The car rolled slowly at first. Then it picked up speed, tires humming on pavement as it plunged downhill.

Hands thrust into her coat pockets, Madeline watched the car careen off the curve of the road, over the embankment, and then out of view entirely. In the darkness, she couldn't see the two forms strapped inside -- nor could they, drugged and unconscious, see her watching. Yet their presence was the only thing she was fully aware of; unable to pull away, her mind traveled with them, leaving her body behind. When she heard the car splash into the river, she felt the icy water as it rose to surround and claim them. It was everywhere, black with silt, filling her lungs and chilling her skin. But just as she sank, helpless, to the murky river-bottom, she shivered and returned to herself.

The car that had just been pushed into oblivion belonged to her. The elderly man in the passenger seat was her teacher, mentor, employer -- and target -- of the past eight years. As for the dark-haired woman behind the steering wheel -- that was Madeline. Or so the authorities would find when they tried to identify the bodies. The Section had made sure of that.

She waited, ignoring the sharp wind that cut against her face, until her companions motioned that it was time to leave. The two men turned and began to trudge uphill; mutely, she fell in step with them. The men moved slowly, unhurriedly, their faces blank with the boredom of those to whom murder was a dull routine. She matched their pace and mirrored their expressions, turning her back to the river and what it contained.

At the crest of the hill, they reached a van parked alongside the road. She entered the rear; the men slammed the door behind her and took their own seats in the front. They pulled away with a jerk and a roar of the engine, leaving the scene behind.

The scene of her death. Or rather, her second death. Of how many to come, she had no idea.

She had learned of her fate a mere ten hours earlier. With her target having announced his retirement the day before, her mission was complete. Thus her identity -- the one that she had spent the past decade creating, cultivating, growing attached to, living -- became, overnight, nonfunctional. Superfluous. And so, with a phone call that afternoon, the Section told her that her life was over. That she would walk away and become someone else altogether -- that she would die, and be reborn. She would be expected to change existences the way other people might change clothes -- casually, and without sentiment.

That old life, the one she was abandoning, had been full of falsehoods and treachery. It was fitting, then, that she would end it with one final act of betrayal. Retired, her target would no longer provide new intel; but so long as he lived, his knowledge was a source of power to the Section's enemies. Hence he would die -- and at her hands. It didn't matter that, after all those years, she had grown rather fond of him, despite her disgust at the nature of his work. It didn't matter that he was one of the few people who had ever been kind to her -- that he trusted and cared for her, and had tried, in his own way, to help and protect her. It didn't even matter that she had spent more time with him than with any other person in her life -- that in certain respects, he knew her better than almost anyone alive. It was her job, her duty, to kill him. And so she did.

She approached him from behind, syringe in hand, injecting him in the neck before he could cry out. He slumped to the floor almost immediately, but, for a few split seconds, his eyes remained open, struggling to focus on her as she stood above him. She watched him for those last few moments, transfixed by the sequence of emotions that played across his face: first shock, then fear, then hurt, then, lastly, to her surprise, admiration. Admiration, she imagined, for the fact that she had fooled him so thoroughly and for so long. Perhaps he felt it made her worthy of the knowledge he had passed onto her -- or perhaps he knew, as she did, that a part of him would always survive in her. Finally, he smiled, closed his eyes, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

His death was painless, even peaceful. She supposed she owed him that. He was fortunate, in the end: a man who had caused others indescribable torment, he met his own end without suffering. She doubted that she would be so lucky.

The van began to slow, weaving its way through traffic as it returned to the city. How long had they been driving? She had dozed off to sleep, missing most of the journey. Now, it appeared, they were back in Paris, on their way to...she wasn't quite sure. No one had told her what her new assignment would be, how long it might last, when it would start.

The van turned, made a sharp descent into an underground tunnel, and then stopped. She held her breath, waiting. One of the men turned back to look at her.

"Welcome to Section One," he said.

***

Lisa Birkoff frowned and read the text on the computer screen for what felt like the thousandth time, mentally parsing the code that persisted in its maddening refusal to do what she wanted. After hours perched on the tiny chair, she'd lost feeling in her thighs, so in a halfhearted effort to get the circulation moving again she swiveled the chair back and forth a few times. It squeaked painfully, so she stopped.

"Hey, Lisa," said a voice from behind her shoulder.

Startled, she jumped and swung around. Walter looked down at her with a bemused expression.

"What are you still doing here, kiddo?" he asked. "It's two a.m. -- you're supposed to be getting your beauty sleep."

She leaned back in her chair and gave him a tired smile. "I'm trying to teach myself a little computer programming. But I've got to do it during the off hours, when I won't get in anyone's way. Otherwise our computer gurus chase me off."

"Are you kidding?" Walter scrunched up his face. "What are you giving yourself extra work for? It's not like they don't give us enough to do already."

"Well," she said, "that's kind of the point. I need some sort of skill so I can get the hell out of fieldwork. Increase my life expectancy. That sort of thing." She forced a dry laugh.

"Ahhh, smart gal." He nodded and clapped his hand on her shoulder. "That's how I got into Munitions, you know. I figured I'd better find some sort of specialty that kept me in here where it's safe. Or relatively safe, that is," he corrected with a chuckle. "Great minds think alike, huh?"

She grinned. "Yeah, I guess so." Turning back to her monitor, she continued, "Anyway, I'm writing a program to speed up the data transmittal between the security sensors and our mainframes. I've almost got it, but there are some bugs that are driving me crazy."

He pulled over a chair and sat down next to her, squinting as he examined the screen.

"I'll be damned," he said admiringly. "You taught yourself how to do this without any help?"

"Yeah," she said, feeling a blush heat her face. "But it's really not that hard. You just have to be persistent."

He shook his head. "Look, Lisa, don't be modest. If you want to survive in this place, you've got to trumpet your successes as loud as you can. Why, when I...."

Walter continued his story, but Lisa found herself distracted by the sight of three figures crossing the floor nearby. The two men she recognized as Housekeeping goons -- the kind of people who gave her crawling goosebumps when she ran into them in isolated corners of Section. But the woman walking alongside them was a stranger -- a stranger who held herself with a curious, aloof air, yet whose gaze swept across the room like a spotlight, inspecting every angle.

"Who's that?" asked Lisa.

Walter blinked. "Who?"

"That woman with Parsons and Bell. I don't remember seeing her before, but she doesn't have that freaked out look that the rookies always do."

Walter turned to follow Lisa's gaze. His eyes widened at the sight.

"Holy shit," he muttered.

"You know her?"

"We've met."

"So, c'mon, who is she?" asked Lisa, intrigued by the grimness in his tone.

He hesitated for an uncomfortably long time.

"The only person I've ever met who I think might belong in this place," he said, finally.

Puzzled, Lisa opened her mouth to ask what that meant, but Walter held up his hand.

"Shh. Not now. They're coming our way."

As the group approached, their conversation became audible.

"We'll show you to your quarters for now," said Parsons. "Your team leader will come for you in the morning to take you to your orientation."

The woman nodded and then, looking up, caught Walter's eye. She held his gaze for a few moments -- just long enough to demonstrate that she recognized him -- but turned away without expression.

Lisa and Walter watched until the three were again out of earshot.

"Man, I don't know what she's doing here," said Walter, "but whatever it is, it isn't good."

***

It was eight a.m. sharp. Paul reached for the buzzer, then hesitated. He placed his hand against the wall and leaned there for a few moments, taking long, slow breaths to ready himself.

