Shrugging on her coat, Nikita tugged long blond hair out from under the collar and waved a cheery goodbye to Harriet, occupied at the counter with two college students, before ducking out the front door. A gust of wind sent the door slamming shut hard enough to rattle the panes of glass and to set the bell to squalling in indignant protest of such treatment; she staggered back a step, tugging her coat tighter around her and digging in her pockets for her gloves. Snow had come early this year, six inches already in mid November, and as she tugged on her gloves, she rememberd how--just three years ago--the sight of snow had not brought a child-like sense of wonder but choking dread and fear.

Three years ago she had lived off the streets, cast out like so much flotsam by a mother that had chosen an abusive boyfriend over her teenaged daughter.

Three years ago she had panhandled for change and scavenged dumpsters for food, sleeping in the basements of abandoned tenements, curling up with other roamers of the street to conserve body heat. Three years ago she had watched those friends she'd made spiraling down into the darkness of self-destruction, taken from her by drugs, prostitution, and their own despair, and had vowed that it would not happen to her. That she would find a way to pull herself out of the mire of her life--that she would escape the streets before they destroyed her.

Salvation for her had come in the form of a bookstore called simply Greene's Books.

The Greene was Sarah, the only one of six children born to Mr. and Mrs. Greene that decided to follow in her father's footsteps, taking over the bookstore for her father after heart surgery forced him into early retirement. Greene's Books was strategically located near the university, tucked in amongst a row of cafes and trendy little boutiques; not exactly the kind of place that drew the city's army of homeless but it had drawn one scruffy-looking girl, who sought refuge from the biting cold in the warm enivrons of the bookstore. Sarah Greene hadn't questioned why the girl seemed to spend an entire day nestled in an armchair, either drowsing or eagerly devouring a book, accepting her presence with the same aplomb as she did all the wayward cats that seemed to find their way to her.

In time Sarah had worked to draw her out, starting with an offered cup of tea and then a shared sandwich, letting her take with her a book or two back out onto the streets, accepting Nikita's promise that she would bring them back.

And return them she did, to be given more, and found herself spending as much time in the bookstore as she had out on the streets. It had started with her stocking the shelves and sorting through the used books customers had traded in, dusting and vacuuming...and before she had known it, Sarah had offered her a job and a cot in the back to sleep on, till she could find a place of her own.

And that was all it had taken, just one person to believe in her and give her a chance.

Admittedly, it had not been easy--but Nikita had come a long way from the street rat she had been three years ago. She had an apartment--a tiny one--and a car badly in need of repair and in the winter she'd have to pile on the blankets and dress in layers of clothes to keep the heating bill from going astronomical...but it was all hers. And life was...good.

She was even contemplating taking classes at the local university, at the prodding of Sarah and Harriet. To expand your opportunities, said Sarah; to meet guys, said Harriet with a twinkle to hazel eyes. To get a life...

It had been a slow week at Greene's Books, the snow encouraging people to stay in the warm cocoons of their dwellings, and they'd spent most of the week rearranging the shelves in between greeting and helping customers. Yesterday, towards the end of her shift a man had entered the bookstore and Harriet had elbowed Nikita, nodding to the man as he moved through the bookstore. Clad all in black, looking like one of those painfully morose artists that floated through the neighborhood, but he moved with a graceful, powerful stride, grey eyes scanning the bookstore. Not an artist, Nikita had known instinctively, for he had raised the hackles on the back of her neck, the cold sweep of his eyes sending a chill through her, and none of Harriet's playful pushes or covert glares could encourage her to approach the stranger.

A predator, a small voice had whispered in her head, a voice that had been an effective guide throughout her time on the streets, like a primal internal alarm. Handsome he had been but...cold, very cold, his body emanating the coiled energy of a wild cat, as if the slightest twitch of motion would draw his attention and send him into a leap. He had drifted out of her sight, moving into the racks in the back of the store, and then had eventually departed the store, to Nikita's relief.

