“I weep for myself,” Lola replied, as she freed her hand and went to work. The wound was deep and would require stitches. From a mini bar, Lola retrieved a bottle of scotch and handed it to Michael. “For the pain,” she told him, sensing that he felt nothing from the wound itself. It was the pain in his soul that needed to heal.

Michael accepted the bottle. He knew that Lola understood him as no one else could. He took a deep swallow of the scotch and felt it burn down his throat. Its warmth spread through him and Michael sighed. “Go ahead,” he told Lola. Then he felt her poke the needle through his skin.

Lola worked quickly, amazed by the fact that Michael never flinched, not once. When she was done, bandaged his arm, then she moved to hold Michael in her big arms. His head pillowed on her breasts. She sang a lullaby as he slept and a single tear rolled down her cheek. “Welcome home, my angel,” she whispered. Then she held him tight.

When Michael awoke the next morning, it was to find himself alone in the bed he had shared with Lola just the night before and he lay still for a moment, allowing himself to feel that peace she had always managed to bring to him. Part of him was tempted to stay here, to bask in it, but to do so would endanger her....and that he would not do. It was enough that he saw her again before he died.

The silence of the apartment was broken by the clang of pots and a soft sizzle of cooking food, the smell of eggs and frying bacon wafting back to him. His stomach growled, surprising him with a sudden painful pang of hunger at the delicious smells, and he pushed himself up to a sitting position, retrieving clothing and donning it. His arm was still sore from the attack of the night before but it was a small pain, easily set aside.

Lola was humming a tune as she moved around the kitchen, wearing a caftan that was a bright swirl of orange and red, and as he reached over her shoulder to snag a piece of bacon from the plate, she slapped at his hand, giving him a mock glower. “Wait for your eggs, cher.” she growled.

Michael merely grinned at her, unrepentant, and broke the piece of bacon in half, popping it into his mouth as he sat down at the table. After eleven years her place had changed little, other than the accumulation of objects over the years adding to its cheerful clutter, and sitting here, waiting for breakfast, it was as if the years had rolled back and he was as he had been before he’d been drawn into the Section....

But even as that wistful thought came to him, on its heels came the grim knowledge that he couldn’t go back....not after all he’d done. The boy that had found peace and companionship with Lola had indeed died all these years ago....

“What is it, cher?”

Michael lifted his head at the sound of Lola’s voice and tried for a smile but it would not hold. “So much is different....” he said lamely.

“With time all things change. People more so.” said Lola quietly, setting a plate down before him, dark eyes solemn as they held Michael’s. Eyes that had seen darkness as he had....and yet, unlike him, had not been drawn down into it....

“Sometimes too much.” he whispered painfully, staring down at his plate, appetite suddenly gone.

Lola placed a finger under his chin, forcing his head up. “Sometimes we choose our paths, sometimes they’re chosen for us....it’s just for us to walk them.”

“Mine ends here.” said Michael softly.

“Oh, Michel....” She felt the sting of tears in her eyes as she regarded the man before her, remembering the boy he had been. A lovely boy, wanting love and affection so much and yet afraid to take it....like a starved dog kicked too often and wary of a friendly hand. And here he was before her, all the promise and hope he’d had gone, burned away....

Michael saw the sorrow in her eyes and drew back, suddenly ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry....I shouldn’t have come here. It was selfish of me—“ He half rose from his chair, only to feel her heavy hand on his shoulder shoving him back down, the motherly glower returning.

“You came here ‘cause you needed peace. Isn’t that what I’ve always offered you? And I’m not about to hold it back from you when you need it the most.” Tenderly she stroked his hair, fingers winding through the silky strands to pull his head to her breast.

Sighing he ceased to resist her pull, closing his eyes as he laid his head against her breast. “I can’t stay here.”

“I know.” said Lola, still stroking his hair. “But you can rest for another day before you go on.” And when he walked through that door, she knew that she would never see him again—blinking back her tears, she released his head and shook a finger in his face. “Now you eat. I expect that plate to be clean before you get up from that table.”

Michael smiled, that same small smile that had first melted her heart all those years ago, and set to breakfast.

Jurgen used his old contacts to search for any kind of unusual activity in Paris. He knew Michael had grown up there, would return here, to the city of his birth, as he prepared for his death. But whether or not he had family there, Jurgen did not know; that part of Michael’s background history had never been made available to him. And if Michael had spoken of it to anyone, it would have been Simone....and there was no hope of any answers from her.

Discreet inquiries indicated that Michael had come through Customs, with the ID and passport identifying him as a French citizen, and that Michael hadn’t attempted to cover his trail strengthened Jurgen’s belief in the true reason for Michael’s flight, that he was seeking a death he couldn’t provide himself with. A police report about a thug with a lengthy record found dead, neck broken, in the red-light district led both Jurgen and Nikita to that area.

From there it didn’t take long to track Michael to Font Street and the home of a middle-aged black woman named Lola. A customer of hers mentioned seeing a young man entering her home and Nikita and Jurgen immediately staked the place out, watching for Michael from across the street. Through binoculars they both observed the door open and Michael emerge, turning to bestow a kiss on the cheek of the older woman, the woman giving him a brief hug before he departed.

Using the cover of the afternoon crowd, they tailed him down the street and Nikita worked her way around him, following the plan Jurgen had laid out: she would distract him while Jurgen came up behind him and gave him the tranquilizer.

