 'members only', with a clientele made up of the old money of Prague."

The glowing screen flickers to life again, and an intricate floor plan of the building is now on display. Birkoff pushes his glasses back up his nose as he continues. "There is a new art gallery attached to the club, and tonight the club will be open to non-members for the opening night party." He looks at Operations and shrugs cynically. "Tyler seems to have developed a perverse habit of choosing locations that are the very antithesis of the Freedom League's ideals."

Operations clears his throat and disconnects the holographic screen, his gaze sweeping over us dispassionately. "Mr Birkoff's research suggests that the club is quite...exclusive." He turns and smirks at me pointedly. "Madeline is waiting for you in Wardrobe."

I clamp down on my embarrassment as his insinuation hits home and toss him a careless grin. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Michael fighting back a smile and not quite succeeding. Feeling slightly persecuted, I stand up and push my chair back before clomping somewhat inelegantly away from the briefing room. And just what is wrong with the clothes I normally wear? I glance down and study my Doc Martens boots for a few seconds before mentally cataloging the rest of my ensemble. I eye my black leggings ruefully before smoothing down the slightly creased front of the white hooded sweatshirt I grabbed from the clean laundry basket this morning. Who has time to plan an outfit at 4:30am?

~*~*~*~*~

I walk slowly towards Wardrobe, pride still smarting, not only from Operations subtle jibe at my dress sense but the memory of Michael actually having to bite back a smirk at my expense. Fine. I square my shoulders and walk faster towards my destination. I'll give him something to wipe the smile off his face.

"Good morning." Madeline greets me warmly when I appear in the doorway.

I toss her a wan smile as I breeze past and head straight for the long racks of evening clothes. "Hello Madeline."

Wisely, she doesn't say anything else but seems content to study me as I stalk up and down the aisles. Exclusive? I can do exclusive. It's not my fault that most of these damn mission profiles call for someone to provide a distraction. Distracting clothes are not necessarily the most elegant on the rack. I snort to myself. Elegant? Not quite the right word. Trashy...there's a better word.

Lost in thought, I end up in front of a rack of long evening dresses. Red or black? Short or long? I pull out a short, shimmery black number and study it. I'm not really a Little Black Dress kind of girl. I grimace and put it back on the rack. It looks far too much like the dress I wore to dinner with Michael...the dinner that turned out to be a mission.

Too many bad memories there.

I work my way along the racks, my mind wandering back to that awful night. Shit, if I'd known I was going to be spending the better part of that evening crawling around a dirty kitchen floor, I would have picked a dress that didn't flash my knickers to the world every time I took a breath.

I still have that dress. It wasn't fit to return to Wardrobe in the state it was in, and for some bizarre reason, I just couldn't bring myself to throw it away

Still...black is good. Black is trés chic. Maybe long and black. I keep flipping through the clothes until something leaps out at me. It's ankle length with a slip to mid-thigh up each side. Thin spaghetti straps and a low but still tasteful neckline. Sexy and exclusive. Perfect.

Madeline's voice behind me startles me slightly. "Good choice."

I turn to smile at her and we exchange a look of pure feminine understanding.

"I know."

~*~*~*~

It's already been a long day, and my fatigued body and mind baulk at the thought that it will be another twenty-four hours before this particular sequence is over. One day just runs into another, I think wearily. I've spent the last two hours prepping for this mission. Six operatives on site, another four as back-up...a lot of bodies to co-ordinate in such a small area and still successfully factor in Tyler's unpredictability.

Nikita is late, and my irritation grows. We have a road journey and an hour's flight ahead of us, and time is slipping away. The rest of the team is already assembled and waiting in the transport vehicle. Apart from a few brief glimpses of her during the day, I haven't seen her since she stalked away from the briefing this morning. I know that she was offended when Operations implied that she needed 'wardrobe' help from Madeline, but at the time I found it very hard not to smile. The indignant look on her face was priceless, particularly given the street clothes she was wearing. I check my watch again, annoyance warring with the usual twinge of need that thoughts of Nikita bring. Operations underestimates her physical presence. She doesn't need artifice and designer clothing to appear exclusive...I've seen her charm diplomats and world leaders wearing leather and combat boots.

She appears at last, strolling down the hallway towards me as though she hasn't a care in the world. I lean back against the van access door almost in shock, my heart leaping into my throat as I catch sight of her.

My god.

I can't look away from her, can't even bring myself to blink as she walks gracefully towards me. My rebuke for her tardiness dies on my lips as I let my eyes roam over her. She is wearing a black evening dress that is devastating in its simplicity, and her bright hair has been tamed for once, the soft waves framing her face, the discreet makeup only enhancing her already arresting features. She is heart-wrenchingly beautiful, and my breath catches in my throat as she smiles and meets my eyes.

I have never seen her look so elegant, but it is more than that. She is literally glowing with self-confidence, a quiet assuredness that is suddenly far too attractive. My body clenches with longing as she comes closer, so close that I could easily reach out and touch her. Her perfume teases my senses as I stand and gaze at her somewhat foolishly, once again reluctantly fighting the almost magnetic pull. Her smile falters and she narrows her eyes, evidently misreading my stunned silence as disapproval.

"Michael?" A slight frown creases her smooth forehead as she looks down at her dress, then back at me. "What's wrong?"

I take a deep breath and meet her eyes calmly, forcing myself to ignore the dangerously compromising thoughts hurtling through my mind.

"Nothing." You're perfect. Too perfect.

Nikita pats her hair worriedly, suddenly unsure of herself. She looks up at me through darkened lashes. "Too much?"

"No." I allow my gaze to sweep over her quickly, careful to keep a neutral expression on my face. It is far more difficult than I want it to be. "Just enough."

She flashes me a pleased grin and fiddles almost nervously with her hair again, then adjusts the straps of her dress. Glancing down, she runs her hands over her hips, smoothing non-existent wrinkles out of the silky black fabric. Looking up, she catches me watching her, and I can only pray that my thoughts are not in my eyes.

I meet her gaze coolly and pray for the self-control to withstand this visual onslaught. "Let's go."