Adrian had given him less than twenty-four hours' notice of the arrival -- and identity -- of his new team member. During that time, he hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, hadn't worked. Instead, he just paced -- first in his office, then all night in his quarters -- his emotions whipsawing from elation to anxiety, from anticipation to apprehension.

For the past three years, ever since Madeline had banished him from her life, Paul had been trying to put her out of his mind. To that end, he had turned to his work, attacking it with a newly-found intensity. When that wasn't enough, he also turned to other women, with equal intensity, and in numbers he lost count of. They had all been beautiful and engaging, and he had thoroughly enjoyed their company. Yet still, when he noticed a slim brunette of Madeline's height on the street, he often found himself staring, heart pounding, caught up in the forlorn hope that he could at least glimpse her again. Of course, he never had.

Now, without warning, she was here in Section One. Assigned to his team, no less. He couldn't decide if he was thrilled or sickened at the prospect.

Clenching his jaw, he reached for the buzzer and rang it, and clasped his hands behind him to wait. The door opened almost instantly; startled, he took a step backwards. Then their eyes met, and he steeled himself for what would happen next.

They held each other's gaze, but neither of them spoke. She seemed to be waiting for him to start; he was at a loss for what to say. He searched her eyes, examined her expression, trying to judge her mood so that he might determine the best approach. What he saw -- a tightness in her face, a strange light in her eyes -- surprised him even as he recognized what it was. It was that same anxious excitement that was causing his stomach to churn, except better disguised: an uneasy balance of jubilation and trepidation, forced beneath a thin veneer of feigned impassivity.

Seeing his own feelings reflected in her expression gave him a burst of courage. He moved toward her, and she backed away, allowing him entry into the quarters. He closed the door and stood watching her, intent on reading every trace of emotion that passed, however faintly, across her face. When he rang the buzzer, he had expected to find the woman who had dismissed him so coldly -- instead, he saw someone at war with herself.

He took a step closer, intending to reach for her, to pull her into his arms, to crush her body against his, to run his hands through her hair and down her back, to bend down and press his lips hungrily against hers -- to do everything he had dreamed of doing were he to see her again -- but, once more, she moved away. She glanced at the floor for a few seconds, and when she looked back up her expression was transformed: calm, controlled, indifferent.

"I take it you're my team leader," she said.

His stomach contracted as if he had been slammed with a punch. "That's right," he answered dully, and a bitter taste filled his mouth. He had been wrong in his assessment of her emotions a moment ago. Three years had passed, and she had moved on, even if he hadn't. He had been reading in her eyes what he wanted to see, not what was there.

She took a military stance. "Then I'm ready to begin my orientation."

"Well, then," he answered, turning toward the door to hide his disappointment, "come with me."

***

Footsteps sounded along the metal stairs leading to Adrian's office, and then a knock tapped against the open door. Adrian ignored it and continued to read her report. Her visitors were several minutes late, and that would not do. They would wait, as a reminder of the virtues of timeliness.

She finished four more pages and finally looked up. Paul and Madeline stood just outside the office, waiting side by side with their hands clasped in front of them. Their matching posture caught Adrian off guard; their identical expressions left her vaguely unsettled. While it was no doubt unconscious on their part, their stance looked almost practiced, like a deliberate show of strength. In the shadows outside her doorway, they stood like grim sentries, waiting silently -- not for her summons, but for something indefinable.

She pushed that thought away. "Please, both of you, come in and sit down."

Paul nodded at Madeline to go first, and the two entered the room and seated themselves in the chairs in front of Adrian's desk. In the light of her office, their differences showed -- that appearance of unity melted away like the illusion Adrian now knew it was. Paul sat more restlessly than usual; he shifted positions every few moments, nearly radiating anxiety and discomfort. Madeline kept her hands folded on her lap and her spine straight, at attention. Her face was blank -- blank, but not wholly unreadable. She stared, a bit too intently, at an imaginary spot on Adrian's desk, in an obvious effort to avoid looking at Adrian's eyes. She was afraid, Adrian decided. Good. Adrian intended to keep her that way. An operative with her particular brand of training needed to be kept firmly under control.

"Good morning, and welcome to One, Madeline," Adrian said. "I trust you slept well."

"Quite well, thank you."

Madeline looked up and smiled, shifting into a pleasant demeanor as suddenly as if she had flipped a light switch. Adrian bit back an urge to grimace. Perhaps that sort of pseudo-warmth fooled some people, but its manufactured nature set Adrian's nerves on edge.

"The quarters are temporary, until we make arrangements on the outside. I hope it's not too uncomfortable in the meantime."

"Not at all." Again, that smile. It flashed, then faded too quickly.

Adrian drummed her fingers on her desk, long enough to make the waiting uncomfortable, until she saw a hint of nervousness return to the young woman's eyes. She then took a exaggerated breath and frowned.

"Your status here is a bit difficult to categorize," she said, speaking slowly so as to appear reluctant to raise the subject. "At Section Two, you were an experienced operative, already Level Five." She paused, allowing the fact that she had used the past tense to sink in. "However, the work we do here is quite different from what you've been used to. Under the circumstances, I concluded a demotion was, regretfully, necessary. Henceforth you'll be recategorized as Level Two."

Madeline blinked but said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye, Adrian saw Paul shift suddenly in his seat.

"Please don't take it in a negative way," Adrian continued, ignoring Paul's reaction. "It's not intended as a reprimand or a punishment. It's merely a recognition that you lack a certain type of experience."

"Of course." The agreeable demeanor had vanished; Madeline's tone was all business. Cold as it was, Adrian actually preferred it. At least it was honest.

"There is one special matter, however," she said.

Madeline arched an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"Thanks to your assignment at Section Two, you've developed a rather unusual expertise. As a result, in addition to your other duties, I'm assigning you to take on the project of modernizing and streamlining some of our intelligence gathering procedures. In particular, with respect to the interrogation of captives." Adrian smiled. "I thought you might enjoy doing some work that's more familiar to you."

She studied Madeline for a reaction. To her disappointment, there was none.

"I'm glad my prior training will continue to be of use," was all Madeline said, her voice quiet.

"Your educational background also suits you for profiling, which I anticipate will eventually become your primary duty. However, before you can begin doing that, you need some field experience. That's why you've been assigned to Paul's team."

Adrian nodded at Paul, for the first time acknowledging his presence. His posture hadn't lost any of its tension.

She turned back to Madeline. "Working with a familiar face should be reassuring, don't you think?"

"I appreciate that," said Madeline, once again switching on that artificial warmth.

Adrian repressed a cynical roll of her eyes and determined that she would shut that pretense of pleasantness off for good. Madeline would have to learn -- the hard way, if need be -- that Adrian couldn't be charmed, couldn't be manipulated -- that, indeed, things would go much more easily for her if she dealt with Adrian forthrightly, without any charade that she was anything more than what she was: a monster, to be entrusted with some of the Section's ugliest tasks. There was a place for her in the Section -- a respected place, even -- if she would learn to live within her limits. It was time to start setting them.

"You need to be aware," Adrian said sternly, "you and Paul will have a very different relationship from before."

Madeline stiffened. The warmth faded, as Adrian intended that it would.

"When you helped Paul escape captivity in the Ukraine, you were colleagues. Equals. Now, you'll be his subordinate. Is that going to pose a problem?"

"No."

Adrian turned back to Paul. "Have you given any thought to what her first mission should be?"

"I think Tripoli would work."