Why she was thinking about him now she didn't know--she gave herself a mental shake, hunching her shoulders under her coat, and made her way down the sidewalk, to a side street where she had parked her car. Removing her keys from her pocket, she bent over the lock of her car and wiped with one gloved hand at the snow covering it, inserting the key inside and giving it a twist.

By the time the damned heater would warm up she would be home...and attempting to resist the impulse to crank the heater there up to maximum...

"Excuse me."

The voice came behind her, soft, polite, and Nikita turned, keys in hand, to see that very man behind her. His hands were shoved into his pocket and brown hair curling about his ears where snow had melted into his hair, a faint smile curving sensual lips but not touching eyes that were as cold as ice. He stepped forward, one hand extending to grasp her arm and holding her still as his other hand emerged from its pocket to press something hard into her side.

Nikita looked down at the grey metal of a gun and then up at the stranger as he thrust her forward.

"In the car." he said flatly, shoving her behind the steering wheel and slipping into the back seat, the gun rising to press against the back of her neck. "Shut the door." Carefully, trembling, Nikita shut the door and his hand slapped the lock down, the muzzle of the gun not leaving the back of her neck as he locked the other door.

"You can--you can have the car...I don't have that much money--" She hated the quaver that was in her voice, hated feeling helpless like this but she sensed that bravado would not work with this man.

"Shut up." He said the words dispassionately, no anger or heat in them, a simple command from one used to being obeyed, and his fingers curled in her hair, tugging her head so that she met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "You will take me to your apartment. Directly. The moment you deviate from the path, I will shoot you. Understood?"

Nikita nodded, swallowing thickly, and his fingers released her, the gun falling away as he sank down behind the seat. With a shaking hand it took her two tries to get the keys into the ignition and she twisted them to start the car, fear surging in her when the engine ground...finally catching to roar into life. And feeling the man's presence behind her she pulled out onto the street, to make her way home.

* * * * * * * * *

Exiting the car, Nikita waited for the man to slip out from behind the back seat, considering in one brief moment taking flight...but knowing that as the sidewalks were slick with snow, she wouldn't get far. And so she stood still as he shut the door, stiffening as he slid an arm around her waist to draw her close to him as they went up the stairs to the third floor and her apartment. Cuddling against her as if they were lovers returning to her apartment for an assignation...

His arm was still around her waist as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, leaving it open for him. Moving through the doorway, he pushed the door closed with his foot, the gun appearing in his hand again to aim at her and freezing her in her tracks. Locking the door, he nodded for her to move forward, flicking a light switch on and rapidly scanning the room. Unbuttoning her coat, Nikita moved to the window, to draw back the curtain, as was her usual routine.

"Leave the curtains shut...and get away from the window." the man ordered as he prowled through the apartment, checking each room before returning to the small living room. Gesturing with his gun at the couch, he waited until she sank down onto it before he sat in the faded armchair, the hand that held the gun laying across his thigh.

"So...what...uhhh...what happens now?" asked Nikita, giving a small defiant toss of her head, though she was trembling so hard she thought she could hear her knees knocking together. She could envision all sorts of horrific scenarios, gleaned as much from her experiences on the streets as the almost gleefull recantings of horror spewed from the news on TV and the papers.

His head turned, eyes focusing on her, their gaze cold and dispassionate, as penetrating as an Xray. "I need a place to stay the night. One day of your life..and then I will be gone." He rose from the chair, as restless as a caged cat, and went to the battered television set to turn it on, switching channels till he came to a news station. Squatted before the television, arms draped across his knees, his attention absorbed by what he saw on the screen, and Nikita moved a little to the left, oddly curious to know what had so captured his interest.

On the lower left of the screen was the familiar logo of CNN and the name of the reporter looking earnestly out onto the viewing audience, along with the location--Baghdad, Iraq.

The reporter spoke an accord reached with Iraq and the stand-down of military forces preparing for a strike--and was silenced as the man changed the channel, rising from his crouch to face Nikita in a single graceful movement, so quick that she flinched back. But his attention was not drawn to her--rather he turned his gaze to the door.

