A sober young woman picked at the cellophane wrapper of her cigarette pack with a fingernail until she could grasp a tap and pull it off. She tore the foil and tamped the pack against the heel of her hand until one white cylinder popped out. She put it to her lips and lit it with a match.

"Hey, baby, gimme one," the man in bed next to her demanded, his voice thick with morning phlegm. She obliged silently, lighting it for him before sliding it between his lips. He grunted in surly gratitude, then rolled away from her to smoke on his half of the bed, cough, and stare out the window, leaving her to smoke her own cigarette in peace.

"Are you nervous, Bobby?" she asked, softly exhaling smoke with the words.

"Mm."

"I'm too tired to be scared," she replied to his grunt of assent. Her voice came from some place near graves, and he must have heard that, for he rolled back and looked at her as she sat up in bed, inhaling slowly and blowing out thin streams of smoke.

"It'll be worth it," he assured her. He reached up to pluck a brassy reddish blonde lock of her hair and toy with it. "Then I'll take you out to party and put all this crap behind us."

"I think I'll die today." The young woman never looked away from some far away object.

"Christ, Cathy!" Bobby pinched her shoulder angrily.

"Ow! Quit it, asshole!" She shoved him. "Maybe I'm just scared, okay? These are dangerous people we're meeting today."

Bobby set his cigarette on the edge of the nightstand before he encircled Cathy in his arms. He sometimes forgot just how young she was, how unsure she might feel. "I know, baby. I know."

Catherine let Bobby have sex with her again. She would have just as soon skipped it, but she felt she should give him something instead of lies and hidden agendas. She was not what he thought she was-a down and out prostitute on the make. She certainly did not take up with Bobby because of his disreputable good looks. She had planned. Researched. Plotted. And found him, a petty con man willing to dabble in just about anything from hot car parts to weapons. She had worked hard to find a guy like him.

Hard work landed her Bobby, but it was blind luck that plopped a briefcase of high-tech plastic explosives in his lap. He always smiled and said he had his "sources", but Catherine knew he had stumbled into the acquisition. She didn't know how it had happened and she didn't care. She just made sure that she nudged him in the right direction to take her where she wanted to go.

People wanted to buy what Bobby stored under Catherine's bed in a chunky rectangle of a case, and she made damn sure they were the right people. He never really knew what she did to make it seem like she had nothing to do with the business end of his dealings, but it was she, not Bobby, who carefully chose the customer. She made sure the customer was the very person she wanted to kill-the one who had killed everyone she loved.

After two years of walking around like the living dead, Catherine would now join her family.

"Are you ready?" Bobby asked Catherine in the car. The meeting was to have taken place by the riverfront behind an old factory, far from any prying eyes, but Catherine had cautioned against that early on, saying "It's too lonely. They could just take the loot, kill us, and no one would ever see." Somehow they came to the conclusion that one of the busier city parks would be a better choice, and he knew who planted that idea. The buyer had agreed, and Bobby had relaxed.

Now, waiting in the park, watching joggers and bikers pass by enjoying the late spring weather, he was nervous. This was the biggest thing he'd ever done. These people were going to pay him a hundred grand! For one measly suitcase of explosives! No more petty crap for Bobby, oh no. He would set himself up big with that kind of money, and he'd keep on doing it big, too.

Maybe he'd keep Cathy around to party with. She was young, but she was pretty, and she never hesitated to jump in the sack with him. He glanced at her as she stared out the window. She was withdrawn and serious and had been ever since they had found a buyer. Her talk of death this morning rattled him as much as it annoyed him. Maybe he would have to cut her loose. She didn't even try to spruce up this morning. She just wore jeans and a bulky sweater even though the temperature was climbing higher, her hair in a pony tail and her face bare of make-up.

"Cathy?" he prompted her again.

"Yes. I'm ready," she replied softly.

A car crunched over gravel, audible through open windows. They turned to look at the same time; this was the car they'd been told to look for. It rolled to a stop several car lengths away, and four men got out. The driver remained by his open door while the others advanced.

Bobby and Catherine got out of their own car.

"Where's the money?" Bobby demanded stridently.

"Right here," man number one raised up a slim briefcase in his hand, then let it drop back to slap his leg as he continued advancing with his companions. "Do you have the product?"

"Yeah," Bobby leaned into the back seat window and brought out his own, bulky case.