"No, that's more than a month away. I suggest Vienna."

"Vienna?" He scowled. "That's just four days from now. She needs more time for training."

"Time is a luxury for the indolent and the unmotivated. Four days should be quite more than adequate. After all, she isn't completely inexperienced, you know."

He fidgeted in his chair, his reluctance obvious. "We're likely to come under fire. She doesn't have any combat experience."

"Well," said Adrian tartly, "if you doubt her abilities that much, perhaps I should assign her to another team. I believe Charles has an opening."

"That's not what I meant." Paul stole a look at Madeline, who was regarding him with an expression that Adrian felt certain was resentment. "I just want to make sure that she's integrated into the team smoothly."

Adrian chuckled. Paul was so transparent, especially when he resorted to platitudes. "Paul, I appreciate your desire to protect your team members. It's truly noble. But here, as you well know, we must all learn to fend for ourselves. Besides, I'm sure Madeline doesn't want to be coddled, now does she? She won't make it back to Level Five very quickly that way."

Paul started to open his mouth to reply, but apparently thought better of it. Next to him, Madeline looked furious.

"Very good," said Adrian, satisfied that she had yanked their leashes adequately. "Vienna it is."

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

The door to the shooting range squealed and slammed closed as Paul stepped inside. The range looked empty at first, but the walls reverberated with a steady thunder of shots, so he walked along the points and glanced into each as he passed. When he reached the far end, he finally found Madeline, firing rapidly at her target.

Her hearing blocked by heavy earmuffs, she didn't notice him behind her -- or, if she did, she ignored him. So he waited and observed. Her stance was right, her grip correct, her aim superb. There was nothing more she needed to work on -- at least not for target shooting. Combat shooting was another matter altogether, and yet practicing on the range would get her nowhere. So why was she doing this?

He checked his watch. Twenty after midnight. This was ridiculous. She'd been shooting for hours, using up enough ammunition to see an entire team through a mission.

Her body rocked slightly backwards with the recoil of each shot until she emptied her clip. She popped it out and was turning to reach for a new one when she spotted him. She eyed him for a moment with a slightly irritated expression. Then she set down the gun, removed her earmuffs and glasses, and ran a hand through her hair.

"Do you need something?" she asked, her voice low with fatigue.

"I think that's enough. Why don't you call it a night?"

"I'm not finished." Her expression tightened, accentuating the shadows that crossed her face.

He placed his hand on her arm. "You don't need to push yourself like this."

"The mission is only thirty-two hours from now. I have to be ready." She spoke with the bitter resolve of someone on a death march -- her eyes were clouded, looking right through him to focus on some faraway place.

"You're as ready as you're going to be on short notice. Just stay close to me and I'll look out for you."

His words seemed to take a moment to register. When they did, her reaction surprised him. Instead of relaxing, she straightened her posture, and her gaze -- so dull a moment before -- sharpened in anger.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked. "How am I going to be of any use if all I do is follow you around?"

"You won't." He shrugged. "But don't worry about it. Think of it as a real-life training run."

She pulled away and crossed her arms. "That's unacceptable."

He laughed. "I'm the team leader, remember? I'm the one who gets to decide what's acceptable or not."

Something flashed deep within her eyes: resentment, wounded pride, or maybe both. During their meeting with Adrian, she had claimed that she could adjust to being his subordinate -- but the expression on her face, the rigid way her jaw was set, belied those earlier words. He groaned inwardly. She wasn't going to make this easy.

"How will you explain to the rest of your team that you're going to be too busy babysitting me to oversee the mission properly?" Her voice was calm, but tinged with sarcasm.

So that was it. She was worried about being seen as a burden by the team. Understandable, but wrong.

"They understand," he assured her. "In fact, they think it's ridiculous that Adrian gave you this assignment."

"Do they? And why would they think that?"

As she glared at him, he found himself growing increasingly exasperated. He didn't remember her being so difficult before. When they had known each other years earlier, they rarely argued -- but now, without warning, she was getting unreasonably angry with him. And for what? For being realistic about her ability to take care of herself out in the field? That was childish.

Losing patience, he returned the glare. "Why? Because it's been at least ten years since you've had any combat training. Because you have virtually no field experience. Because you've never shot anyone, never been shot at, never had to run for your life while--"

"You don't know that."

Something in her tone caught his attention. It wasn't resentment, wasn't a fit of temper -- instead, her voice had grown deadly cold.

"What do you mean?"

"I've escaped from eight separate penal and clinical institutions," she said in a dry monotone. "I've been chased by security guards, cops, pimps, rapists, and Rottweilers. Before I was even sixteen years old, I'd been beaten unconscious, nearly run down by a car, and attacked by a lunatic with a baseball bat." Her voice lowered and grew in intensity. "So don't tell me that I don't know what's it's like to run for my life."

He stared, dumbfounded. She had always been evasive about the details of her past, limiting herself to cryptic references to a criminal history and a killing. He had always thought she was exaggerating, but now, seeing the lost look on her face, he knew she wasn't. In her own way, she did have combat experience. And she was as scarred as any veteran he'd ever met.

How had he not known this? The months they had spent together had been among the happiest and most intense of his life. With her, he had felt a deep connection, a shared understanding of life that seemed instinctual, almost preordained. Even now, in her presence, he still sensed it -- partly hidden, just out of reach, but there all the same. Yet at the same time, it appeared, she was also a complete stranger.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know. I was just trying to help you."

"I don't want any help." She looked away. "You heard Adrian. You need to treat me just like any other operative on your team."

Fighting a growing lump in his throat, he reached out to stroke her face.

"You'll never be just any operative to me."

As his fingertips grazed her cheek, he saw it. Deep within her eyes, something fought its way toward the surface: a longing, a desperation, a need. It reached out to him, begged him to free it, even as she struggled to suppress it. Determined to make her fail, to make her give in to whatever she was feeling, he continued to caress her skin, brushing his hand through her hair, then trailing his knuckles lightly along her jaw.

In the end, however, she reasserted control, although he could see that the effort had weakened her. Her anger subsided, replaced by a look of sadness.

"You're the team leader. The success of the mission is your responsibility, and that has to come first." Her voice grew resigned. "Maybe Adrian was right. I should be on another team. I'm a distraction to you."

He sighed. This was going in circles, and at such a late hour, frankly, it exhausted him.

"Maybe you are a distraction," he admitted, too tired to argue any longer. "But you'd be even more of one on another team."

She frowned. "How so?"

"I'd be too worried to concentrate on my work. At least if you're on my team, I'll know what's happening to you."

She made an exasperated face. "Paul, you can't allow--"

"Look," he interrupted, "when we first met, I saw how well we worked together. We complement each other perfectly. Don't tell me you didn't see it, too."

She said nothing, but he could tell from the way she pressed her lips together into a tight line that she knew he was right.

"As soon as you build up some field experience, we're going to be unbeatable together." He looked her straight in the eye, daring her to argue. "And so I'm going to look after you, like it or not, to make sure you live long enough to gain that experience." He gave a wry smile. "Besides, you might as well get used to it, because there's nothing you can do to stop me."

She looked at him for a long time, with an expression he couldn't interpret -- not angry, not resentful, but not acquiescent, either. Just thoughtful. Then she turned away, put on the earmuffs and glasses, loaded another clip into her gun, and began firing again.