And a moment later a knock came on the door, a thunder clap of sound in the stillness of the room that made her jump. She looked immediately to the stranger and he gestured sharply with the gun at the door, following on her heels to press himself against the wall, on the other side of the door. At his curt nod, she undid the padlock and left the chain on, opening the door just enough to allow her to look out and see who stood on the other side of the door.

Two men stood side by side, one with short blond hair and glasses and the other with short-cropped dark hair, both dressed in black. The blond man flashed her a friendly smile, manuvering a little so that he could look through the door and into the interior of her apartment. "Does Scott live here?" he asked.

Nikita shook her head. "Sorry." She shut the door and was reaching for the padlock when a heavy blow shook the door on its frame. Stumbling back, she watched in shock as another kick sent the door flying open and dropped to the floor as the two men moved inside, guns out to sweep the apartment.

And her abductor came away from the wall to grasp the dark-haired man's gun arm, twisting it hard even as he placed the muzzle of his gun directly over the man's heart and pulled the trigger. The impact of the bullet sent the man flying back and the blond man hastily stumbled back and out of the door as the stranger sent a bullet in his direction. With a kick, the stranger sent the door--hanging half off its hinges--swinging shut, its motion halted by the body of the man he'd killed.

Cautiously Nikita raised her head, to find herself staring into the glazing eyes of the dead man, and swallowed hard against the nausea that surged in her. She jerked back as the stranger reached for her arm, cringing away from him--God, he was going to shoot her too--

His lips were moving but the ringing echo of gunfire in her ears stole away his words and his hand caught her arm, shaking her hard as he leaned forward to hiss at her, "Where is another way out of here?"

"Fire--fire escape...bedroom..." She pointed shakily at the curtain of beads that seperated her bedroom from the living room and he hauled her bodily up, shoving her in that direction.

From the partially opened front door came a shout. "Give it up, Michael!

There's no way out!" The man Michael cast a look over his shoulder in the direction of the voice and then gave Nikita another push towards the window.

Dragging the curtains open, Nikita pushed the window up, wincing as it squealed in protest, and stepped hastily aside as Michael reached up to jerk the curtains down, rod and all. He went through the window to step carefully out onto the fire escape, looking down at the street below, and then turned to Nikita, who stood frozen on the other side of the window.

"If you want to live, come with me." She shook her head mutely and he reached through the window to grasp her arm in steely fingers, grey eyes hot and intense. "They will kill you if you stay here--or they will take you back with them, to people that will make you *wish* they had killed you. Your choice." Staring into those eyes, Nikita could see the anger and pain and fear of one that had been in that place...and had barely escaped with life and mind intact. And before she realized what she was doing, she had slipped out the window after him, to follow him down the fire escape.

At the bottom of it the boom of gunfire sent sparks flying as a bullet screeched across metal and Nikita dropped to her knees, covering her head.

From Michael were two answering gunshots and then his hand on the back of her coat to haul her bodily to her feet as he lowered the ladder. He went down it first, dropping nimbly to his feet, and waited for her to come down as well, hustling her with him through the alley and out onto the dubious safety of the streets, leaving behind them another body.

**********

The alley spilled out onto 13th Street and they emerged into a pool of light cast by a street lamp; Nikita stood frozen in the light for a moment, until Michael yanked her arm to drag her arm to drag her after him, from the light into the shadows. His eyes darted quickly around the streets, looking for...who knew what, and even as she turned her head to scan the street with uneasy eyes, he set off, hauling her behind him. Out onto the street, dragging her across it as tires squealed and a horn blared angrily, the shouting of an irate driver carrying with her as Michael drew her through the door of a cafe.

With her hand clasped in his, he moved around the counter, stalking through the kitchen and out through the back door, ignoring the startled cry of a waitress and a white-hatted cook calling after them. Into another alley and to the left, trotting to keep up with him as he set a rapid pace, out into another street and Michael releasing her arm to step into the street, waving down the bus that started to leave its stop. Nikita proceeded him onto the bus, flashing an apologetic smile at the grumbling driver, and waited as Michael dug a hand into his pocket, shoving a bill at the driver before pulling Nikita down the aisle.