Shock showed briefly in Michael’s eyes as she came up before him, fading before sudden suspicion, and even as he turned Jurgen had an arm around his neck and the needle pressed into his throat, catching him as he slumped.

“Too much to drink....” said Nikita to the couple that paused to stare at the two of them supporting Michael between them and with a sniff the woman pulled the man along with her. Half-dragging, half-carrying him to the car, Jurgen stuffed him in the backseat before taking off for the safe house he had already set up. And there they would begin the work to bring Michael back to the Section.

When Michael awoke it was to discover himself lying on a soft bed in a darkened room. He sat up and fought against a wave of dizziness as he slid off the bed and onto his feet. He made his way to a nearby window and pulled open the curtains. The windows were barred. No reason to check the door, but he did so anyway. It was locked. Not only that, but it was steel reinforced. No way for him to get through it without the key, or a blow torch. Michael was not surprised. Jurgen knew how to trap him.

Heaving a sigh, Michael returned to the window, staring out between the bars. He didn’t move when the door opened some time later. He knew by the footsteps that Jurgen had entered the room.

“How do you feel, Michael?” the other man asked.

“Betrayed,” Michael replied, his voice cold but soft.

Jurgen understood, but felt no remorse. He moved to stand beside Michael, but didn’t touch him. “Nikita and I won’t let you die, Michael,” he said firmly. “We can’t.”

Michael turned to face Jurgen, locking eyes with the older man. “It’s not your choice to make,” he hissed.

“I’m making it my choice,” Jurgen countered, his own eyes glittering.

“I love you, Michael. I think you love me. Or you could....if you would let yourself.”

“I don’t want to love you,” Michael shot back, eyes flickering away. He didn’t want to see the emotions that shimmered in Jurgen’s eyes. Didn’t want to see love and understanding. Warmth and compassion. And passion.

Jurgen sighed. “What about Nikita?” he challenged. “You love her, in spite of the pain.”

Michael laughed, a bitter sound. “It’s all I know,” he whispered. “Pain. It’s my friend. The only thing that doesn’t betray me.” Michael felt anger burst deep inside him. Anger and fear and chaos. He fought to control it, feeling his body tremble at his efforts. And he felt Jurgen’s gaze burning into him. “Let me die,” Michael beseeched, his eyes cold again as he faced Jurgen. “It wasn’t a plea, but a request.”

“You have too much to live for, Michael,” Jurgen protested. “You have me, and Nikita. You have Section.”

“You’re being selfish,” Michael whispered, and was rewarded with seeing Jurgen flinch. “Do you really care about me?” Michael challenged.

Jurgen’s eyes darkened with the emotions that fired his love for the younger man. “You know I do,” he whispered.

Michael’s lips curved into a cold smile. “Prove it,” he said softly. “Let me go.”

“No,” Jurgen replied, having to fight back the urge to grab Michael and shake him. Michael’s mask was firmly in place, and he had shuttered his emotions, blocking them out completely. The ice man was in play. “I won’t give you death, Michael!” Jurgen hissed, his eyes glaring at the younger man. “You will live.”

“I stopped living a long time ago,” Michael countered, his own eyes glittering back at Jurgen. “You know that. You were the one who taught me how to shut down my emotions. How to survive without feeling anything. I learned well, Jurgen. You were a good teacher.”

Jurgen knew better than anyone how stubborn Michael could be. Words wouldn’t touch him now, but maybe actions would. Jurgen had come prepared for tough love. He moved as if to turn away, but suddenly he struck out, grabbing Michael by the arm and maneuvering him over to the bed. He kept Michael off balance and had him on his back and one wrist cuffed to the headboard before the young man could react. “I have more to teach you,” Jurgen hissed, as he straddled Michael’s thighs, holding him pinned and helpless. He then managed to cuff the other wrist, and then he smiled down at his captive. “You can make this easy on both of us, Michael,” he whispered.

Michael smiled, without emotion, and then turned his head away, a blatant insult. A moment later he felt steel fingers curling in his hair, and then Jurgen’s mouth was on his, the other man’s tongue invading his mouth. Michael’s first instinct was to resist. But he knew what Jurgen was trying to do, so he forced himself to remain still, and docile. A moment later the kiss softened, feather light and tender as the tip of Jurgen’s tongue traced the curve of Michael’s mouth. In spite of himself, Michael felt warmth stirring deep inside him. But he shut it down. He would not give in.

Jurgen felt Michael tremble beneath him. It was just for a moment, but it was what he had hoped for. Michael would deny his feelings, but they were there. And they would not be denied. Only by death could Michael be free of his passion, and that was something that neither Jurgen, nor Nikita would accept. Smiling to himself, Jurgen deepened the kiss again, but kept it tender. He freed one hand from the silky hair to brush his fingertips over Michael’s chest. Then he pressed his palm over Michael’s crotch, needing the cock that was thick even when soft.

Michael willed his body not to respond to Jurgen’s touch. He tapped deep into the coldness of his soul and reminded himself of the pain that such emotions had to offer him. Michael was tired of the pain. He almost sighed with relief when Jurgen’s hand left him. The other man broke the kiss, and then scooted down Michael’s legs. But he wasn’t finished yet. Michael resisted the urge to gasp as strong hands ripped open his shirt and a hot mouth fastened over one of his nipples.