A coquettish smile curves her lips as she looks at me calmly, a mischievous glint at the back of her eyes that instantly warms my blood. Merde.

This is definitely going to be a long day.

~*~*~*~

Nikita sits next to Sherry, the other female operative, once we enter the transport, and the two of them are soon engaged in animated conversation. A conversation that I shamelessly eavesdrop on, but to no avail...Section life makes whisperers of even the chattiest operatives, and their voices are too low to carry. I content myself with surreptitiously studying Nikita while her attention is focused on Sherry. The oversized flak jacket she has slipped over her black evening dress that looks slightly incongruous with her sculpted hair and refined makeup.

Slightly rattled by the fact that I can't seem to drag my eyes away from her, I force myself to turn my back on the two woman, ignoring the muffled burst of laughter that assaults my ears shortly after. I don't want to know.

Nikita is still a mystery to me in so many ways, and I know that this is part of the infinite allure that she holds. No matter how deeply I delve into her psyche, so much of her soul remains hidden from me. She is an addictive challenge that I am incapable of giving up. Sometimes I wonder if it because Elena is so open and straightforward by comparison. The thought of Elena does nothing to sooth my unsettled train of thought, and I find myself replaying last night's strained conversation.

"But Michael..." Elena pouts prettily, a frown marring her smooth forehead. " I thought the conference in Munich wasn't for another week?" She turns her face away, unhappy with my announcement that I have to leave early the next morning and would be away for five days.

"It was." I smile at her in apology. "I'm afraid that the client is insistent. The board of directors has been disrupted by the forced resignation of the company chairman, and they need my input on the restructuring. They can't wait another week." I manage to bite back the words "accelerated clock" that are hovering on my lips and slide a hand around the back of her neck to pull her closer, hoping to distract her from the undeniable fact that I am leaving her and Adam alone again.

It doesn't work as quickly as I would like. Elena pulls away and narrows her eyes at me.

"What about me?" I see the unshed tears glittering in her eyes and sigh inwardly. I hate this so much. "What about Adam? Why do your clients always have to come first?"

I take her face in my hands, watching her expression soften as our eyes meet. I pull her close and press a lingering kiss on the frown creasing her forehead, wishing once again that Section had never heard of Salla Vachek.

Pulling back slightly, I meet her eyes, feeling the familiar guilt and resentment fluttering in my heart.

"The client has to believe that they always come first. If they don't, then they wouldn't be our clients for very long." I stroke her face lightly, hating myself more with every word as Elena's eyes close in acceptance. "You and Adam will always come first with me. You know that."

Elena moves closer to me and I take her in my arms, almost wishing that she would fight me, scream at me... anything but this almost blind acquiescence of every lie I tell. She raises her face to mine for a kiss and for a moment it's all I can do not to push her away. I berate myself for my thoughts and kiss her gently. This situation is not of her making...I cannot blame Elena for my unhappiness.

"Michael." I blink at the sound of Nikita's voice in my ear. I turn and look at her, startled by her proximity. She slides into the empty seat next to me and leans back against the padded wall, crossing her long legs as she does so. I avert my eyes from the tantalizing glimpse of black stocking-clad thigh and gaze at her blandly.

"Yes?"

Nikita shifts restlessly in her seat and leans forward to rearrange her dress. I give up the struggle to tear my eyes away and watch as she tugs the long skirt back into place, ostensibly to cover her exposed legs. By some mysterious method, she manages to uncover more than she covers. She glances up at me with a falsely apologetic grin. "Sorry...I'm used to slipping into something more comfortable for these trips." Her playful mood doesn't seem to have dissipated in the slightest, which can only spell disaster for my state of mind.

"You had a question?"

"Hmmm." Much to my relief, she lets her unsettling air of flirtatiousness fall away and I feel the tension tightening my body ease. "The configuration inside the club...?"

"You're working with me."

She looks at me with impatient eyes. "I know that...but how are we working the surveillance?"

"We dance."

Nikita's eyes widen slightly, but she scrambles to cover her reaction, repeating my answer with a casual laugh that fails to hide a sudden wariness. "We dance?"

"Yes." I watch her through narrowed eyes, mulishly pleased by her discomfort. Two can play this game.

Nikita's mouth curves in a slowly luxuriant smile, as though considering each and every implication of our role within the mission profile, Section-sanctioned or otherwise. "Fine."

Our eyes hold for a long moment and my heart starts to hammer in my chest as she studies my face with more than a little devilish intent in her eyes. She grins at me again before getting to her feet and sashaying back to her original seat next to Sherry.

I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes in defeat. Devil in a black dress. And she's my point man.

~*~*~*~

The band is playing a Duke Ellington number when we enter the club, and despite my earlier misgivings, my feet start to tap involuntarily to the compelling beat. I sniff the air, my nose twitching in protest at the exotic jumble of scents. Cigar smoke, perfume...and money. Definitely money.

I take a deep breath and turn to Michael. "Shall we?" Michael quirks an eyebrow at my suggestion before holding out his hand. I resist the perverse urge to curtsy and slide my hand into his, letting him lead me onto the small dance floor. Once we are in the midst of the dancing couples, Michael turns and slides one arm around me, smoothly pulling me into a close embrace.

The band slides smoothly into the next song, and I realize happily that I know this one too. I mustn't be quite the philistine that I think I am I hum the words under my breath, although I don't know if that's a good thing to be doing while dancing with Michael. Bit too much talk about romance and love in this song. I stop humming and clamp my lips shut, concentrating on not stepping on Michael's feet.

It's been quite a while since we danced together, and being in his arms is having a slowly devastating affect on my composure. This sort of dancing is so...intimate. Especially with Michael. I find it so much easier to slow dance with a guy who's a lot taller than me, although they're a little hard to come by. There's no pressure...you don't have to gaze into their eyes if you don't want to...you can just bury your face against their shoulder or their chest. Easy to hide your feelings...or the lack of them.

With Michael, there's no place to hide. I sigh silently, cursing my decision to wear these damn heels. We're exactly the same height, eye to eye, hip to hip. Tearing my gaze away from his mouth, I try to think of anything but the fact that his lips are less than a whisper away from mine. You're on a mission...just deal with it. Praying that he can't hear the frantic thumping of my heart, I wrack my brain for something breezy to say.