"Hey, I don't have change for this--" called the driver irritably but Michael ignored him, settling Nikita down into a seat and sinking down beside her.

"Where--where are we going?" asked Nikita in a whisper.

"You'll see." said Michael evasively, fixing the older man that looked curiously at them a cold look that had the man hastily turning back around.

They rode for what seemed to be hours, changing buses intermittently, armed with the all-day transfer the driver had given them in exchange for whatever bill Michael had given him, and as Nikita started to nod off, a shake of her shoulder roused her.

Pulling her to her feet, Michael guided her to the exit and she stepped off the bus, smothering a yawn as she stood on the sidewalk, blinking at the man before her.

"Where...?" Another yawn escaped her as she spoke, turning in a slow circle to look around her and seeing the marquee above her identifying a seedy looking structure as the Sanford Arms, the "a" in Arms burned out.

"Hotel." Taking her hand he led her up the steps and into the front lobby of the hotel. The lobby was dimly lit, the lazy swirl of smoke lending it a hazy quality, and even in the dimness, the shabbiness of the lobby was apparent in peeling wallpaper and well-worn carpet. From the left came a flickering light and as she let Michael guide her in that direction, she saw a clerk seated behind the desk, a cigar clenched tightly between his teeth, his attention fixed on the TV set before him. On its screen two behemoths engaged in one of the theatrical battles that had made the WWF a staple across the States.

Michael slapped a hand against the ringer by the man's elbow and he jumped at the sound, whirling to face them, a horrible scowl distorting paunchy, stubbled features that failed to hide the fear in his piggish eyes.

"Whaddya want?" he grumbled, taking the cigar between two fingers as he regarded them. An unpleasant grin spread thick lips as his eyes fell on Nikita, tongue coming out to lick his lips, and she gave him an insolent once over, her eyes lingering briefly on his groin...and shaking her head with a sigh, raising her eyes once more to his. He flushed deep red at the obvious insult and started to speak, only to go silent at a single look from Michael.

"Room." said Michael, enunciating carefully, as if the man were mentally slow.

The clerk's flush deepened, eyes glittering, but common sense prevented him from offering a retort. "$35."

Nikita bristled, about to protest that this dump wasn't worth $10 a night, but Michael gave the clerk a fifty and took key and change, leading Nikita up the creaky stairs to the second floor and Room 212. She entered the room first, her heart catching in her throat at the sound of scrabbling claws across the floor, envisioning the brown-furred body with twitching whiskers and long scaly tail that would come scuttling to her, drawn to the sharp smell of her fear--

Michael's hand on her arm made her flinch and the flick of a switch filled the room with light, Michael guiding her into the room. Gingerly, watching where she was putting her feet, Nikita moved to the center of the room and made a slow circle, sighing at the dingy room. Three years ago this would have been Paradise, her own personal attainment of Nirvana...

"Okay!" At the sound of her voice, Michael turned from where he'd been checking the window to give her a curious look and Nikita folded her arms across her chest. "I want to know what's going on--why those men were after you--" Blank eyes met hers and all the fear and uncertainity of the last few hours surged up in her, birthing as well anger. She strode forward to confront him, adopting that same cocky attitude that had carried her through many a confrontation on the streets. "You kidnap me at gunpoint, force me to take you to my home...and then I have men breaking into my apartment...shooting at you--at me! I want to know what the *hell* is going on here!"

He gave her a long measuring look and said quietly, "No...you don't. As little as you know now...it will get you killed all the same."

Frustration rose like bile in her throat and she made a sharp gesture, turning for the door. "Fine. I'm outta here." And spun to stalk to the door.

"No." That single terse word stopped her at the door and she turned warily to face him, expecting to see his gun aimed at her, but his hands were empty as he stared hard at her, eyes burning. "You go out there...and they will find you. And they will kill you."