***

In an attempt to convey the impression of relaxed attentiveness, Lisa crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, hands folded and perched on her knee. She had managed to obtain the best seat at the table; the farthest from the door, it was away from attention and yet situated perfectly for careful observation. If only her luck would carry over to the rest of the briefing.

One by one, the others made their way into the room. First Walter, who winked at Lisa and sat -- as he always did for Adrian's briefings -- in the chair closest to the door. Then Patrick, who sprawled somewhere in the middle, his jaw moving rhythmically as he chewed his gum. Next, one of the two new team members: Brad, the Level One op six months out of training. Brad was skinny and red-haired -- one of those people who looked like he'd turn into one giant freckle if you left him out in the sun too long. To Lisa's dismay, he plopped into the seat right next to her and fixed her with a warm smile.

Great. He thinks we're going to be buddies. Why do the puppydog new ones always latch onto me?

The answer wasn't really all that much of a mystery. Who on the team looked the most approachable? Paul, the demanding team leader, always cursing and glaring? Hardly. Patrick, who spoke in two-word sentences and looked like his hobby was crushing beer cans against his forehead? No, not quite. Or Lisa: short, thin, mousy, and unthreatening. Bingo. Cursed by looking too meek and nice. It was the story of her life.

At least Brad had some mission experience, however, which was more than she could say for the next person who entered the room: Madeline, the transfer from Section Two. She was a Level Two, supposedly, but Paul acted like she was some fragile debutante who might faint if she suffered a paper cut -- he had threatened Lisa and Patrick with all sorts of dire consequences if they didn't help him keep her out of harm's way. Although if the rumors that had started circulating about Madeline were true -- rumors about a pretty bizarre background, almost too bizarre to be believed -- it might be Lisa and Patrick who needed the protection.

Lisa sat up in her seat to give the new arrival a full appraisal. On the one hand, she did fit Paul's description. Hair perfect, full makeup -- for a briefing? Oh, please. She definitely looked to be the glamour queen type, not exactly used to scaling barbed wire fences in a torrential rain with a heavy backpack on. Then again, no one who saw Lisa would think she could do that either. Appearances didn't necessarily count for much in this place.

To Lisa's surprise, Madeline didn't take one of the several empty seats near Walter; instead, she sat between Patrick and Brad and then fastidiously smoothed out her skirt. It made the table seem somewhat lopsided.

Poor Walter! thought Lisa, smiling to herself. He's a pariah! After the briefing, I'll tease him about his aftershave being too strong.

Then she remembered. Walter knew Madeline from somewhere. And had acted quite strangely when Lisa asked him about her. Maybe those rumors were true, after all. Or maybe not, and Walter had just pissed her off with some lame come-on like he did with half the other women in Section. Good old Walter -- someone really needed to tell him he was getting a bit too old for his lady-killer routine. Not to mention that bandanas had gone out of style years ago. Lisa didn't quite have the heart to be the one to break it to him, however.

It was funny, though, how concerned Paul was about Madeline's welfare. It wasn't like him at all. He was of the school that believed new team members had to prove their worth under fire. If an operative showed some guts, then Paul would fight for him or her harder than any other team leader in Section -- but you always had to win him over first. Poor Brad, for example, hadn't merited any of Paul's attention. But then Brad didn't exactly look like Madeline, did he?

Oh, God, thought Lisa. Is that what this is about?

If so, they were in big, big trouble.

That train of thought halted abruptly as Adrian strode into the room, Paul close behind her. Hastily, Lisa returned to her 'paying rapt attention' posture. Patrick, an old hand at briefings, adopted a similar attitude, but shifted into it casually. Next to Lisa, Brad bolted up in his seat with unrestrained enthusiasm.

Down, boy. Oh, well. He'll learn.

Paul slid into the seat next to Walter, and Adrian rounded the table to stand at the podium on the other side. As always, she swept her gaze across all of them before she began to speak.

"Good morning," she said brightly, eyes sparkling.

Oh, Lord, she's got that look, thought Lisa, growing apprehensive. The one where she smells blood.

Almost invariably, that blood was Lisa's. Sitting inconspicuously at the end of the table probably wasn't going to cut it today. No, this time she would have to listen to every word and watch every nuance of Adrian's behavior. Adrian would test her when she least expected it: she always did, and Lisa always came up short somehow.

Adrian began the briefing, summarizing the highlights of the next day's mission. It seemed straightforward enough: yet another group that no one had ever heard of before, this time planning to blow up an unidentified target -- the objective was to storm their safe house and capture their leadership. Easy, except that they were lunatics who would love nothing better than to die as glorious martyrs in a gun battle. Preferably taking some imperialist pigs with them, of course. Lisa wanted to groan, although she didn't dare -- this was going to be a massacre. They'd be lucky to bring back even one of the leaders for interrogation. But Adrian wanted all of them. What fun.

Finished, Adrian yielded to Walter, who briefed the group on the properties of the new tear gas launchers they would be using. Lisa tried to listen, but found herself increasingly distracted. Adrian hadn't even looked her direction yet; instead, her focus had been almost exclusively on Paul. It was extremely disconcerting. Adrian typically studied those whose abilities she doubted -- and Paul, unlike Lisa, had always been one of her favorites. Adrian's steady examination of him sent Lisa's sense of paranoia spinning out of control. Did Paul have a problem? Was there something about the mission they weren't being told? Were they all in abeyance? The possibilities were endless, and each one worse than the last.

When Walter finished, Adrian thanked him and once more swept her gaze along the table.

"Before I dismiss you," she said, "let me introduce you to your new team members."

The operatives shifted in their seats, turning to look at Madeline and Brad. Brad blushed and smiled; Madeline sat up attentively, but didn't change her expression.

"Brad is an expert in electronics. He'll be a great help to you, I'm sure," said Adrian.

The operatives nodded at him in acknowledgement.

"And Madeline comes to us after many successful years at Two," continued Adrian. "She has a wide range of skills that we'll be able to use." She paused, then added, "I hear her valentine expertise is particularly extraordinary. Why, she turned a senior KGB official into a double-agent just on the sheer strength of her seduction talent. Isn't that true, dear?"

As Adrian beamed, and Patrick sat up with sudden interest, Lisa watched Madeline's face go white.

Without even blinking, Madeline smiled. It looked slightly forced, but she managed to inject a surprising amount of warmth into it. "Yes, that's true," she answered.

Lisa stole a look at Paul. His face was bright red, and his jaw clenched.

Ouch! So much for that budding romance.

So that's why Adrian had been watching him so intently during the briefing. She had obviously suspected the same thing Lisa had: that Paul's uncharacteristically protective attitude toward their new team member was based on some sort of romantic attraction. Well, you could always count on Adrian to throw cold water on such things at the first opportunity -- and in the most humiliating way possible. What a lovely welcome for the new transfer.

Her slap in the face delivered, Adrian took her leave, and the room filled with the sound of chairs scraping the floor. The last to exit, Lisa hurried to catch up with Madeline. Lisa touched her shoulder, and Madeline stopped and turned.

"So, welcome to the club," said Lisa.

"I'm sorry?" Madeline's tone was excruciatingly polite -- distant, wary, like someone unused to the idea of friendly overtures.

"The Punching Bag Club," Lisa said in a low voice. "It's a select group of people Adrian likes to abuse for no particular reason."

For a moment, there was no reaction. Then the two women exchanged a long look, first of mutual assessment, but slowly turning to understanding.

Finally, Madeline arched an eyebrow and gave an amused half-smile. "Should I be honored?"