"Nice place."

He's giving me that look again, damn him. His gaze wanders over my face, lingering on my lips before traveling slowly up to my eyes. My stomach feels all knotted up, all my insides tangled together.

Michael flashes me a chivalrous smile. "I'm glad you came."

He just about kills me when he does this. There are people all around us...too easy to be overheard. So we're having one of our usual weird discussions, saying one thing, meaning another, and all the while I have the sneaking suspicion that he is quietly amused by my discomfort.

I don't plan on letting Michael throw me off balance tonight. I saw the look in his eyes when I met him at van access. I did wipe the smile off his face. I may have even knocked his socks off, as my nanna used to say. He is not going to get to me. Not tonight...tonight, I am going to be calm, cool and collected. Well, that's the plan, anyway, I think as Michael's arm tightens across my back and draws me closer, the warmth of his body pressed against mine sending a hot shiver through me.

I grin at him, for once enjoying our private role-playing. "How could I refuse your invitation?" Our eyes meet and I see the barely suppressed humour gleaming in his eyes. How indeed? Good little operatives do not refuse to go on missions. We dance in silence for a few seconds before he catches my eye again. "You seem more at ease than I've ever seen you."

Well, if I can appear at ease while slow dancing with you, then those meditation routines must actually be working. I toss my hair slightly and give him a flippant reply, desperately trying to remind myself that I need to concentrate on the sequence in play, rather than on how Michael's thighs are brushing against mine with every step we take. "Must be the full moon."

He smiles at my response before easing back into profile effortlessly. "Perimeter teams, converge. Tyler's coming up the north stairwell now." Any new intel, Birkoff?"

"None. We still don't know why he's here." Birkoff sounds very annoyed at being out of the loop for once.

Michael spins me gently on the dance floor and I have my first good look at Tyler. "He's meeting someone at the bar." I look quickly at the man he's talking to, but he's a stranger to me. I tilt my head towards Michael. "Do you recognize him?"

He flicks me a quick glance. "No." He lowers his voice softly as he questions Birkoff. "Can you identify him?"

If I shut my eyes, I can see Birkoff at his workstation, fingers flying frantically over the keyboard as he delves into a hundred databases at the same time. "Let me see what I can do. Drayson, give me a view."

Drayson is already perched on a bar stool a few feet away from Tyler and his contact. Michael and I keep dancing but discreetly watch as the Section op slides a small video camm unit onto the top of the bar. I can't see it properly from here, but it looks like one of Walter's new toys. He showed them off to me earlier this week ~ they look like silver lipstick cases. Very James Bond. Sometimes I get the feeling that Walter has a secret hankering to be called "Q".

Michael gives Birkoff a scant few seconds before demanding an answer. "Who is he, Birkoff?" I watch Tyler talk to his companion at the bar, wishing not for the first time that I could lip-read. They are now deep in a very intense conversation, oblivious to everyone else.

I also wish that the strap of this damn dress wouldn't keep slipping off my shoulder. I discreetly pulled it back up into place the first time it fell down, but all that did was draw Michael's attention to my state of disarray. When it slipped off again, I decided that discretion would be the better part of valour. I don't think my jangled nerves could stand another one of his knowing smiles.

Birkoff reports in, irritation evident in his voice. "I'm not showing a match. He's not in any of our databases."

There are too many people in my line of vision. It looks as though Tyler's companion passes something to him, but I can't be sure. A few seconds later, my theory is confirmed when Tyler stands quickly before casually leaving the bar area. He doesn't look back at his contact.

Michael's back is to the bar, so he doesn't see Tyler starting for the exit. I keep my voice low so that the society starlets dancing with their sugar daddies on either side of us can't overhear me. "Michael, what do you want to do? They're moving."

"Drayson, stay with Tyler." His softly spoken words send puffs of warm air over my bare shoulder, and my stomach tightens with sensation. I give myself a mental shake and drag my unwilling mind back to Tyson, watching him walk quickly through the crowd before disappearing from sight. Drayson allows the usual one minute's head start before sliding off the bar stool and following him, no doubt at the Section approved discreet distance of fifteen yards. Michael spins me around again so that he can survey the room. "Teams Two and Four, pick up our mystery man." He pauses, his tone strangely lighthearted. "Let's find out who he is."

Birkoff sounds much happier. "What mode?"

"Make it look like an arrest." I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling at Michael's casual directive. I have slowly gotten used to the all-encompassing power of Section One, but sometimes I still do a mental double take.

"Got it. All teams, switch to "B" channel." With that, Birkoff signs off, and I am suddenly all too aware of the fact that Michael and I are now alone.

I watch as the rest of our team fade inconspicuously into the crowd and make their way towards the exit. Expecting to follow, I pull away from Michael slightly. I'm more than a little confused when his hand tightens around mine, his other hand on my back subtly pressing me closer.

Slightly baffled by the fact that we seem to be still dancing, I tilt my head back to look him in the eye. "Aren't we done?"

Michael seems completely unruffled, but as he pulls me closer I feel his heart beating just a little too fast. "Not yet."

His hand dips a little lower, coming to rest on the small of my back Just what is going on here? Must be the dress...I gotta wear this thing more often. I frown at him slightly, not wanting to appear a complete pushover. "Not yet...?"

Michael's eyes meet mine in a heated stare that manages to dry my mouth and turn my knees to water at the same time. He raises one eyebrow and gives me a small smile as if daring me to disagree.

"After this dance."

A blush steals hotly across my face. I give him a cautious smile and look away, suddenly feeling ridiculously shy. Michael pulls me closer, and I'm embarrassed at how quickly my body seems to melt into his. Resisting the urge to lick suddenly dry lips, I sternly tell myself to get a grip.

"Well, I suppose that can be arranged." I gather my tattered nerves and meet his eyes again, throwing him a playful smirk. "Seeing as you asked so nicely", I add with mock seriousness.

Michael smiles at me, looking far too pleased with himself for my liking. I lean forward and put my lips to his ear, feeling his heart thud erratically against my own as my breasts push against his chest. "But just this once."