Jurgen licked the flat nipple till it was hard, and then did the same to the other. Then his tongue traced the ridges of Michael’s abdomen. He watched Michael’s face and saw that the mask was still in place, but a glitter of reaction darkened silver-green eyes to emerald. Michael would deny his heart, but he couldn’t deny his body. Jurgen smiled to himself as his fingers opened Michael’s trousers, and then his fingers slipped inside briefs to stroke warm flesh. Then they closed about Michael’s cock and felt it stir at his touch. “You want this,” Jurgen whispered.

“No,” Michael replied, turning his face to the wall. He closed his eyes as he felt Jurgen expose him, and then he felt hot lips close over his tip. A wet tongue teased the small slit, and then licked down the sides. Michael felt himself harden and begin to throb. But it proved nothing beyond the fact that Jurgen was skilled at sex. Michael could do the same. His body was a tool, a weapon. It responded to being touched because it had been trained to do so. “Madeline taught us both well,” Michael whispered. And he saw anger flash in Jurgen’s eyes.

In that moment Jurgen knew that Michael wasn’t ready for tenderness. What he needed was to be shaken out of his cold reticence. Jurgen would have preferred love between them, but Michael was confused. He needed to fully understand the difference between sex and love, and his own wants and needs. And Jurgen was ready to show him. He and Nikita had discussed this possibility. Jurgen knew that Nikita couldn’t handle hurting Michael, so he would have to be the one to do it. Eyes glittering, Jurgen buried his fingers in Michael’s hair again, and then he whispered against the sensual lips, “I’ll show you what pain is Michael, so that you can truly understand how much I love you.” With that Jurgen bent his head and plundered Michael’s mouth. His kiss was meant to punish and he felt Michael stiffen beneath him. Jurgen closed his eyes. It had begun.

Drawing back Jurgen struck him across the mouth, wanting some kind of reaction from him, something other than this coldness, and Michael’s head rocked with the blow. Slowly he turned his head to face Jurgen again, tongue flicking out to taste the blood at the corner of his mouth. “You only hurt the ones you love—is that it, Jurgen?” he asked mockingly. “I think I could do with a little less of your....love.”

Flushing Jurgen got off the bed and pulled his clothing back together, pulling Michael’s trousers back up. He started to reach out to touch Michael, to apologize, but one look from cold eyes and he was striding to the door, slamming it behind him

For the last few hours Michael had been working on freeing himself of the handcuffs but to no avail. The headboard of the bed was too solid and his position too awkward to give him the proper leverage. The sound of the door unlocking made him go still and he drew in a deep breath, preparing himself for another go-round with Jurgen.

But it was Nikita that came into the room and Michael felt relief flood him. With her he had a chance—he knew her inside and out, knew what buttons to push, what things to say....and he could convince her to let him go. He had to convince her....

“Michael.” Slowly Nikita approached the bed, taking in Michael’s torn shirt and bloodied lip, trousers unzipped and loose, and bit her lip, some of her anguish showing in her eyes as she looked at Michael. Jurgen had said that they might have to hurt him to break him of this self-destructive phase but she’d never thought he would do this....

“He raped me. To prove to me how much he cares for me.” Though his tone was calm, a little of the pain and humiliation he must have felt showed in his eyes, a mute plea coming into them as well. “Unlock the cuffs?”

Swallowing hard Nikita dug into the pocket of her jeans and withdrew the key, unlocking the cuffs, standing back as Michael sat up on the bed, zipping pants and tugging shirt together. He lifted his head to meet her eyes and said softly, “Let me go.”

“So you can die?” asked Nikita angrily, blinking against tears.

“Is that what he told you?” Michael rose from the bed and extended a hand to lay it on her cheek, Nikita closing her eyes against the gentle touch of his hand, a hand that could so easily deal death and yet be so soft. “That I was going to my death?” Opening her eyes Nikita gazed back at him, experiencing a sudden doubt as Michael gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “I want to be free, Nikita—that’s something you gave me, the desire to be free.”

“Free to die?” whispered Nikita.

“Free of the Section....free to live.” He held her head between his palms, expression so very earnest, and she found herself desperately wanting to believe. “You breathed life back into me—it took time but I finally came to see that I can exist outside the Section. I can live without the Section. I’m asking you to let me go.”

Slowly Nikita shook her head. “I don’t know—“

“I set you free, Nikita.” said Michael softly, letting a little anguish into his eyes and voice, part of himself consumed with self-loathing at the way he was using her, playing on her emotions to achieve his escape. “Won’t you do the same for me? Let me go....let me live again.”

She searched his eyes, seeking some sign that he was lying, but all she could see was an honest plea. Slipping a hand into her pocket she went to the door and unlocked it, standing aside to let Michael go. He paused to give her a kiss and a last caress of his hand, his resolve faltering before the pained look in her eyes, but the lapse was only momentary and he slipped out through the door.

And was immediately caught by a pair of strong arms, thrown down onto the floor, a heavy weight pressing him into the floor as fingers knotted in his hair to yank his head back. Sitting atop Michael Jurgen glared at Nikita as she emerged from the room, a hypodermic clenched in one hand as he held Michael down with his weight.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

“He....he said....that you were lying, that—“

“And he’s never lied to you before?” asked Jurgen scathingly, removing the cap of the hypodermic with his teeth and spitting it out, jabbed the needle into Michael’s throat and pressed the plunger. Michael heaved up against him, spitting angry curses in French and assorted other languages, slowly slackening; only when he’d gone limp did Jurgen get off him, snapping at Nikita. “Help me get him back in.”

Each taking an arm they dragged Michael’s limp figure back to the bed and Jurgen fastened the cuffs on wrists again, turning to Nikita and grasping her arm in a hard grip. “My way....or he dies. Understood?”