"Oh, definitely." Lisa grinned. "We're very exclusive. Not just anyone gets in."

"Then I'm flattered."

Lisa held out her hand. "I'm Lisa. Initiated into the club almost seven years ago."

"Nice to meet you, Lisa," Madeline answered, shaking her hand.

Together, they began to walk away from the briefing room, heading toward the elevators that led to the residential quarters. They entered an open elevator, each pressed a button, and they rode in silence for a few moments.

"It's funny," Lisa mused, not certain if Madeline knew Adrian's motivations, and not sure if she should tell her if she didn't. "She usually doesn't go after someone right off the bat like that. You're getting special attention." She smiled sympathetically. "Lucky you."

"Lucky me." This time, Madeline didn't smile back.

Self-consciously, Lisa studied the numbers on the elevator panel. She was dying to ask Madeline more about herself -- to ask just what the hell she did over at Section Two, to find out if any of those rumors were true -- but she knew she shouldn't. How could she even start such a conversation? So, Madeline, is it true that they called you the Voodoo Queen over at Two because your job was turning people into zombies? Oh, yeah. That would go over well.

No, she would have to contain her curiosity and wait. They had formed a bond, of sorts. Maybe, eventually, she would learn something more.

The door opened on Lisa's level. As she stepped out of the elevator, she looked back.

"You know," she said, "there's really only one way to deal with Adrian."

"Oh?"

"She plays favorites," Lisa explained. "Find one and get that person to defend you. She won't like you any better, but she might start leaving you alone."

***

Smoke billowed out thickly from the door in the cellar wall; it poured into the room, black, acrid and full of glowing embers.

"A tunnel. Jesus," said Brad. He bent over to peer inside and flapped his hand back and forth in a vain attempt to wave the smoke aside. "That's where they went. And set a fire behind them." He straightened up again with an expression of resignation. "We'll never catch them now."

According to the blueprints included with the mission profile, there was no tunnel. In fact, there was no cellar. But when the team burst into the house, guns drawn, they found no one on the ground floor. From the floor above, haphazard bursts of gunfire signaled that Patrick and Lisa had engaged their targets. The lower level, however, was strangely devoid of occupants, the only movement the swirling white clouds that sprayed from the tear gas canisters scattered across the glass-strewn floor.

It was Paul who spotted the door leading to the cellar, who led them charging downstairs, and who now took action.

"Team Two," he said into his comm unit, "hostiles made egress through an underground tunnel. Scan the perimeter in case they emerge aboveground. Team One in pursuit."

He looked at Madeline. "You stay here and guard the entrance. Once we confirm that there's an exit, go upstairs and provide backup to Lisa and Patrick."

She nodded gravely and tightened her grip around her gun.

Paul turned to Brad. "Follow me."

"In there?" Brad gaped at the dark plume that continued to flow from the entrance. "It's a barbecue!"

"Go," Paul ordered through gritted teeth.

"You're nuts!"

Paul lifted his gun and pointed it at Brad's face. "It's a barbecue or a bullet. Your choice."

As Brad hesitated, eyeing Paul as if he were a rabid animal, Madeline stepped into the tunnel. She yanked up her mask from where it had been dangling around her neck and hoped that it would filter smoke as well as the tear gas it was designed for. Once the mask was firmly in place, she began to run.

"What the hell are you doing?" Paul's voice came sharply through the transmitter in her ear.

"We don't have time to argue," she panted, her breathing muffled by the mask. "The targets are going to be long gone."

"Damn it, you wait for my order!" he shouted, causing the transmitter to squawk. There was a brief pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was still angry but more controlled. "Tell me where you are and what you see. I'll catch up as soon as I can."

Before she could proceed more than a few feet further, she heard a gunshot over her transmitter -- a burst so loud she flinched in pain. She slowed her pace to a walk, uncertain how to react.

"Paul?" she called out. "Are you under fire?"

"No."

"I heard shooting," she insisted. "Should I come back?"

"That was Brad," he said. "I cancelled him."

"You what?" She stopped moving, astonished.

"Insubordination during a mission is grounds for immediate cancellation at the discretion of the team leader. If I can't rely on him to follow orders, then he's in the way."

For a moment, she was too stunned to think clearly. Then, once again, she began to run. There was no time to reflect on what had just happened. In fact, perhaps that was the point -- Brad had tried to think, tried to argue, when he simply should have obeyed. She pushed the realization that she, too, had disobeyed orders out of her mind. There would be time enough to worry about that later.

"I'm turning right," she announced. "I can't see the fire yet, but the smoke is getting thicker."

Instead of a reply, she heard more shooting.

"Paul?"

"I've engaged hostiles. It's under control. Keep going."

The sound of gunfire continued, growing louder and more rapid -- with each shot, she winced. When she rounded the corner, the faint light from the doorway vanished, and she found herself in complete darkness. Darkness and silence, as the noise of the gun battle cut off abruptly.

"Paul, are you there?"

She heard static, but nothing more.

She tapped the transmitter.

Still nothing.

There was no reason to worry, she reassured herself. It was only interference by the walls of the tunnel. But it meant that now, she was alone. And blind.

Without a flashlight, she felt her way along the rough dirt wall, stumbling repeatedly on the uneven floor. The mask around her face was hot and suffocating, and didn't seem to be filtering the smoke much after all; she was drenched in sweat, coughing, gasping for air.

As she tripped and cursed to herself once more, she thought back to what she had been doing just one week before: sitting on the balcony of her Paris apartment, sipping aperitifs with a charming gentleman acquaintance, oblivious to the fact that her life was about to be turned upside-down. She never would have imagined that now she would be staggering alone, through the dark, on her way to be incinerated -- or, if she escaped that, to confront a gang of armed and desperate terrorists.

The past five days had not been adequate preparation for this moment. She had spent that time in a state of complete disorientation, barely able to eat or sleep: in shock at having her world uprooted so suddenly; in terror at being thrown upon the mercy of Adrian; overjoyed -- but apprehensive -- at finding herself reunited with Paul; and, despite her attempts at bravado, petrified that, as Paul had warned, she simply wasn't ready for a real mission.

Her fingers felt the wall curve around another corner. As she followed it, her vision returned, brought back by an orange light that glowed ominously through the heavy shroud of smoke. She halted, grimacing in pain as she collided with a searing blast of heat, and stared ahead in despair. Before her was a bonfire of debris, piled several feet high, blazing across the full width of the tunnel. She inched ahead cautiously, and the heat nearly blistered her skin; under her mask, the air seemed to disappear altogether.

The fire was wide -- intimidatingly so -- but not particularly deep. Indeed, the debris pile was low enough that she could plausibly jump it.

She gazed into the fire for a few seconds -- seconds that seemed to stretch into an eternity, as the flames rippled and flared, and the air itself shimmered with their heat. The blaze seemed to melt away all her stray thoughts: Adrian, Paul, even her own mortality, none of that mattered. There was no time to be afraid, no time to do anything but concentrate on the immediate goal. She felt herself slip into a mental focus -- a clarity so intense that it was both soothing and thrilling.

She took a running start and dove, as high as she could, over the debris and through the flames. The heat was excruciating, like a furnace blast of pain, but then she landed -- hard -- on the dirt floor behind the fire and ducked into a roll. When she was upright once again, she inspected herself. Her hair and clothing were singed, the arm she had landed on most likely fractured -- but she was functional.

She scrambled up and ran, stopping several yards later when she reached a door directly ahead. Readying her gun for what might be on the other side, she grasped the doorknob -- hissing in pain at the scorch of hot metal -- and turned it.