He lets out a pent-up breath on a ragged sigh that lightly stirs the long strands of hair clinging to my neck. I glance down in amazement at the goosebumps skittering over my skin, and I pull back, more than a little overwhelmed by the intensity of my body's reaction.

He studies me through slightly hooded eyes, and I have no idea what he's thinking. I have a pretty good idea what he's feeling, I think dazedly as Michael snakes an arm around my hips and pulls me flush against him. My body clenches with erotic shock at the feel of his obvious arousal pressed hard against me. We're still dancing, every slow step and turn leaving me breathless, my fingers involuntarily digging into Michael's shoulder as an aching warmth sparks low in my belly and spreads through my entire body. I don't know why this is happening here between us, but it is making me lightheaded. More than lightheaded. I feel as though my blood has become carbonated, fizzing through my veins at a million miles an hour.

Birkoff's voice is suddenly in my ear. "Uh, Michael?"

~*~*~*~

Nikita flinches and pulls away, looking somewhat flustered. My body silently protests the loss of contact as I grit my teeth and jerk my thoughts back to reality.

My whole body is vibrating with the sudden lust that overwhelmed me the moment I took Nikita in my arms. Cursing my foolish loss of control, I take a deep breath and try to reign in my rebellious emotions. "Yes?"

"The transport's ready to leave." Nikita and I hold a long silent look. Birkoff's voice becomes almost concerned. "What's the delay?"

Nikita's eyes widen slightly at the question and she raises her eyebrows at me. I ignore her unspoken challenge and answer Birkoff in a steady voice.

"No delay. We'll be en route in two minutes."

A second of static and my comm. unit is silent. Nikita eases her hand out of mine and takes a half step backwards. Her face is flushed, her breathing shallow.

To say that I'm stunned by what's just happened is an understatement. I could argue that it would have looked too obvious if Nikita and I left the dance floor abruptly in the middle of a song, but it is a poor excuse. I couldn't bring myself to let her go so soon, couldn't deny myself the exquisite torture of holding her in my arms. How did that scenario get so out of hand so quickly? I have danced with Nikita and felt the ache of desire many times, but never before have I let my control slip quite so badly.

Still inwardly disconcerted, I offer Nikita my arm. "Shall we go?" She hesitates for a few seconds, her expression one of wariness. Our eyes meet and we share an oddly empathic look.

"By all means." With that, she slips her hand lightly into the crook of my elbow and lets me guide her from the dance floor.

As we stroll through the club towards the exit, I analyze my foolish actions. This can't happen. I keep telling myself this and yet my body and mind stubbornly refuse to comply. No argument that I present to myself has made the slightest bit of difference. I'm so weary of fighting my feelings towards this woman, finding that each new day only brings a new struggle to stay detached.

Three years of my life have been invested in the bid to take down Salla Vachek, three years of pain and sacrifice. Despite this, there are days...and nights...when I would throw away every single day of those three years, moments of madness in which I would sacrifice everything that I have helped Section work towards. I glance surreptitiously at Nikita as we walk through the nightclub and realize with dismay that those moments are becoming more and more frequent.

More disturbing is that I find myself seeking out these brief episodes of intense contact, relishing them...even profiling them, to my utter self-disgust.

When we reach the narrow entrance hallway, I step back and let Nikita walk ahead, despising my actions even as I drink in the sight of her, my eyes caressing where my hands cannot. From the moment I laid eyes on her tonight, my thoughts have not been sensible. Perhaps I should follow Nikita's lead to excuse my behaviour. It must be the full moon.

~*~*~*~

I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes, letting the drone of the van's engine lull me into a welcome state of drowsiness. Section is only forty minutes away. Thank God. The flight from Prague seemed to take several hours rather than just one. Sighing, I open my tired eyes to study the cause of this restlessness. Nikita seems to be sleeping, her jacket pulled up high around her neck in an attempt to block out the outside world.

Angry with myself, yet unable to explain my tangled emotions, I became cold and abrupt towards her from the moment we rejoined our team in the transport. A pang of regret stabbed at my heart when I saw the flicker of hurt behind her eyes.

Nikita kept her distance from me on the plane, preferring to sit with Sherry in seats as far away from mine as the size of the plane would allow. Miserably aware of her presence despite the distance between us, I watched her ignore me. And now that we are back on the ground and less than an hour from Section, I find myself watching her again, finally allowing my mind to replay the night's events in minute detail...again and again.

How could I have been so reckless?

The past few hours have only served to reinforce my instinctive belief that she and I are hurtling uncontrollably towards an inevitable showdown. I took Nikita in my arms tonight and within seconds I could barely focus on the mission profile. It took every ounce of control that I possessed to ignore the violent desire flooding my body, pull my scattered senses together and complete the sequence.

There have been times when I have managed to disengage for a few weeks, perhaps a month. I force myself to stifle the sheer need for her that warms my blood, the need to possess her in both body and heart. Nikita pulls back, hurt by my coldness, gradually drifting away. I watch her lavish affection on those she cares about, while she treats me with a careful disregard.

It infuriates me. I find myself resenting every single person she spends time with instead of being pleased that she is following my unspoken directive. Inevitably, there comes a point when I can no longer stomach her cool politeness. Despising my weakness and yet unable to stop myself, I will struggle to renew our connection any way I can, whether it's an invitation to have coffee or a conveniently profiled mission...like tonight.

Against my wishes, I have been burdened and yet blessed with a wife and son who love me, two innocents who have no idea that I am not the man they believe me to be. A deeper connection with Nikita will not only compromise the deep-cover profile that I have so painstakingly created, it will endanger Adam and Elena. And yet I have to accept that I can no more put aside my feelings for Nikita than I can for my Section-selected family.

I close my eyes, feeling as though I could sleep for twenty-four hours straight and still be weary. To constantly crave what you cannot have is an ache that wears down a man's soul. Tonight, I feel very tired.

~*~*~*~

I can't remember a time when I have been more relieved to return Section after a mission. I desperately need some time alone. More to the point, I need to get away from Nikita. I'm unable to stop myself dwelling on what happened between us tonight, and yet my mind stubbornly refuses to face the strength of my feelings for her.