Numbly Nikita nodded and Jurgen released her arm, trying to control his temper. “He’s going to use every weapon he has to him. You need to be strong....we both need to be. We have to set aside our love for him in order to pull him out of this. And like I told you....it might mean that we have to hurt him. But it will be for his own good. Okay?”

“Okay.” she whispered, unable to take her eyes away from Michael’s still form. Jurgen patted her on the arm. “Let’s get some rest. Tomorrow we start in earnest.” And he led her out of the room.

Even before Michael opened his eyes, he knew that he wasn’t alone. He turned his head to see Jurgen sitting in a chair beside the bed.

Seeing Michael stir, Jurgen rose from the chair and moved to the bed.

“You’ll do whatever it takes, won’t you, Michael?” he drawled.

“I learned that from you,” Michael replied, his eyes cold. He knew exactly what Jurgen was referring to. Nikita. “She’ll get over it,” Michael continued.

“Will you?” Jurgen countered, reaching out to smooth a cinnamon curl off Michael’s forehead. When he received a blank stare as an answer he queried, “Are you hungry?”

Michael blinked, and then whispered, “No.” Silence fell between them and it became deafening. Michael pulled on the handcuffs binding his wrists. “I need to use the bathroom,” he said bluntly.

Jurgen nodded. He had been expecting the request and was prepared. He unlocked the cuffs, freeing Michael, and then watched as the younger man rubbed his raw flesh. “Bathroom is over there,” Jurgen said, pointing across the room. “One window, and it’s barred,” he added, helpfully. No sense in Michael wasting his energy. At least not on trying to escape.

“I could use a shower too,” Michael commented as he slid off the bed.

He swayed a moment, reacting to the lack of food and sedatives in his system.

When Jurgen reached out a hand, Michael slapped it aside.

“I laid out clean clothes for you,” Jurgen said softly. He had figured that Michael would want to clean up as well. “They’re on the hamper.”

Michael was a little surprised, but didn’t let it show. He simply headed into the bathroom and closed the door. He noticed that the lock had been removed, and only glanced at the barred window. Michael knew the room was escape-proof. He wouldn’t have been allowed in it, alone, if it wasn’t. He could also guess that there were no razor blades, and he smiled to see that the mirror over the sink had been removed as well. There was nothing in the room that was breakable and therefore might afford him a sharp edge. No chance for a suicide attempt. Not that Michael would take that route. He wouldn’t have to. If he could get away from Jurgen, he knew that Section would have him cancelled.

But those thoughts were pushed aside as Michael turned on the water in the shower. Then he relived himself. That done, Michael stripped off his clothes and stepped into the shower. He let the hot spray rain down on him, wetting his hair, the heat soaking into his skin. Facing the spray, Michael pressed his palms against the wall and bent his head so the water pounded into his shoulders, easing the pain of knotted muscles. He was tired, damn tired. But it wasn’t his body that was weary, it was his soul.

It was so hard trying to hide his emotions, suppressing his pain. Michael felt suffocated by the fact that he had to hide his passion for Nikita. Hide his love. She was his weakness. And now there was Jurgen. How odd it was that he offered Michael freedom from the pain. Yet not even Jurgen could free him from his emotional prison.

So enraptured by his thoughts was Michael that he didn’t hear the bathroom door open, then close. Wasn’t aware of the other presence, nor did he hear the whisper of clothing being discarded. So he was surprised when the shower curtain hissed open and a warm body pressed against his back. Michael made a move to leave but a strong arm circled his waist, then moist lips touched his ear.

“If you don’t love me, Michael,” Jurgen whispered softly. “Then, this doesn’t matter to you.” As he spoke, Jurgen’s free hand glided over Michael’s flat stomach.

“It doesn’t matter,” Michael breathed, even though he felt himself stir and harden. Jurgen’s fingers were stroking him as soft lips nuzzled the nape of his neck. But, in that moment, Michael knew he was trapped. Knew that he wanted to be touched and held. That he needed to feel....something. Anything. Yet it would be his undoing. So he held himself rigid, denying himself the pleasure of enjoying the warm sensations that flooded through him. Sensual heat at Jurgen’s tender caresses.

Jurgen, however, knew that Michael was fighting his passions. And he was determined to make the younger man feel, and to react to....and act on....those feelings. The emotions themselves weren’t so important right now, but acknowledging his desires and acting on them....that’s what Michael needed to do. Even if he what he wanted was to hate Jurgen. “You need me, Michael,” Jurgen whispered, as his fingers stroked the other man into throbbing hardness. He felt Michael tremble in response then go still. Michael bit his lip. He didn’t want this. His body and his mind remembered the last time. Remembered the pain and he felt himself stiffen as fear rippled through him. And the fear surprised Michael.

“Trust me,” Jurgen beseeched. He leaned against Michael, and it was only then that he realized the other man was shaking. Jurgen was stunned. “Michael...” he whispered, placing both hands on broad shoulders and turning him around. Silver-green eyes were glassy, the sensual lips pale. Jurgen realized that Michael was in shock and in that moment he understood why. The rape. Michael was finally reacting to the rape. His body was responding to the pain and humiliation, even as his mind tried to accept it. But couldn’t. This was the break through that Jurgen had been hoping for.