Locked.

She twisted the doorknob harder -- then, with a sharp wave of panic, began to kick and hurl her weight against the door. Her efforts had no effect. The door remained solidly closed; the intensity of the heat, broiling from the fire only yards behind her, started to overcome her ability to reason. On instinct, she fired three shots into the door. This, finally, splintered it enough to allow her to force her way through. On the other side, the tunnel ended, but a ladder, bathed in daylight, led straight up.

She pulled herself up the ladder, the stabbing pains in her arm bringing tears to her eyes. When she reached the top, she could see the bright blue of the sky, filtered through a metal grate that she shoved impatiently aside.

She emerged through what appeared to be a storm drain alongside a road. Gasping, she tore off her mask and looked at her surroundings, just in time to see a car pull away from the roadside in front of her. She gave chase, but it quickly picked up speed -- as it did, one of its passengers stuck a gun out the window and fired in her direction.

The shots hit the ground several feet away, kicking up puffs of dust. Instinctively, she fell into a crouch and returned fire. She didn't hear it when the tire blew out, but she saw the car swerve out of control and slam into a stone wall. Still crouching, she watched for several moments, waiting for signs of movement inside the wrecked auto. When she saw nothing, she rose and began to walk toward the vehicle.

She approached the car cautiously until she saw the extent of the injuries: one passenger unconscious, blood pouring down his face; the driver and other passengers disoriented and groaning in pain. She held them there at gunpoint until members of Team Two reached her moments later.

As Team Two pulled the captives from the wreckage, she walked away unsteadily. Her heart pounded with such violence that it left her dizzy with elation. Looking at the vanquished enemy, she felt energized, as if she could sprint all the way back to Section. The sense of victory was overwhelming, addictive, like a drug. No, it was better than a drug -- no drug could possibly feel that good.

She jumped, startled, when she heard her transmitter burst back into life.

"Madeline? Report," Paul called.

She smiled. "Targets acquired."

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

Muscles tensed, Paul climbed the steps to Adrian's office; he trod heavily, as if each clank of boots on the stairway's metal grating could stomp out his anger. Inadequate intel, a useless team member: combined, they had led to chaos. There was nothing Paul despised more than chaos. Except for failure. And in his experience, the former tended to lead to the latter.

As he reached the top of the steps, he paused. Normally, the echo of his footsteps announced his arrival -- recognizing his gait, Adrian would call for him to enter. This time, however, there was no such greeting; instead, her voice was low and inaudible, but suffused with an odd, angry pitch. Curious, he felt his temper dissipate. He peered through the open doorway; inside, Adrian appeared engrossed in a telephone conversation. Judging by the frown that creased her face, it wasn't a pleasant chat.

Glancing up, she spotted Paul and gestured distractedly for him to come in. He took a seat and waited.

"Don't give in, George," she said, her voice sharp. "Just because Phillip throws a tantrum doesn't make it our priority."

Paul didn't recognize the name Phillip, but the mention of George made him pay closer attention. Despite Adrian's hints that Paul was being groomed as her successor, she kept him well in the dark regarding a great many things. Especially about the operations of the other Sections, where she allowed George to reign. Section One alone had been Paul's universe, and moments like this -- moments that reminded him how insignificant he really still was -- made him chafe at the limitation.

"My decision is final," she continued. "I'm not afraid of him. And you shouldn't be, either." A wave of irritation washed across her face. "You really do need to grow more of a spine, my dear."

Paul repressed a smirk. George hadn't darkened Section One's corridors for several years, but his absence hadn't softened Paul's disdain for the man. George was a toady and a sycophant, and it gave Paul a perverse twinge of pleasure to hear Adrian abuse him.

"Of course I'll let you know." She scowled. "When have I not? Yes, of course. Goodbye." She hung up brusquely and sat back in her chair. After an uncomfortably long time spent staring into space, she returned her attention to Paul. The shift in focus didn't seem to improve her mood. "You're here to debrief on Vienna?"

He nodded. "Six captives and eight fatalities, including one of ours."

"I'm well aware of what happened," she snapped. "I was monitoring the radio traffic."

"I see," he said warily. Navigating the shoals of her temper without foundering required a sensitivity that went against his natural instincts. He'd learned the hard way that the safest course was to remain noncommittal as long as possible.

"You seemed to have some difficulty controlling your team," she observed in a sweet-and-sour tone that was obviously intended to goad him. "Care to elaborate?"

Wonderful. Trust Adrian to zero in immediately on precisely the topic he had been dreading the most. "Brad refused to follow orders," he said, shrugging because he refused to concede that he should care. "I had no choice. Besides, it's no great loss, as far as I can tell."

"Charles never had any problems getting Brad to follow orders." She arched an eyebrow in mocking reproach. "Perhaps it's the way you give them."

Oh, bullshit. Charles never took any risks with his team: that's why he didn't have any discipline problems. And that's why Adrian always turned to Paul to handle the toughest assignments. She knew that, so why was she throwing Mr. Paint-By-Numbers in his face?

"As for Madeline," she went on, "she apparently thought so little of your leadership that she took over the mission herself."

"She's used to working solo," he interjected hastily. "If you give me more time with her I can solve that problem."

"Oh, the problem isn't with her. She made the right call. The problem is with you."

She rose to her feet. Circling her desk, she took a stance so close to his chair that he had to crane his neck to look at her. She stared down at him, somehow managing to appear both fragile and powerful, like a bird of prey sizing up a tasty morsel of rabbit.

"As soon as Brad refused to comply with your commands," she said sternly, "you should have sent in Madeline instead. Your failure to do so concerns me greatly."

"I was trying to--"

"I know what you were trying to do," she interrupted. She sighed, and her anger seemed to give way to a sad indulgence. "Madeline saved your life several years ago. It's natural for you to feel you owe her a debt. But you must set that feeling aside. It does both of you a disservice."

She had completely misread him. But there was no point trying to convince her of that. He'd known her long enough to recognize when she'd made up her mind, and he knew no amount of explanation would sway her. So he simply nodded. There would be other times to stand his ground.

She examined him for a moment. When she seemed satisfied with his acquiescence, she returned to her seat on the other side of the desk. "As for the other members of your team, they're entirely too trigger-happy. I wanted captives, not cadavers."

"Our intel was inaccurate. The targets were much more heavily armed than we were led to believe, and the blueprint of the building was completely wrong. We did well under the circumstances."

"Doing well isn't good enough. I expect excellence, and you fell far short of it. If the intel is flawed, you improvise. Even the freshest recruits know that."

He ignored the jab, clasping his hands together on his lap so hard he could feel the pulse throb in his fingertips. He could keep his mouth shut as long as he needed to, but he was going to need a workout on the heavy bag when he got the hell out of this office.

After what seemed like a lifetime, she finally relaxed and smiled -- a sign that she was finished with her critique. Her tone lost its sarcastic edge and became crisp and businesslike. "Please tell Madeline that I wish to see her at six tomorrow morning. I'm pleased with her performance so far and would like to give her a new assignment."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And remind her to be prompt. I have enough demands on my time without being kept waiting."

"Of course."

"By the way," she added, flipping through a stack of papers on her desk, "I'm revoking the downtime scheduled for Lisa and Patrick. Perhaps if they suffer personal consequences for their carelessness they'll be more conscientious next time." She looked up from the papers with a regretful expression. "I hate to treat them like children, but when all else fails...."