Spidel is still groggy from the injection that was administered when he was 'arrested', stumbling over his own feet as he is brought through van access. I would also have to assume that the dark hood over his head is not helping his sense of balance. I had a brief conversation with Madeline during our journey back to Section. Technically, Spidel is an innocent, and therefore we have taken precautions to ensure that he does not see anything that may cost him his life.

I watch Jacobs and Fulton lead Spidel away towards his meeting with Madeline, trying to dredge up some sympathy for what this 'innocent' is about to face. I can't...anyone who is foolish enough to broker deals with known terrorists is not an innocent.

A burst of laughter assails my ears and I turn to see Nikita and Sherry straggling behind the rest of the team. Sherry smiles at whatever Nikita is murmuring sotto voce into her ear, her eyes widening as if in amazement. I stare at them pointedly as they come through the van access door, suddenly very tired of the games that I have let myself be drawn into tonight.

Both women fall silent as they feel my eyes on them, and Nikita sends Sherry on her way with a breezy 'see you later'. The older woman flashes me a knowing smile that sends a dull prickle of heat tingling along my scalp. Nikita doesn't follow Sherry but remains standing beside me almost expectantly. Accepting the inevitable, I sigh inwardly and turn to look at her.

I meet her eyes calmly, blanketing the more vivid of my thoughts, and nod my head towards the main corridor of Section. "Let's go."

She stands with her hands on her hips, her generous mouth curling with a hint of a smile as she studies me, her head tilted to one side as though trying to dissect my mind.

Goaded beyond the limits of my emotional endurance, I finally snap at her, biting the word out through gritted teeth. "Yes?"

Nikita smirks at me, her eyes glittering with playful malice, her voice lowered to a throaty purr. "I had no idea that you liked dancing so much, Michael."

An involuntary shudder travels down my spine at her insinuating words, and to my dismay my body tightens as remembered sensation comes flooding back in a heated rush. Holding her eyes with mine, I move closer, hearing her breath catch in her throat as the warmth of our bodies collides and mingles, seeming to charge the air with a sexual energy that threatens my already tenuous self-control.

This can't happen.

I let my eyes roam over her body for a few exquisite seconds before I raise them to hers again. With an ability borne out of long practice, I let all the heat and life drain from my face.

"Get changed. We debrief in one hour."

Nikita flinches at my words, colour flooding her face. I meet her suddenly infuriated stare calmly, hating myself for the weakness, resenting her for making me face it so damn often.

She turns abruptly and stalks away, her stiletto heels clicking furiously on the hard floor. Letting out my breath in a relieved sigh, I lean against the wall of van access and check my watch wryly.

I was right. It has been a very long day.

~*~*~*~

"Madeline has been able to extract quite a bit of information from our friend Mr Spidel. He has recently formed a partnership with a young chemist by the name of Stanley Shays. They apparently met on-line while discussing the properties of plastique and its uses in modern terrorism."

Shit...there's a chat room for everything, isn't there?

Fighting back a smile at such thoughts, I dart a glance at Michael. He is watching the holographic screen intently, as though it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. It's hard to believe that he's the same man I was dancing with only a few hours ago. If I didn't know that iron-clad self control of his better, I'd say that our little dance has left him slightly off balance.

But I do know him, and I doubt very much that he's even given it another thought. Whereas I have done nothing but replay every one of those ten minutes over and over in my mind for the last three hours. And every time I think about it, those damn butterflies in the pit of my stomach turn into flying elephants. I slouch down in my chair in irritation and stare at the briefing screen.

Operations clears his throat almost apologetically, as though conscious of covering old ground. "As some of you are already aware, Gabriel Tyler is a high-ranking member of the Freedom League."

"We've been watching him for over a month, hoping the picture would emerge. Thanks to Mr Spidel, we now have a clear idea of Tyler's intentions. Apparently he has expressed an interest in obtaining a new, untested weapon... a polymer that has none of the characteristics of existing plastiques...a polymer that Spidel claims to have been created by his business partner, Stanley Shays."

Walter snorts softly at this, and Operations turns to him with a half-smile. "Walter?"

"I talked with Spidel. I heard his story. Shays is just a kid." He smiles and shakes his head. "Don't believe it. This technology is ten years away, not something you cook up in a garage after school." He looks at Operations and grins. Unsmiling, Operations stares back at him. "I hope you're right. Birkoff?" Birkoff shifts in his chair and glances at Walter. "I agree with Walter. It's unlikely." He frowns and looks up at Operations. "But if Spidel is already peddling it to someone like Tyler...I'd check it out."

Operations flicks off the glowing screen. "Alright, let's do it. If it's the real thing, we need to get the material, the formula and debrief Shays."

The sound of Michael's voice almost makes me jump. He's hardly spoken two words since we returned from Prague. "Should we keep Drayson on Tyler?"

Operations considers for a moment. "Yes, for the moment. There's no need to acquire Tyler just yet. It would be wiser to see where he leads us." He smiles at us with glee, and I almost expect him to start rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "In the meantime, let's go meet our young inventor."

~*~*~*~

Michael holds the door of the van open for me in his usual gentlemanly fashion, but still won't look at me. Well, that must make four hours of no eye contact now. That would have to be a new record, even for him. It has taken us ninety minutes to reach this junkyard that Spidel calls home, a trip spent, for the most part, in silence. I definitely should have brought a book...I dozed off more than once.

Spidel croons lovingly to the snarling dogs that are straining on their leashes. "Easy, boys...it's just me." I'm still eyeing the fangs on the biggest mutt and wondering how well those leashes are tied to that chain fence when Spidel turns to invite us inside. "Come on in."

Dust swirling around our feet, we follow him across the barren grounds to a door at the side of the dilapidated warehouse. The dimly lit interior is a shock after the bright sunlight and my eyelids flutter in protest. I pull my sunglasses off and take a first look at the person who initiated this chain of events.