She stared at him, feeling tears of anger and frustration spark in her eyes, and with a nervous tension that seemed uncharacteristic of him, he ran a hand through his hair and began to pace in a slow tight circle. His voice rough as he spoke, giving voice to the chaotic thoughts that whirled through his mind.

"They didn't know I was going to be there...or they would have brought more than one team. But now they know I was there...and that you were with me--are with me--if you go back...they'll be watching. And they'll take you. They won't believe that you're an innocent--they'll think that I've been in contact with you all along--"

He halted abruptly in mid-pace, shoulders slumping, bowed under the weight of his burden, and he let out his breath in a ragged sigh. "I'm sorry..." He trailed off, looking a little flustered, obviously realizing he didn't even know her name.

"Nikita. And you're Michael." she added with a touch of bitter amusement. "Now that we've been introduced...why won't you tell me what the hell is going on? Especially since I'm already doomed by knowing you..."

Michael shook his head, moving to sink wearily into a chair. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you..."

"Try me." said Nikita flatly.

He sat for a long moment in silence, the gun lying on one thigh, eyes focused on the floor, and Nikita shifted position impatiently, her head snapping around at the sound of footsteps outside the door. There was a faint impact against the wall and her heart climbed in her throat as she stumbled back a step...but from the other side of the door came the clicking of heels and drunken laughter punctuated by a woman's shrill giggles as the two moved down the hall.

Letting out a shaky breath, she faced Michael again, to see him up out of the chair, the gun in hand only now falling back to his side. And she felt compelled to ask the question that had hovered in the back of her mind, try though she had to dismiss it. "Do you think they...followed us?"

"I...don't think so." From the faint uncertain note in his voice it was a question that had haunted him as well and he found it no less unsettling to contemplate. He pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers and closed his eyes briefly, turning from the door. "They don't have a tracker on me--I took pains to make sure. Not you--I checked you on the bus. But even without a tracker...they have eyes everywhere..."

"They...they...who are *they*?" asked Nikita, shaking her head in frustration.

"*They* are Section One. A highly covert intelligence agency that targets terrorists and high-profile criminals that others can't touch." As he spoke, his eyes went nervously from the door to the window and back, as if his words could summon their pursuers, and he began to pace again.

"They use whatever means are necessary to accomplish their purpose--*any* means. Torture, blackmail, assassination, bribery...whatever it takes. Their operatives are culled from the dregs of society--murderers, thieves, addicts...those swallowed by the system, that won't be missed."

Nikita swallowed hard, thinking how three years ago she might have been one of those unfortunates--there had been no one to care whether or not she lived, no one to really miss her if she was gone...no one to leave behind. Not even her mother would have missed her-- "So these...people--you work for them? Or maybe *worked* is a better way of putting it...since they seem to be not too particular about how they take you back..."

"They need me alive...to give them what they want. Something that was...taken from them."

"And that you have." stated Nikita, her brow knitting in a frown at his nod. "This mysterious *thing*--what're you planning on doing with it?"

He came to a halt, expression at once bleak and fierce. "Buy my freedom with it. I've given them fourteen years of my life--my sweat, my blood...everything that has meant anything to me. All I want...is to be out of it. Nothing more." Once the words had come, it seemed to open a flood gate in him, for the story poured out of him. Of a place dark and sinister, where the lives of its operatives were nothing more than pawns on the global chessboard, sacrificed with the opening gambit. A place that sounded at once horrifyingly real...and like the ravings of a paranoid mind. Telling of events so astounding and frightening in scale that it seemed far too incredible to be contemplated...

Of a man that had stolen a directory vital to this Section One and of his attempt to deal with the Section...only to be killed by the loser in the bidding war for the directory. "I had it in my hand--I don't even know what made me do it...but I hid it. And kept it. When they began to suspect me...I ran."

"And you still have it?" said Nikita, voice rising.

"No." Michael gave a small shake of his head. "If I had it...and they found it on me...then it would be over. If they take me now--without it--there is still a chance...and so I hid it. It's why I need you..."