"I'll tell them," he answered, groaning inwardly. Discipline was easy for Adrian to dispense, but it was Paul who would have to deal with the effects of their resentment.

"As for you, I'll treat this lapse as an anomaly. I trust it won't happen again." She smiled at him brightly. "That will be all."

He stared at her, unable to bring himself to answer. A lapse? Maybe -- but not by him, and not by his team, he wanted to say. But knowing better, he stood, turned, and left.

***

"Welcome back, kiddo," Walter said to Lisa as she limped into Munitions. "Glad to see you in one piece." He grinned. "Oh, and you too, Patrick, though you aren't quite as pretty."

Patrick grunted and dumped his gun, mask, and comm. unit on the table. Lisa smiled wanly at Walter's joke and did the same.

"We were lucky," she said. "They had us completely outnumbered this time."

"Bad intel," added Patrick with a scowl. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw in a gesture of irritation. "Again."

"Too bad Brad wasn't so lucky, though," said Walter. He gave them a knowing look. "Did Paul really cancel the poor bastard on the spot?"

Patrick shrugged. "Guess so."

"It happens," Lisa said uneasily. She wasn't entirely certain what had happened in the cellar of the safehouse, but as far as she was concerned, the less she knew the better. Besides, it was bad luck to talk too much about the dead, especially when the body was virtually still warm.

She could tell Walter wasn't satisfied with the brush-off by the conspiratorial gleam that lit up his face. Fortunately, before he could launch himself into full-on "Tell Uncle Walter" mode, a noise near the entrance interrupted the conversation. It was Madeline; she walked in slowly, her equipment gathered awkwardly in one arm.

As she dropped the equipment on the table, Walter watched her in silence. She looked up, and the two of them stared at each other -- a moment of discomfort broken only when Walter cleared his throat.

"I hear you kicked some bad guy butt out there," he said, his voice cautious but friendly.

Whatever Madeline was expecting from him, it clearly wasn't that. She blinked. Then she smiled -- a bright smile, one that lit up her entire face. It transformed her, instantaneously, into an entirely different person.

"I guess so, Walter," she answered, still smiling.

"You done good," he said. "And since I forgot to mention it before, welcome aboard."

"Thank you."

Lisa snuck a look at Patrick. He gave her a subtle nod of approval.

"Hey, Madeline," said Lisa, "Patrick and I have a kind of tradition of going out to dinner after missions. Would you like to join us? It's nothing fancy -- just cheap food, cheap entertainment and even cheaper drinks."

Madeline looked both surprised and grateful. "I'd like that."

"We'll stop by your quarters at six, then."

"All right," she answered. "Will Paul be joining us?" Her tone was carefully casual -- too much so, in fact.

A snort of laughter escaped from Patrick.

"Uh, these dinners are just for the grunts," Lisa said, shooting a glare at Patrick. "It's not that we don't get along with him, but, well, he's the boss. Having him along would kind of inhibit the celebration, you know?"

"I see," Madeline said. "I was just curious."

Lisa ignored Patrick's smirk and told herself to smack him later. "No problem. We'll see you at six."

***

For the third time in a row, the gear in Charles's van hadn't been racked in the optimal order. For the third time, this had caused several seconds' delay during egress. And so, for the third time, Charles marched toward Munitions to complain about the matter.

Obviously, the weapons master didn't consider Charles's instructions a priority; no doubt the man was too busy making googly eyes at whatever insipid female happened to flash cleavage his way to take care to outfit the vans adequately. But Charles had reached the limit of his tolerance, and if Walter thought Charles could be ignored, he was mistaken.

Lots of people made that mistake about Charles. They assumed that because he didn't wave his arms about like an enraged gorilla, he could be pushed around. Such people underestimated him. Persistence was the key. He would haunt Munitions -- daily if need be -- until Walter gave in, if only just to be rid of him. And Walter would give in. Most people did, eventually, once Charles set his mind on something.

At the entrance to Munitions, a pair of Paul's team members barreled out like schoolchildren racing to a playground. Charles successfully sidestepped them; in his haste, however, he didn't see the dark-haired woman following behind them until he collided into her.

She flinched noticeably and clutched at her arm with her other hand.

"Oh, I'm very sorry," he said. "Are you all right?"

"It's nothing," she replied.

Her tone was dismissive, and her expression unconcerned, but she continued to hold the arm protectively.

"It looks like more than nothing to me," said Charles. "Haven't you been to Medlab?"

"Not yet. We just returned from a mission."

"I suggest you head straight there. Foolish to ignore injuries, you know."

She nodded, but then an odd, almost embarrassed expression crept across her face.

"Actually, I'm not sure where it is."

He raised his eyebrows in incredulity. "Pardon?"

"I've only been here a week," she said, then added with a wry note, "It wasn't on my introductory tour."

Charles drew in a sharp breath of disapproval. "Then your team leader should have taken you. Tell me who he is, and I'll see to it he's reprimanded."

To his surprise, he thought he detected a trace of mirth lift the corners of her mouth.

"I didn't mention my injury to my team leader," she said. "So I don't believe a reprimand will be necessary. Although I appreciate the concern."

She didn't mention it to her team leader? He glanced across the room toward Walter, who just shrugged uselessly, as if he couldn't be bothered to wonder about people's behavior, no matter how strange.

The woman seemed to notice this exchange. "We were busy," she explained. "It didn't seem critical."

Charles laughed. How refreshingly stoic. Quite a contrast to the typical operative, who would scurry to Medlab with the slightest scratch, pleading for medical downtime.

"Interesting perspective," he said approvingly. "Admirable, in a stiff upper lip sort of way. Always thought that was supposed to be my country's specialty."

She didn't answer, but her smile broadened. It lit her eyes with a rich, engaging warmth. Suddenly, lecturing Walter about mission vans didn't seem like such a priority.

"Why don't you follow me?" invited Charles, gesturing toward the door, "Let's get that arm looked at properly, shall we?"

"That's not necessary. I'll find my own way."

"Nonsense. I insist."

She inclined her head in agreement, and Charles led the way down the corridor. As he walked, stealing occasional glances at the woman beside him, he frowned to himself. She had only been in Section a week? That didn't make sense.

"You haven't been here long enough to know where Medlab is, but you're going out on missions?"

"Yes."

He waited, but she volunteered nothing further. The look on her face was difficult to read, despite the startling expressiveness of her eyes. Catching himself staring, he forced himself to look away -- even then, he felt her dark gaze upon him, and the blood rushed to his face in a self-conscious reaction.

"I don't recall seeing you as a recruit at all, in fact," he remarked, unable to restrain his curiosity. "Did you spend the entire time at the Farm?"

"I finished my training ten years ago. For you to remember me as a recruit, you'd need a very good memory."

"Ten years ago?" His puzzlement grew, until the answer dawned on him. "Oh, of course."

"Of course?" she repeated. Something shifted in her tone; it was as if a window cracked open and let in a chilly autumn draft.

"You're the transfer from Section Two everyone's been talking about," he said, and then immediately wanted to eat his words. She didn't need to know she had been gossiped about.

"Have they now?" she asked, the chill turning into frost. "And just what have they been saying?"

He felt a burgeoning discomfort, because in truth, none of it was good. People called her George's protégé, Adrian's new enforcer: she was viewed with suspicion and dread, her arrival seen as a harbinger of harsh new punishments.