Stanley Shays is about three inches shorter than Michael, and very slightly built. It's hard to tell how old he is, but my guess would be no more than twenty. Maybe nineteen. He is wearing a pair of industrial headphones and is so engrossed in his work that he hasn't noticed our arrival. He finally looks up when Spidel bellows out his name a second time.

"Stanley!"

Startled, he looks up at us through the thickest pair of glasses I've seen in a long time. The boy definitely needs to invest in a pair of contacts.

"Hey, Richard. What's..." He trails off as it dawns on him that three strangers have now invaded his private sanctum. He turns to Spidel. "What's up with this?"

Spidel's fidgets uneasily, before finally looking at his partner. "Something came up. We need to do a little demo." Finally picking up on the palpable tension that his partner is projecting, Shays looks doubtfully at Spidel before giving Michael a speculative glance.

"You guys investors?"

Walter ignores his hopeful question, his attention fully focused on the explosive we've come to test. "Is this the polymer?" He reaches out an exploratory hand towards an enticing pile of junk.

"Hey! Keep your hands off my stuff!"

Walter bestows a condescending smile on Shays. "It's not your stuff any more." Walter's almost nasty tone of voice takes me by surprise, but I bite my tongue. Must be a guy thing.

Confusion evident on his pale face, Shays turns to Spidel. "What's he talking about, Richard?" When the younger man's back is turned, Walter takes the opportunity to rummage through the jumble of bottles and vials on his workbench. Shays whirls around and reaches out to grab Walter's arms, his voice loud and indignant.

"Hey! I said keep your hands..."

From the look on Walter's face, I can see he's on the verge of grabbing this guy by the scruff of the neck and giving him a good going over, which isn't really a good idea. I reach out and put my hand on Shays' arm, pulling him firmly around to face me. He looks down at my hand then back up at my face. I'm taken aback again at how young he is, and my conscience twinges slightly when I recognize his naïve confusion. "Listen, Stanley...we're going to be spending a little time together." I can feel Michael's eyes on me as I speak and have to force my attention back to Shays. "So let's not make any sudden moves, hmmm?"

He stares at me as though he's seeing me for the first time. "Who are you?"

Trust me...you do not want to know. But something about this kid stirs up all my protective instincts. "We're here to make sure your partner doesn't get you into trouble. " It's almost the truth.

Speidel finally joins in the conversation, his voice flat and unhappy. "We've been bought out."

Stanley Shays' baby face lights up, not noticing the total lack of enthusiasm from his partner. "Really?" Strike that....he's not that naïve. I can almost see the dollars signs gleaming in his eyes. "How much?"

Walter sighs heavily. He wants to blow something up and he's tired of waiting. "Where is it?"

Shays' face drops slightly, but after a moment's hesitation he tells Walter what he wants to know. "Second drawer."

~*~*~*~

"Where's the best place to test this stuff?"

Shays looks at Walter with barely concealed resentment, but gestures towards a flat dusty patch about 200 yards from where we're standing. "Over there...the further away the better."

Walter smirks, not bothering to hide his obvious skepticism. "Right kid...whatever you say."

Stanley only smiles smugly back at him, and a flicker of dislike dances across Walter's face. He turns to me with a 'can you believe this kid?' look on his face, and I have to fight the urge to laugh at his almost comical expression. It's no mystery why Walter never wins at poker.

Michael clears his throat lightly but pointedly somewhere behind us. Walter flashes me another long-suffering smile before he walks off to finish preparing Stanley's explosive for testing. Curiosity gets the better of me and I turn to watch him, studiously avoiding Michael's relentless scrutiny. He and Spidel are standing silently behind us, and I can feel Michael's gaze running over my skin like hot water.

Walter's animated chattiness has only made me more aware of the fact that Michael hasn't spoken to me once since we left Section. He's talked to Walter and Spidel, but not to me. So why is he staring at me the whole damn time? If he's pissed off and wants to ignore me...fine. But the fact that he keeps looking at me like one of Spidel's mutts eyeing off a new bone is starting to really get under my skin.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I turn my back on Michael and Spidel with great deliberation and focus on the confident young man next to me.

"So what do you do with all this stuff?"

Stanley doesn't look at me. "Blow it up."

"Why?"

"It's...it's what I do." We fall silent as we watch Walter wheel a trolley past us. He now has a sample of Stanley's new toy and is heading to the designated area, his almost boyish eagerness making me smile. Stanley turns and gives me a challenging stare. "What do you do?"

His rather rude question hits a nerve that seems to be growing sorer by the day and I feel my smile dissolve. What do I do? I get shot at, kill people, lie and seduce. Annoyed by the fact that I've let him get to me, I smile sweetly.

"I was just trying to figure out why a bright guy like you would waste so much time." Bullseye. Stanley's face tightens with annoyance and he launches into a defensive lecture that sounds way too practiced. I wonder how many times he's had to justify this passion of his?

"Oppenheimer? Nobel? Ever heard of them?" He tosses me a disdainful look before continuing, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "Albert Einstein? They used to waste time too." He takes a deep breath and looks at Walter with a smirk, satisfied that his point has been made. "I think I'm in pretty good company."

Walter dusts off his hands on his trousers with satisfaction. "All set." We watch in silence as he casually sets the charge, standing a worryingly short distance away from the explosive. Somehow, I don't think he's taking Stanley's talents as a scientist very seriously.

The scientist in question gives me a gleeful look. "Besides...everyone enjoys a good explosion."

He's right. I can feel my pulse quicken, and in spite of my earlier dismissive words to Stanley, a nervous excitement is fluttering low in my belly. I still think that blowing up things for a living is a waste of time, but even I have to admit that it's interesting to watch.

We wait. Nothing happens.

Walter turns to face us, a mixture of disappointment and triumph dancing across his face. "See?" He shakes his head in exaggerated disgust and starts to walk forward. "It's what I thought. This material's inert."

The air is suddenly split in two as the polymer explodes violently, the force of the blast sending a cloud of debris high into the air and flinging Walter to the ground like a rag doll. I take an involuntary step towards him, but stop when I see him sitting up. He's a bit groggy, but he's not hurt.

Stanley looks at me in quiet triumph. "See what I mean?"