Reaching around Michael to turn off the water, Jurgen then left the tub to snatch up a towel. He quickly dried Michael off, and then wrapped another towel around the other man’s trim waist. Unmindful of his own nakedness, Jurgen led Michael back into the bedroom. He pushed Michael down onto the bed then moved to sit beside him. But he pulled back when Michael flinched at his touch. “I won’t hurt you anymore,” Jurgen whispered. Carefully he brushed a fingertip over Michael’s cheek and when his touch was accepted, Jurgen sat down on the bed. He wrapped his arms around Michael then pulled him back against him. Using the head board as a back rest, Jurgen rocked Michael in his embrace.

Michael felt the arms that held him, but barely. He was cold, and even though warm skin was pressed against him, Michael couldn’t get warm. The ice within him was melting, but only to flow like an arctic river. Shadows seemed to hover about Michael and he reached out to them, but they danced away. He was alone, cold and afraid. And in that moment, Michael wanted to die.

Feeling Michael start to tremble against him, Jurgen pulled a blanket up around them and stroked Michael’s hair as the younger man lay against him. “Talk to me, Michael.” he pleaded. “Tell me why.”

For a long moment there was only silence and just when Jurgen feared that he might have pushed him too far, Michael spoke, voice so soft he nearly didn’t hear him. “I want it to be over.” Tired, so tired, and he just wanted to lie down, close his eyes and never open them again. The ice in him had melted but rather than being replaced by warmth it flooded through him, threatening to tear him loose of his emotional foundations, to tear down the walls of his control, leaving him open, exposed and raw. Not even the warmth of Jurgen’s embrace could dispel the cold grip loneliness and despair had on him.... “Just let me go....”

“I won’t.” stated Jurgen firmly. “I love you....and Nikita loves you. Between us....we can get you through this.”

Michael pulled free of Jurgen’s embrace but Jurgen’s hands caught his, preventing him from retreating further. “I don’t want you to love me.” said Michael stiffly. “I don’t need you.”

Jurgen sighed, realizing that they had finally come to the heart of the matter. For so long Michael had been self-reliant, so intensely self-contained that no one had been able to work past his outer shell....until Simone. The first one to touch him, to break through that control and form an emotional connection with him; Simone had been exactly what Michael needed, someone that could love him and not judge him, accept him for who he was, and Michael had let her completely in, not barring her from even the smallest part of himself. And when she was gone, so went with her a part of himself....

“What you want is irrelevant. You can’t choose how other people feel about you—so you drive them away. Like you’ve done with Nikita....like you’re doing with me.”

Michael tugged at his hands and Jurgen let him go, watching him as he inched back on the bed, wrapping arms around himself as if he were cold. “I don’t need you.” he repeated stubbornly.

Jurgen extended a hand, not halting when Michael flinched back, stroking his cheek tenderly. “It scares you, doesn’t it? Feeling this way....caring for someone else. Leaving yourself open to pain. That’s why you shut us out....”

“Everyone leaves.” whispered Michael, staring down at the bed, the shell crumbling a little more, showing the deep, jagged wounds of the past, infecting heart and soul, killing them inch by inch. For all the affection they’d shown him, his parents might as well have been dead....those friends he had made over the years dead or long gone, his son dead, Simone dead....everyone he had allowed himself to feel even the slightest bit of affection for....dead and gone. Easier to not risk the numbing pain of loss, easier to just wall himself up....

“People die. It happens to everyone....but not everyone shuts themselves off. You have to be strong enough to accept it....to move on. Retreating, cutting yourself off—that’s the easy way out. You’re better than that, Michael.” Jurgen cupped his chin in one hand and lifted his head so that he had to meet Jurgen’s eyes, one hand going to stroke hair back from his eyes. “We can help you, Nikita and I. We can give you what you need.... you just have to let us.”

He’s using your emotions against you, he just wants to take you back into the Section—that’s his job, salvaging operatives, whispered a voice in Michael’s head but as he looked into Jurgen’s eyes he saw no subterfuge there, nothing but tenderness and love. He closed his eyes against it, trying to deny it, not let that false hope in—there was nothing in him that anyone could love....

“Yes, there is.” He hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud until he heard Nikita’s voice, walking up to the bed, having come in unnoticed, reaching out to lay her hands on his shoulders. “Deep inside you, there’s a part of you the Section was never able to touch, a part that cares deeply. I never knew it before....but I know it now. You’re not as cold as you like to think....” Her hands slid down his shoulders and around his chest, cheek pressing against his shoulder. “Let us in, Michael. We can help you. Please....”

Her soft plea broke through his resistance and he closed his eyes against the tears that spilled down his cheeks, shoulders shaking, allowing himself to be folded into their embrace.

They returned to the Section two days later, no questions asked, falling back into the Section routine. It was awkward between them at first, Jurgen and Nikita trying to reconcile their own needs with Michael’s, but as time went by both realized that they each gave him something he needed and slowly they grew closer.

A week’s grace and then they were sent out on a mission, to recover the data on a highly experimental project; computer programmers had combined talents with hardware engineers to design the ultimate in hacking, a PDA that could theoretically tap into any system and allow access to its entire mainframe, bypassing in seconds any security protocol. The stolen plans had been tracked to the owner of a major software company, headquarters located in northern Washington state, and a team was immediately sent in to recover it.

Jurgen and Nikita made the penetration to the inner heart of the complex, while Michael and the other four team members stood guard. With Birkhoff’s assistance Jurgen quickly worked his way into the clean room and retrieved the disks containing the plans, taking a few minutes to verify that they were the correct ones. Once he had passed them to Nikita, he used a magnet to sweep the room, wiping all other disks, and set a charge, just powerful enough to destroy the room and leave the rest of the building intact.