The rumors had originated with Jules, the head of Comm. Proud of his wide-ranging sources, Jules had delighted in elaborating on the gruesome details of the new transfer's undercover mission, provoking rampant speculation as to the reason for her transfer. From Jules, the story had passed from operative to operative, becoming increasingly lurid with each telling. The stories had grown to such proportions that Charles had expected a virtual Mengele to arrive at Section One's doorstep.

The person walking beside him, however, didn't fit such a grim image. She was young -- quite young, in fact, which startled him. And elegant, even covered in what looked like soot and grime from her mission. As for her manner, he sensed a hint of a dry wit, mixed with a stubborn independence, all hidden beneath a graceful facade. Not a monster at all

Then there was the matter of her going on missions. According to the rumor mill, she had been transferred in order to take over internal discipline, not to risk her own life in the field like other operatives. In fact, with her background, sending her on missions made no sense whatsoever. It was all very mysterious.

Then again, Charles liked mysteries.

"Nothing they've been saying does you justice," he said. And he meant it.

The chill in her manner vanished, and she smiled in a way that made his face flush hot.

"Here you are," he said, indicating toward the entrance to Medlab. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I'm Charles, by the way. Senior Team Leader."

"Pleased to meet you, Charles. I'm Madeline. I'd shake your hand, but...." She glanced toward her arm.

"Of course." He stood there, wishing there were a reason to accompany her inside, until the awkwardness of waiting became too much to bear. "If you ever need anything else, don't hesitate to come to me."

***

"Can I ask you a question?" Lisa asked, leaning over and placing a hand on Madeline's arm.

She nearly had to yell to be heard over the distorted thump of music from the bar's enormous loudspeakers. Her eyes were bloodshot, perhaps from the haze of cigarette smoke in the room, perhaps from the lateness of the hour, or perhaps from the vodka shots she kept downing. But even bloodshot, they held a bright kind of innocence -- it would have been amusing if it weren't so disarming.

Madeline picked up her drink and sipped it. It was a little awkward with the cast on her forearm, but she managed to ignore the discomfort. "Go ahead."

"How do you know Walter?"

Madeline set her glass down. For someone who was drunk, Lisa picked a shrewd question to ask. Perhaps she wasn't as naive as she appeared.

"What do you mean?" Madeline asked, as noncommittally as possible.

"He says he met you before you transferred here. But he acted kind of funny about it."

Did he indeed? Madeline studied her drink; a slice of lime floated in it, forlorn and half-submerged. Reflexively, she picked up a toothpick and pushed the lime below the liquid's surface. When it bobbed back up, she pierced it, forcing it to the bottom of the glass as if it were an enemy to be drowned.

How did she know Walter? As a spy for Adrian who had nearly caused Madeline to be cancelled. And yet who, out of kindness, had also chosen to keep Madeline's biggest secret to himself.

She understood the spying. It was his job. It was the kindness that was unforgivable.

Madeline looked back up at Lisa. The other woman was intoxicated enough that if Madeline told her the whole story, she likely wouldn't remember a thing afterwards. It made her the perfect confidante. Madeline could speak without fear, could finally unburden herself of all the hurt and anger she had kept to herself the past three years: feelings that had reemerged upon her transfer to Section One, like fresh blood flowing from a broken scab.

Looking into Lisa's friendly face, it was almost tempting. Almost. But if there was one thing that Madeline prided herself on being able to do, it was resisting temptation.

"We met at an inter-Sectional meeting a few years ago," Madeline said. That was true enough, but utterly meaningless.

"That's all?"

"More or less. Why?"

"Oh, I figured he must have hit on you and made an ass of himself."

Madeline laughed, relieved that Lisa was on the wrong track, and amused at the insight into Walter's character. "Good Lord, no."

Lisa grinned. "Good. He can be a bit much sometimes, but he doesn't mean any harm." She swallowed the dregs of her drink with a slurping sound and twisted around in her seat in a fruitless search for a waiter. When she didn't find one, she settled for chewing on an olive. "Paul, on the other hand, is a whole other story."

Madeline stiffened and cast her gaze about the room for a distraction -- any distraction -- to use as an excuse to cut Lisa off. But it was hopeless. Lisa had the enthusiastic expression of someone who'd been pining for a chance to indulge in sisterly gossip, and it was clear she wasn't about to be derailed once she got going.

"Yeah, Paul," Lisa said, "he's kind of an asshole. I mean, he's okay as a team leader, but I wouldn't ever want to go out with him. Not that he'd ever ask me, because I'm not his type, you know, but if I were, and he did, I wouldn't, because, oh, God, I've lost track of my point." She frowned. "Oh, yes. Asshole. He can really be one sometimes." She reached across the table, stole the olive from the drink Patrick had left behind, and popped it in her mouth. "There was this girl," she said, chewing, "Juliana, or Juliette, or something -- who caught him two-timing her. She got so mad she threw a shoe at him -- right in the middle of Section! It was pretty funny, except I heard she got transferred to Libya afterwards, so maybe it wasn't very funny at all."

That was quite enough. Madeline seized the moment to change the subject. If Lisa wanted to gossip so badly, she could do so about herself.

"So, what about you and Patrick?"

Lisa blinked in confusion and looked around the room. Patrick, who had wandered off in search of a toilet, was nowhere in sight.

"Uh, what do you mean?"

"You seem close."

Lisa raised her eyebrows in the excessively dramatic way of the thoroughly inebriated. "Oh, jeeze, no, it's nothing like that! We were recruits together. We've been on the same teams since forever. We're buddies, you know?"

Madeline suppressed a smile. Lisa's reaction was endearing, in a teenaged sort of way. How could someone survive in Section and still come across as so young?

"All right. No romance with Patrick. Anyone else?"

"No, no, that just leads to trouble. It was thanks to an idiotic boyfriend that I got recruited in the first place. Completely ruined my life." She rolled her eyes. "If he weren't already dead, I'd kill him." Seemingly out of nowhere, her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with her sleeve and laughed bitterly. "I still miss the stupid piece of shit. How pathetic is that?"

Before Madeline could respond, Patrick slumped into the empty chair at their table. He inspected their glasses gravely and announced, "Time for a new round."

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

Cigarette in hand, Paul stalked toward Madeline's quarters. It was one in the morning, and she had been gone all evening -- out celebrating with her fellow team members, apparently, all of them oblivious to the fact that Adrian considered the mission a failure. He had checked for her return three times already, and with each hour that passed, he had grown steadily angrier.

He arrived at the door and jabbed at the buzzer with his thumb. If she didn't answer this time, he intended to bypass the security code and go in anyway. He would sit up all night waiting for her if he had to.

Those thoughts vanished when the door opened. She stood there, looking half-asleep and surprised to see him, her hair tangled in a dark mass that hung down against the rich maroon of her robe. She leaned on one arm against the doorframe. Oddly, the other was bound in a cast.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing serious."

He took a long drag on his cigarette. The anger coiled in his muscles; it seemed to warp the space around him as if he were emanating waves of heat. Watching him, however, she merely looked amused.

"Why don't you come in?" she said, arching an eyebrow.

She opened the door wider, and he pushed past her into the quarters. The room was sparsely furnished and dimly lit; a single table lamp provided the sole illumination. In her week at Section, she seemed to have collected no personal effects -- the coat tossed across the back of a chair was the only sign that anyone lived there.

He heard her close the door and he turned around to face her.

"Adrian was very happy with your performance on the mission," he said.

A look of mild surprise filled her face.

"But I wasn't," he added sharply.