~*~*~*~

As the dust settles, Spidel gives me a pleased look, obviously happy to have his claims vindicated. I nod at him before turning to watch Walter slowly getting to his feet. Spidel and Shays are making their way back into the warehouse, already deep in conversation.

Walter is dusting off himself off, glaring at the detonation site as though it betrayed him by performing as Shays had promised. Nikita has also been watching him but now she turns her back on him, unable to hide her smile at his obvious annoyance at being proved wrong. Our eyes meet and her smile disappears, her lighthearted air dissolving instantly. The spectre of the Prague mission still hangs heavily between us, and my coolness since then has only served to alienate her.

She flicks her hair over one shoulder with a careless hand. "So what happens now?"

I let my gaze roam over her face for a few seconds before answering. We haven't spoken since our less-than-cordial parting in van access, and the tension between us has been a distraction. Feeling foolishly grateful that her direct question will allow me to break my self-imposed silence, I give her a direct answer. "I need to let Section know that the material is authentic."

Nikita nods briefly, her lips pressed together in a tight line. For a brief moment, she looks as though she is going to speak, but after searching my face for a few seconds, she shrugs and turns away. I watch her walk towards Walter, unhappily aware that the air between us is a long way from being cleared.

"You okay there, Walter?"

Nikita slips an arm around Walter's waist, uncaring of the dust and dirt that is rubbing off on her jacket.

"I'll be fine, Sugar. Just caught me a little off-guard, that's all." He grimaces and puts a hand to the small of his back, then looks up and catches my eye. "Who would have thought it would work, hey?" A look of concern crosses his face. "That stuff has three times the kick of our usual stuff. If Tyler gets hold of it..." He looks at me with dismay, the thought of the Freedom League with Shays' explosive in their possession too insidious to even contemplate.

Walter straightens up with a groan, rubbing his hipbone ruefully. He gives Nikita a sheepish smile and she shakes her head at him in mock severity as she hugs him close.

Their easy exchange causes a spark of envy to flare into life. Annoyed with my own thoughts, I frown and pull my cell phone out of my pocket. As usual, it's Birkoff who opens the channel.

"Birkoff."

"Michael? So what happened? What's the deal with Shays?"

"His claim is legitimate."

Birkoff's enthusiasm seems to know no bounds. "You're kidding me?"

Wincing at the volume of his excited response, I pull the phone away slightly and continue.

"Our equipment was not able to detect the polymer in its dormant state. There appeared to be a delay of approximately three seconds between the charge and the actual detonation, but it reacted exactly as Shays claimed it would. We'd need to bring a sample of the material back to Section for analysis in order to determine its actual properties."

There is a brief pause, and I can faintly hear Birkoff's fingers clattering on his keyboard. "What sort of output are we talking about?"

"Walter estimates it to be three times more powerful than our standard C4."

A low whistle is Birkoff's only reaction to this information. "Okay...I'll need to relay this intel to Operations. I'll contact you shortly."

I watch Nikita playfully dusting down the front of Walter's jacket and sigh silently as I terminate the call. The sooner the better, Birkoff.

~*~*~*~

"Michael?" Walter has been keeping Spidel immersed in sorting paperwork while we wait for further orders from Section. Evidently growing impatient, he has sought me out.

"Yes?"

"What are we waiting on? We've tested the stuff...it's the real deal."

It's been twenty minutes since I spoke to Birkoff, and our continued presence at the warehouse is starting to attract uneasy attention. I look at Walter and answer him quietly. "Shays and Spidel."

Walter's eyes widen in alarm as he looks over his shoulder. "We don't have to cancel them, do we?"

My eyes follow Walter 's gaze to where Nikita is laughing with Stanley Shays. There is a good reason for his concern. I know Nikita all too well, and the telltale signs are already there. Despite the company he keeps, Shays is an innocent in her eyes.

I say nothing, and Walter leans closer to me. "Sugar's not going to be too happy if it comes down to that."

I can see my own anxiety mirrored in Walter's eyes. "I know."

My cell phone bleats quietly and Walter moves away, giving Nikita and Shays a last lingering glance. I take the call, walking towards the exit of the warehouse as Birkoff's unhappy voice comes on the line.

"Michael, NSA has taken over on this one."

This is a surprise, and it's not a welcome one. "What do you mean?"

"Operations has decided that Shays and Spidel are non-hostile. He wants them off our hands. I guess he's giving them over to NSA for questioning." I stare at the dusty horizon with a growing sense of dread. Having seen the capability of Shays' toy, I'm not sure I want him in the hands of anyone but Section.

Birkoff continues, resentment apparent in every word. "Our only job now is to clean out Shays' cache and bring every single sample back to Section. Two NSA agents will be there in forty-five minutes to pick up Spidel and Shays."

"Fine."

"One more thing, Michael. Operations wants Shays tagged with one of the standard thermo discs that Walter took with him. I guess he wants to keep tabs on NSA. It's like he doesn't trust them to do their job properly."

Something like that.

"The trackers are thermo- conducive, so somewhere on the skin is best...you'd better get Nikita to tag him." There is an annoying hint of laughter in Birkoff's voice, but he has a point.

"Is that all?"

"Yep. The NSA guys should be there soon. Good luck."

~*~*~*~

I can tell straight away by the look on Michael's face when he returns to the workroom that he's pissed about something. He's got that little frown between his eyebrows, and he's walking too fast. I look away to hide my smile. And here I thought I was the only one who managed to make him look like that.

"There's been a change of plans." Michael addresses Spidel and Shays in a tone of voice that leaves no room whatsoever for dissent.

Spidel gets up from his chair in the corner. He has grown more and more irritated by our presence here as the day has worn on. I guess he feels much braver on his own turf. Apparently, he wasn't too confident when he was chatting to Madeline in the White Room. Birkoff just loves sharing those little tidbits with me. I wish he wouldn't.

"What's going on?"

Michael looks at Spidel coolly. "The National Security Agency has expressed an interest in learning more about your...product."

"Woah!" This is from Stanley, who is now staring at Michael, disbelief etched on his pale face. "No way. I'm not getting involved with those guys."