"Bookstore..." said Nikita in a burst of inspiration. "That's what you were doing there--why you...kidnapped me--"

"They were following me...and I had to hide it. There was no time--"

"And you picked me to retrieve it for you. Why?" asked Nikita harshly.

Michael let loose a sigh, lifting his shoulders in a brief shrug. "For some reason...I thought that I could...trust you. I don't know why--I don't trust anyone."

"I suppose I should be flattered." said Nikita dryly, rubbing her forehead as she tried to absorb all this. Secret agents running around, shooting up her apartment, looking for a defector that held the key to this omnipotent organization that dwelt in the bowels of the earth, and here he was before her, dragging into this conflict. Damned if she did...and damned if she didn't...for she believed him when he said that they would kill her for just being with him... "What about me?" She knew it sounded selfish...but she didn't care. Had he thought about her when he'd involved her in this?

"When this is done...they'll forget about you. I can get you a new identity, a new place to live--they won't be watching for you. Their attention will be focused on me..."

"So I get you this directory...and you give me a new life." The thought of leaving Sarah without a word--after all Sarah had done for her--hurt...but there was nothing else to be done. "Sounds like a bargain."

And extended her hand to him, to seal the bargain. After a moment, he clasped her hand and the deal was done.

***********

The creak of a floor board and the running of water drew Nikita up out of sleep. Turning her head on the pillow, she cracked an eyelid to look around her, wondering *who* it was running her water at this hour, and saw not her cozy bedroom but the dingy interior of a hotel room and raked hair out of her eyes as she struggled up to a sitting position, pushing off the blankets that had been drawn up over her. Last she remembered last night was curling up on the bed to rest her eyes a bit, the presence of Michael in the chair by the window oddly comforting. Comforting enough that she had fallen asleep...

In her clothes, she thought with a grimace as she smoothed down rumpled shirt and tugged fingers through tangled hair. Rising from the bed, she smothered a yawn as she looked around the room for Michael, seeing at last the half-open door to the bathroom and light spilling out. Stepping close she heard the groan of pipes as the flow of water stopped and stuck her head curiously through the door.

He stood with his back to her, leather jacket draped across the counter of the sink and shirt lying atop it, bared to the waist. Broad shoulders tapered down to a slim waist, his skin pale and looking soft to the touch; above one shoulder blade was a thin white scar and her fingers itched to trace it, to feel the slight ridge of scar tissue. He turned a little, arm lifting, and she watched as he peeled a red-stained bandage away from his side, stomach muscles contracting with the pain of movement.

A step closer and the creak of floorboard under her feet drew his head around, his hand flashing to the gun that lay beside his coat...only to halt when he saw her. The sudden movement pulled at the stitches in his side and sent a thin stream of blood flowing down the pale skin, which he mopped at with a handful of toilet paper. On the back of the toilet sat an impromptu medical kit: a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, gauze pads, white medical tape, a pair of scissors, and even a needle and thread.

"Here--let me. I used to be good at this..." she added wryly as she took the wad of toilet paper from him to wipe at the blood. Found herself staring at his leanly muscled chest as he lowered his arm and dragged her eyes up to his, flashing him a falsely bright smile before she let eyes go down to his side again. "When did you get shot?" she asked, frowning as she daubed at the blood.

Michael gave a slight shake of his head. "Not shot. It happened before this. Section implants its people with a device to keep track of them--I had it removed."

Swabbing at the blood, Nikita saw where the incision had been made and winced. "It must have hurt..."

A slight shrug. "After a while...you get used to pain." he said, voice toneless and flat.

Raising her head, she looked into eyes dull with experience and her heart--never hardened even with her years on the street--ached at seeing the defeat in his eyes, the complete acceptance of pain as his lot in life. Any anger or frustration she had felt towards him faded before the surge of intense sympathy--she had thought she'd suffered over the years...but all the things she had seen, she thought that they would be *nothing* compared to what he had seen.