Drawing in a deep breath, Jurgen flashed a grin to Nikita and signaled for her to precede him out, giving the signal for the others to retreat. As they moved through the corridors and passed through the security entrance to the computer labs, a siren went off, lights starting to flash. A quick glance between them and they sprinted for the exit, pausing only long enough to deal with a security guard. Once outside they met four other team members as they climbed into the van, Jurgen setting the disks aside.

“Where’s Michael?” asked Nikita of Birkhoff, sitting in front of his computer.

Birkhoff was about to reply when Operations’ image flashed on the screen, expression hard. “Get out of there now. We need those plans.” And cut off transmission, leaving them to stare at the blank screen.

Starting to turn back, Nikita was stopped by Jurgen, his hand gripping her arm. “He’s right. The plans are important.”

“And Michael’s not?” she demanded, eyes flashing.

Jurgen forced a small smile. “Michael will find his way back.” And as Nikita shook his hand off, stalking over to sit down, Jurgen prayed that he was right, closing his eyes briefly. Then he gave the order for them to head back to Section.

As the alarm had gone off, Michael was working his way through the twists and turns of the labyrinthine corridors, emerging into a white room. Stopping to get his bearings, an odd smell came to him and he looked instinctively at the floor, seeing a light mist rising from the vents. Moving back he went to the opposite door and tugged at it, muttering a curse, took a step back and raised his gun to shoot at the lock but failed to do more than warp and blacken metal.

The gas was spreading rapidly through the room and he covered his mouth with one hand, coughing as he looked frantically around for some kind of escape. Soon he was doubled over with the force of his coughing, sinking down to his knees and then sprawling on his back, eyes tearing. Faintly he could hear footsteps and brought his gun up in one shaking hand, trying to aim it through blurred vision, but the gun fell from his hand and he slumped back, eyes closing as he was overcome by the effects of the gas.

With the plans safely back at the Section, both Nikita and Jurgen found themselves waiting for Michael’s return, pacing around the computer area, alternately questioning Birkhoff as to whether or not Michael had contacted him. And remained at the Section throughout the night, to no avail.

“Incoming transmission.”

Birkhoff’s terse words roused Nikita from a half-doze, straightening in her chair, Jurgen sliding his own chair closer to Birkhoff, and Operations moved up behind him as well. “Put it through.”

Tapping at the keys, Birkhoff leaned back as an image came onto the screen, that of a tall man with short blond hair slicked back, dressed in a dark suit, standing still before the screen, as if to make sure he had their attention.

“Does this belong to you?” He moved to one side, showing a black-clad figure slumped in a chair, arms and legs bound securely to it, and reached out to grasp a handful of sweat-dampened brown hair, dragging the head up, revealing it to be Michael. Blood ran from nose and ears, features slack and ashen, sheened with sweat, not even a flicker of reaction as fingers tugged hard at his hair, and the man let his head slump again, turning his attention to the monitor, awaiting their response.

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

Operations glared at the screen. “What do you want, Vanderwood?” He hissed.

Nikita was stunned. “You know that guy?” she questioned, eyes locked on Operations face.

The blond man, Vanderwood, had heard Nikita’s question. He laughed and answered it for her. “Operations and I know each other well,” he said softly. “How many years has it been?” he taunted.

“What do you want?” Operations repeated.

“To make a trade,” Vanderwood replied, his voice growing cold. “Michael in exchange for Rita.”

Operations shook his head. “No chance of that,” he hissed.

Vanderwood shrugged. “So be it. Michael belongs to me, now. And I will break him, my friend. And when I do I will know all your secrets. I know Michael. How ironic that Section One’s prize operative will be the one who destroys you.” With that Vanderwood ended the transmission.

“What the hell was that all about?” Nikita demanded, only to find Jurgen’s hand on her arm, pulling her away. She resisted till she saw the look in his eyes, then she followed Jurgen down the corridor and into Michael’s office. “What’s going on?” Nikita asked, the moment Jurgen had closed the door.

“I don’t know for sure,” Jurgen replied. “But I will tell you what I know about Vanderwood. He was with Section, on level with Ops, up until about eight years ago. Then he went Rogue.”

Nikita frowned. “Section didn’t try to cancel him?”

Jurgen sighed. “No....which means that Vanderwood is protected by someone at the top of the food chain.”

“He said he knows Michael,” Nikita whispered, as she wrapped her arms around herself to ward off a chill of foreboding. “Does he know you too?”

“Yes,” Jurgen conceded. He moved around the desk to sit in Michael’s chair, and then he motioned for Nikita to sit as well.

“Vanderwood does know Michael. Perhaps too well.” Jurgen knew his words were cryptic, and that Nikita would want to know more, but he wasn’t at liberty to tell her. Michael’s history with Jurgen was his secret to share, or not. Jurgen would not betray Michael’s trust on this one.

Nikita did want to know more, but she sensed that Jurgen would not tell her, so she focused elsewhere. “Can Vanderwood break Michael?”

Jurgen yanked off his glasses then rubbed his eyes. “Yes!” he hissed, feeling anger and fear wash over him. “And if he does, God help us all.”