Given the fact that he was perfectly happy for his business partner to show their wares to a known terrorist, I find Stanley's protests a little hard to fathom. He looks at Spidel imploringly. "Richard..?"

Michael and Spidel are still staring at each other in a silent battle of wills, and I have no doubt whatsoever who the winner will be. As I watch, all the fight seems to leave Spidel, his shoulders sagging in defeat as he finally turns to look at Stanley.

"Sorry, Stanley. It's outta my hands now."

"But..."

Michael's voice cuts smoothly across Stanley's protests. "Two NSA agents will be here in thirty minutes to escort you to Washington. You may be gone for a few days. I suggest you pack anything you need now."

Walter suddenly reappears at my side, carrying his metal box rather gingerly. He looks pretty happy, so I'm assuming that he's now the proud new owner of several chunks of polymer. He gives Michael a veiled glance before heading towards the exit.

The two reluctant tourists start packing up their possessions, and I can feel Michael's eyes on me. When I look at him, he tilts his head imperceptibly toward the door that Walter has just disappeared through. I check to make sure that Stanley and Spidel are absorbed in their task and follow Michael quietly out into the bright sunshine.

Walter has already stowed the explosives in the van and now presents me with a flat silver card covered with miniature tracking discs.

I look at the discs, and then at Michael. "What's going on?"

Walter is the one who reluctantly answers me. "Operations wants Shays fitted with one of these babies...just to be sure."

I stare at the trackers, a faint sense of unease filtering through my mind. "Sure of what?"

Michael takes the card from Walter and holds it out to me. "NSA will be here in half an hour. Walter will take care of Spidel. Get Shays packed and tagged." Bristling at Michael's officious manner, I pluck a tracker off the card and press it behind my ear, before giving him a curt nod and heading inside.

"Nikita." Sighing with deliberate impatience, I swing around. If I didn't know him better, I'd almost think that Michael was smirking at me. "The tracker needs to be placed on the skin."

I smile at him sweetly. "Don't worry, Michael. Stanley won't know what hit him." I watch Michael long enough to enjoy the sight of his eyes narrowing as my gibe hits home, then turn and walk back inside to wrestle with Stanley Shays.

~*~*~*~

I sit on a high stool with a cracked leather seat and watch the resident teenage genius sullenly pack his meager possessions into a large black carry bag.

"I still don't know why I've gotta go do this."

Something about this guy reminds me of Birkoff...they both seem to nudge my 'big sister' tendencies into action. I swivel around on my seat, keeping my voice light and reassuring.

"Oh, Stanley...it's no big deal. You'll spend a couple of days in Washington bragging to the brass about how smart you are." I flash him a smile. "You'll be back here blowing up things before you know it." He stops packing for a moment and frowns at his suitcase. "Well, they can't arrest me, because I haven't done anything wrong." "That's right." I don't know if I quite agree with his protestations of innocence, but his stubbornness is almost endearing. "Who knows...fifty years from now when they mention Nobel... and Oppenheimer...they might add Stanley Shays to the list."

Stanley gives me a toothy grin. "Are...are they going to pay me for this?" He tries to keep his voice casual but doesn't quite succeed. "Not that I care about the money."

Sure you don't.

"Oh, I know, I know." I survey the grimy workshop. "You have a lifestyle to maintain."

Stanley gives me an injured glance. "You don't have to be condescending."

For all his bravado, he is just a kid. I suddenly feel bad for giving him a hard time. "I was just teasing."

Not quite mollified by my apology, he grows slightly defensive. "I could have made a lot of money doing R & D for Dupont. My own condo...eighty grand a year." He looks at me, and smiles assuredly. "But I wanted to do things my way."

"Your way...I was curious about your way." He says nothing. "I was wondering what you were planning to tell your family and friends about your way..." Stanley doesn't look at me but instead becomes very intent on shoving a few last mysterious vials into his suitcase. The urge to scold him for his choice of business partners and career direction finally becomes too strong. "...the selling explosives to terrorists way."

This little dig finally gets a reaction. "I didn't know anything about that. Richard snowed me. Now that's the truth." He throws me a look of brave defiance. "I don't care if you believe me or not."

Stanley straightens up and shuts his case with a snap. He's trying hard to be nonchalant, but I can tell that he is a bundle of nerves. Poor kid. I think this is the first time that I've actually been happy to tag someone. The thought that Section will be monitoring Stanley is strangely comforting. I don't know him at all, but I feel sorry for him...he has no idea of the mess that he's in.

I hop off my chair and walk over to him. "Got everything?" Stanley looks at me and nods. He suddenly looks so young, and it's no stretch to fuss over him in a motherly fashion. Grabbing hold of his carry bag, I help him sling it over his shoulder and straighten up the collar of his overcoat.

I touch a fingertip to the back of my earlobe, picking up the tiny tracking device that will soon be somewhere on Stanley. Sending up a silent prayer that we won't have to use it, that he will be safe, I grab the lapels of his coat and tug him towards me. I soon discover that socially awkward young men are very easy to distract. Stanley is so shocked by the fact that I'm planting a kiss on him that he doesn't feel a thing as I slip a finger under his collar. Embarrassed, he pulls away at the last moment and the tracker ends up on his shirt. I hesitate for a moment, but I can hardly grab him again. It will have to do.

I let him go and have to swallow a laugh at his dazed expression. "For luck, Stanley."

It seems to take him a few moments to gather his wits about him, but he finally gives me a wobbly smile. "Thanks. "

It does a girl's ego the world of good to be able to put that expression on a guy's face with just a little kiss, even if she does have the sneaking suspicion that it was his first one.

I give Stanley a little prod in the side to get him moving and we leave the workroom. The NSA agents are waiting outside, looking for all the world like hired thugs. Which I suppose they are, I guess. Richard Spidel is already in the car, and he doesn't look happy. Tough. He's safer in the hands of the agency then anywhere else. Stanley clambers into the back seat to sit next to Spidel a few seconds before the two NSA guys join them in the car. I can't help feeling a little twinge of apprehension when Stanley throws me a last look of mute appeal as the car pulls away.

Good luck Stanley.