Gently she swabbed at his side with the hydrogen peroxide and laid a bandage over it, taping it into place. Picking up his shirt, she helped to guide it over his head and pulled it down, smoothing it over the hard planes of his torso, her hands lingering for a moment against flat stomach. His eyes met hers, dark and intense, and she hastily drew her hands back, blushing a little as she turned to dispose of toilet paper; when she turned back, he had on his jacket once again, running water in the sink to dampen hands and then running fingers through touseled hair, smoothing it down.

"So...what happens next?" asked Nikita briskly.

"Your store opens at ten--we have a little more than an hour. Come..." He took her hand to lead her back out into the hotel room, encouraging her to sit down on the edge of the bed while he retrieved a paper shopping bag. From inside he drew a black wig done in a shag style and set it on the bed, removing as well a short red dress and high heeled sandals. Nikita raised an eyebrow at seeing the outfit and said dryly, "I don't think I want to know how you know my dress size."

The smallest of smiles curved his lips, lighting those somber eyes, and for a moment she got a glimpse of the man he must have been once...and might be again. He laid a hand on her shoulder to turn her and ran his fingers through her hair, giving her hair a little tug as she started to pull away and effectively stopping her. He began to stroke a brush through her hair and she leaned back a little, hands placed behind her on the mattress to support herself.

"You're good at this." she said.

He was silent for a moment and when she turned a little to look at him, he gave a tug at her hair to halt her. "I used to do this for Simone."

"Who's Simone?" asked Nikita drowsily, letting herself lean back yet more.

"She was my wife. She died." said Michael softly, continuing to run the brush through her hair in slow, even strokes.

"I'm...sorry." Even though she knew the words to be terribly inadequate, still she found herself uttering them, a hand reaching back to halt his as she turned sideways to look at him. His hands fell to his lap, his gaze on the brush but not seeing that, seeing instead some vision of the past.

She laid a hand over his to give it a gentle squeeze and asked softly, "How did it happen?"

He drew in a deep shuddering breath and lifted his eyes slowly to hers, focused on that vision from the past. "There was a mission to gather intel--she thought we should have backup, I thought we didn't need it. I was wrong...and she was captured. For three years...I thought she was dead...but all along she had been held prisoner. Caged...tortured...and hoping--praying--that I would come to free her--"

Nikita swallowed hard at hearing the pain in his voice, finding it hard to meet eyes darkened with the memory of pain and loss, the wound torn open and exposed to bleed anew.

"There was another mission to deal with these people...and she was...found at their base. Section brought her back and...decided that she was no longer viable material. And so they... cancelled her."

"Cancelled..." echoed Nikita with a shake of her head.

"Killed." said Michael flatly. "I wouldn't have known...if I hadn't been doing a follow-up report...I wouldn't have found the report filed about her recovery...and her cancellation."

Anger flared in his eyes, hot and intense, and his hands clenched into fists in his lap... only to smooth out as the anger died as quickly as it had come. "That was when I knew...I had to get out. Either that...or die." A hand lifted to brush at the lone tear that had escaped an eye and he straightened to turn his attention to her once again, quickly winding long blond hair into a braid and pinning it at the top of her head. Took the wig and placed it over her hair, carefully arranging it to hide the smallest wisp of blond hair.

Once done, he slid off the bed and handed her the dress. "Change. We need to get going." he said brusquely.

With a sigh, she took the dress and went into the bathroom to change as ordered.

* * * * * * * * * *

At 10:05, she stepped through the front door of Greene's Books, the bell ringing merrily to announce her entrance, and at the counter Harriet's head lifted to flash her a welcoming smile, the lack of recognition in her eyes gratifying and soothing Nikita's frayed nerves. She felt conspicuous enough as it was in the form-fitting short red dress and sandals with black leather coat, sunglasses to hide her eyes, imagining as she was that every eye was turned to her and watching her.

She moved unerringly to the back of the store and the literature section, scanning the spines of the books for the title she sought. Dante's Inferno, the binding done in brown leather and in excellent shape--she'd seen it here a hundred times before as she'd straightened the shelves, it had to be here, just had to be...