Michael regained consciousness in stages. First thing he became aware of was that he was lying down. He shifted and knew that he was restrained by his wrists and ankles. Only then did he open his eyes. He was in a small room. The walls were white and the light overhead was florescent. Its brightness made tears well up in Michael’s eyes and pain lanced through his skull. His mouth was dry and he knew it was from the drugs. Michael was aware that his senses were still foggy and a moment later he knew why. An IV was taped to the back of his left hand. The liquid heat that flooded through him was familiar.

“How do you feel?” asked a quiet voice.

“Vanderwood,” Michael whispered. He knew that voice well. His eyes closed but the image of the man was imprinted in his mind. Michael felt fear ripple through him and fought it. But when fingers brushed his cheek, he flinched.

Vanderwood was pleased by Michael’s reaction. He knew how strong Michael’s control was and it was already cracking. But he sensed that it was deeper than the drugs he was feeding the young man. Michael was an emotional cripple, so the timing couldn’t have been better. Breaking him would be child’s play, and then the fun would begin. Vanderwood would destroy Section with Michael’s help. And they would both get the revenge they deserved. And Vanderwood intended to get his wife back as well. Rita. He was certain that Michael would know where she was located, and that he would be the perfect one to retrieve her. “I’ve missed you, Michael,” Vanderwood said softly, as his fingers glided over Michael’s cheekbone, then down to the strong chin. He studied the beautiful face, and then tangled his fingers in the cinnamon-brown hair.

Michael tried to pull away, but couldn’t. So he used what control he had left to cling to his mask. His eyes were glacial as they locked on Vanderwood’s face. “I thought you were dead,” he whispered.

“Aren’t we all?” the blond man countered, laughing with sincere humor.

“Ghosts, Michael. Dead to the real world.”

“What do you want with me?” Michael asked, cutting to the chase. He wasn’t in any condition to play mind games with Vanderwood. He already knew he would lose. The other man had seen into Michael’s soul and left his mark. Michael still shuddered to remember. The mark was like a scar that wouldn’t fade. He closed his eyes and remembered another time and place, but a room similar to the one he was in now. He remembered being bound, and strong fingers tangled in his hair while a soft voice whispered in his ear. He remembered a woman too. Rita. Vanderwood’s wife and a cold op. She had betrayed Section, but they had let her live. She had tried to help Michael.

Vanderwood patted Michael’s face, not wanting him to drift off. They needed to talk. “I want you to help me, Michael,” he said quietly. “Operations has discarded you. But I won’t. I want to help you, Michael. I’m the only one who can.”

Another memory flashed. Michael remembered Jurgen. The older man had been terrified. It was after Michael’s first year of training, and he was being taken to Vanderwood for further training. Elite training, Jurgen had called it. But he had been pale and shaking. Michael hadn’t understood it then, but six months later he did. And he was afraid. But neither man had talked about it. Not to each other. Not even to themselves. Michael had never forgotten. “You might as well kill me now!” he hissed.

“That’s not an option,” Vanderwood purred. He moved to the IV and added something to it from a syringe. “You’ll like this, Michael,” he whispered, moving to the head of the bed and reaching out to caress the beautiful face once again. He saw Michael’s eyes glitter, but then they filled with shadows. He knew what the young man was feeling, and a cold smile curved his lips.

Jurgen woke up screaming. His throat felt raw and his skin was sheened with sweat. He tossed aside the covers and rose from the bed. Padding into the bathroom, he swallowed a cupful of water, and then splashed his face. Only then did he turn on the light and study his reflection in the mirror. Staring back at him was the face of terror.

Pain was the first weapon in Vanderwood’s arsenal.

He had known from the start that it wouldn’t break Michael; all he’d expected was to exhaust and chip away a little more at the cracks in his control. First there was an injection that heightened the senses, increasing the smallest pain tenfold, and from there the standard methods of torture. Simply an exercise, providing him with little more than amusement as he watched Michael struggle to remain silent, not emit a sound, the agony he suffered showing in his eyes.

After each repeated session, he waited to inflict upon him the one thing that would shatter Michael....and leave him open.

If he had wished for death before, Michael wanted it all the more now. If the means to take his own life had been available to him, he wouldn’t have hesitated at all. Anything to stop the pain that built past his own considerable levels of endurance, that left him too exhausted and weak to resist as he was taken from the room to another.

With the door opened they threw him inside to fall limply to the floor and shut the door behind them. Slowly Michael lifted his head to look around him, seeing a white, featureless room right out of the Section, and with an effort he got to his feet, managing to remain standing for a few moments before knees gave way. Gasping he crawled on hands and knees into a corner and pressed himself into it.

“How are you feeling, Michael?”

Vanderwood’s voice echoed through the room, warm and soothing, a note of concern in his voice, and Michael closed his eyes tightly as it washed over him. Wanted to listen to that voice, to accept the comfort it offered—he dug fingernails into the palms of his hands, the pain providing a momentary distraction.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” asked Vanderwood kindly. “Exhausted. You’ve been through a great deal—all you’d like is to just sleep, isn’t it?” Voice lulling him, the man knowing how to use his voice as well as Madeline did....if not better. The voice, the words he used were as much a weapon as the pain he’d inflicted.

“I can offer you peace, Michael. An escape. Something that the Section has never been able to give you. A release from the life they have given you.”

“A lie....” whispered Michael painfully through dry lips.

“Your life is a lie. Everything that you had....the Section gave to you and then took away. Simone....” From somewhere else in the room came the bell-like sound of Simone’s laughter, her voice saying that she loved him, the soft sounds of her moans and cries as they made love. “They gave her to you. Remember how it felt to be with her? How safe and protected you felt? How much you loved her?” His own voice saying those words, whispered in French, and hers replying in the same language. “And then she was gone....”

Michael flinched at the sound of gunfire, startlingly loud in the silence of the room, and his own voice shouting for Simone to fall back, that he’d cover her, Simone’s scream as she fell. The sounds cut through him, taking him back to that ill-fated mission against the Glass Curtain—a part of him noted that it was most likely taken from the com-unit he’d worn, a part of him that was still sane and could retain distance, but it was hard to hold to that with Simone’s scream echoing through the room in an endless loop.

“There was someone else too, wasn’t there?” asked Vanderwood silkily.

“Papa, papa....” echoed through the room and brought hot tears to his eyes as he curled up, drawing knees up to his chest and placing hands over his ears, trying to block out the voice of his son. Giggles and little Daniel repeating papa over and over, cutting deeper into him than any knife, volume increasing so that it was impossible to not hear it.

“Remember them, Michael. Remember that it was the Section that took them from you....and because of you that they died.” And then Vanderwood’s voice fell silent, only the sounds of Simone and Daniel filling the room, rising and rising even as he curled tighter in on himself.

Twelve hours later and Vanderwood stepped into the room, seeing Michael curled up in a corner, pressed hard against the wall, as if he sought to crawl through it, and with the remote he held he lowered the volume of the voices. Kneeling beside Michael, Vanderwood extended a hand to brush hair back from his eyes, seeing the tracks of tears on his cheeks, hearing at last the words that Michael repeated over and over.

“Stop....please make it stop....please....” Gray eyes were glazed and he was shivering as if with a fever, rocking slightly, seemingly unaware of Vanderwood’s presence. Gently Vanderwood gripped his chin and forced Michael to meet his eyes, hiding the smile of triumph as he felt Michael flinch.

“What will you do to make it stop?” he asked softly.

Michael shut his eyes tightly, trying to duck his head, but Vanderwood wouldn’t let him go, grip tightening on his chin. “Anything....just make it stop....” he whispered brokenly. “Make it stop....”

Vanderwood didn’t hide the smile this time as he stroked Michael’s cheek, Michael trembling under his hand. “That’s all you had to say, Michael. Wasn’t it easy?” He pressed a kiss against Michael’s forehead and a shudder went through the younger man, utterly unresisting as Vanderwood drew him into his arms, rocking him as he let tears of exhaustion and grief stream down his cheeks.

It had taken every single favor that Jurgen had hoarded over his career at the Section to gain the information he needed: the location of Vanderwood’s wife Rita. He had reasoned that she might know where Vanderwood’s base was and at this point he was willing to trade her for Michael, if necessary. Anything to take Michael from the hell Vanderwood held him in....

For the Section had simply abandoned any thought of rescuing Michael. With typical cold-bloodedness, Operations and Madeline had set about to change passwords and security procedures, burying themselves in the exhausting work of potential damage control. Anything that Michael knew or had access to was painstakingly altered—missions scrubbed, locations changed, new procedures initiated. If they’d put the same effort to locate Michael as they did to covering their asses, they’d have found him by now, Jurgen reflected sourly.

His only ally in this was Nikita and so Jurgen took him with her on his mission to find Rita.

Three days passed since Michael had broken. He was finally allowed to sleep and he did so for nearly 24 hours straight. Next he took a long shower, washing away the memory of hands touching him, of the violations he had suffered. And within images was Jurgen’s face, but that only caused more pain, so Michael banished it. Next, Vanderwood spent two hours coaxing Michael to eat.

Now the two men were sitting at a conference table. Before them were schematics, hand drawn by Michael. The layout of Section before he had left. Vanderwood knew that Operations would have changed all the codes and would take precautions to keep them out. But that didn’t matter. He didn’t need to get in so much as he needed to draw them out. And he knew that Michael was the perfect one to do it. Section had a weakness, and her name was Madeline. Vanderwood knew that Michael was aware of Madeline’s routine. He would be able to grab her and then the fun would begin.

“You’ll go tonight,” Vanderwood said softly, as he rose from his chair and moved to stand behind Michael. He let his hands fall on broad shoulders and was pleased when Michael didn’t react. His reprogramming had been a complete success. Michael was once again the perfect operative. Machine-like. But this time he was loyal to Vanderwood. Section was synonymous to pain for Michael now. Vanderwood was his comfort and relief. Of course, Vanderwood was no fool. He knew how strong Michael’s will was. As well as his body, so he made certain to give him daily injections of a lovely little drug that would keep Michael under his control.

“I’m ready,” Michael replied, rising from his chair as well. He knew that he would not fail on this mission. By dawn Madeline would be his prisoner and it would be the beginning of the fall of Section One.

Vanderwood put a hand on Michael’s arm when the other man would have left the room. He let his fingertips brush over the beautiful face and laughed when Michael merely stared back at him, no reaction in the silver-green eyes. “Section will pay for its sins, Michael,” Vanderwood whispered. “I promise you that.”

Michael nodded, then said, “What about Rita?”

“They would have moved her by now,” Vanderwood said with a sigh. “But that’s all right. Madeline will know her location. And she will tell me.” As he spoke a cruel smile curved Vanderwood’s lips. He had learned the art of torture from Madeline, but had turned it into an art form. She would tell him everything he wanted to know, and then some. “Good luck, Michael,” Vanderwood said. Then he laughed. “Not that you need it. I know that you will succeed.”

“I will,” Michael vowed, and then he left the room.