It was where Michael had hidden this directory of his--God, it *had* to be here--

And at last her eyes fell on the book.

Heaving a sigh of relief, Nikita reached for it, the ring of bell behind her a distant sound, and paged through it, looking for the small plastic bag that would contain the disk. In the middle of it was the disk and she shut the book, holding onto it tightly as she turned to go to the counter and have Harriet ring it up. Harriet smiled at her again, still with no sign of recognition, and asked brightly, "How would you like to pay for that?"

"Cash." said Nikita huskily, shoving a bill across the counter and waiting for her change.

A young man in black leather coat passed her, giving her a friendly smile, and she managed a weak smile in return, turning back to Harriet in time to take the change from her. Tucking the book into a bag, Harriet handed it to her and said cheerfully, "There you go! Enjoy!"

"Thanks." Snatching the bag, Nikita turned on her heel to stride to the door and hauled it open...

Only to freeze as the blond man from the night before stood in the doorway, blocking her exit. He smiled, a cold, unpleasant smile, and Nikita took a quick step back...to find that the young man she had seen a few moments before was at her back, discreetly pressing a gun into her spine. Still smiling, the blond man slipped an arm around her shoulders and guided her with him out onto the sidewalk.

"Nice disguise...but not good enough." he said as he pulled her towards the curb, where a black van stood waiting. Nikita looked wildly around her for Michael, her heart in her throat as she was drawn inexorably closer to the van...and to whatever horrible fate awaited her...

There was no sound, nothing to warn, only the one holding her right arm giving a sudden spastic jerk, his fingers clenching painfully on her arm before sliding off as he sprawled onto his back, red spraying from a neat little hole in black shirt. Nikita yanked to free her other arm as the other man pulled a gun from under his coat, scanning the street and then the rooftops, falling back with the impact of a bullet tearing through his head and dragging Nikita down with him.

Cursing the blond man reached for her and Nikita hastily scrambled back, dragging the sack with its precious burden with her. A bullet struck the sidewalk just inches from his straining fingers, kicking up dust and chips of cement, and the blond man rolled away, coming up to his feet with gun in hand to aim at Nikita...

But she had taken the brief respite to kick shoes off and make a mad dash across the street, just inches in front of a car. The squeal of brakes and blare of horn followed her as she fled down the sidewalk, hugging the book tightly to her chest as she ran.

* * * * * * * * * *

Hours later she limped into a small cafe, shooting a glare at the waitress that approached her and sending the poor thing scurrying back from this wild- haired, barefoot woman. In the back she saw the familiar figure of Michael, sipping calmly from a cappucino, and stalked to the table, to slap the book down on it. He reached across the table for the book, extracting the disk and slipping it into one pocket, and then rose to take her arm and guide her out of the cafe, leaving the book behind.

Out on the sidewalk her temper had cooled a little and she pushed hair out of her eyes, turning to face him. "You saved me--thanks." With his hand on her elbow, she let him lead her down the sidewalk. "So...what happens now?"

"We go our seperate ways." said Michael softly, reaching into his coat and withdrawing a small manila envelope to pass to her. "ID, birth certificate, social security card, passport, money--everything you need. There's an address in there as well for a private airport. The pilot will take you wherever you want to go."

Nikita nodded, looking down at the envelope and then up at him. "So...what about you?"

"I try to make a deal...and stay out of sight. Nothing new..." He reached out to clasp her shoulders, leaning forward to press a kiss against each cheek and then folding his arms briefly around her. "Thank you..." he whispered into her ear.

As he drew back Nikita ran the back of her hand down his cheek and said softly, "Take care of yourself, Michael. Be careful..."

With a brief nod, he turned on his heel to stride down the sidewalk, hands slipping into the pockets of his coat as he went. Nikita watched him go, thinking on the path that he would follow now...and the path she would take. And how their paths had crossed briefly...almost as if it were fate at work, seeking to bring them together...

Shaking that fanciful notion from her mind, she turned away from the fading figure of Michael and set her feet on her own path.

The End

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