The man set his case on the hood of Bobby's car. The other three never said a word. They stood quietly, waiting to do whatever the first man bid them to do. Catherine searched each face intently, looking for and finding recognition. She knew who this man with the money was; he was a maker of bombs. She knew that he designed bombs, he placed bombs, and he blew up bombs. He had made, placed, and detonated the bomb almost two years ago that killed Catherine's family and scarred her on the outside and in. He had a name: Stephen Krupps. He was a man she had paid dearly in time and money during her search for his identity. Because of him, not only was her family dead and buried but her inheritance squandered, her innocence shattered.

The sudden noise of Bobby's case hitting the hood of his car yanked Catherine from the blood-soaked past to the sweet, cold present. She reached for the handgun stuck in the waistband of her jeans and hidden by her bulky sweater, intent only on shooting Krupps before his henchmen killed her, but another, flatter sound drew a yelp from the driver and he fell.

Krupps backed away quickly from Bobby; his henchmen instantly ready with guns in hand. Bobby raised his hands in confusion, knowing that something very bad was happening but not exactly what.

"What? What!" he yelled. "What are you doing?"

"I'm taking what I came for." Krupps gestured for one of his men to take the explosives from the car hood.

"What about my money?"

"Double crossing wasn't in the deal."

Another flat whit sound hit the man holding the explosives case. It fell to the ground and flopped to one side as he dropped it and staggered back to his car. Even Bobby could now determine the shots came from a raised hill to the east of them, and he dove under his own car.

"No," Catherine whimpered. Her gun remained hidden, her arms useless with despair.

Three black-clad figures emerged from the vegetation on that rise, semi-automatic weapons up and firing. Krupps and his two remaining guards took refuge behind their own car. A fierce firefight broke out, sending one of the mysterious black figures to the ground, but another materialized seemingly out of air behind Krupps' car, flanking him and his guards.

Catherine stood still and numb by Bobby's car. Not one bullet had hit her. The stealthy man all in black approached Krupps and pointed his gun at the man's head.

"Drop your weapons."

All three complied, Krupps cowering helplessly on the ground now that his henchmen were neutralized. The other black-clad men rushed in and applied restraints. An accented, masculine voice radiated from the first figure. "Krupps is alive and secured. I'm bringing him in. Call in housekeeping."

Catherine slowly walked closer to where Krupps and his men knelt, hands fastened behind their backs. The tall masked figure jerked his head to another, obviously indicating him to deal with Catherine. She stopped when she knew she was close enough, drew her gun and shot Krupps in his right temple. She saw a satisfying spray of blood and brains fly out before her gun leaped of its own accord and shot Krupps' men neatly in their heads as well. Her gun jumped up when her eye caught movement, and she squeezed off one last shot before her gun was knocked from her hand by some unseen force. Her legs began to rebel, and birds, tiny black birds; thousands of them all converged in front of Catherine. I've been shot she thought, and she found great comfort in knowing that soon she would see her dead loved ones.

She fell but felt no pain, just a muffled sense of movement as she impacted the ground. A fuzzy, light center remained in her vision, and a face appeared in it. Late afternoon sun blazed all around a man's face, his long brown hair gilded into molten mahogany and plasma. She had never seen eyes that were so like clear green glass. He was beautiful and somber and she remembered how her sister was convinced she saw an angel as she died.

"Are you an angel?" she whispered, and tasted blood.

"Who are you?" he demanded. His accent was French.

Catherine found that fact amusing. She figured she had better give her real name to the angel who was taking her to heaven. "Catherine Jane Madison. Can I see my mother . . . now?"

The blackbirds covered everything.

Five Years Later

A quiet day began in Section One, and Ops summoned Michael to Systems before he had a chance to settle comfortably at his desk. The inconvenience never registered with Michael.

"Michael," Ops almost smiled in greeting. "I have just accepted an operative transfer. She'll be arriving momentarily." He held up a rainbow disk. "In the meantime, have Birkoff install her file down here, then I'd like you to take her disk to deep storage."

Michael took the disk.

"Review her file and meet her today. I've requested her for her marksmanship: as you know Red Cell's acquisition of our directory and subsequent hits have left some skills gaps that even now we occasionally feel. She comes with excellent recommendations from her previous commander-Jensen is his name. You've worked with him before on several occasions, haven't you?" He never paused to let Michael answer. "I foresee a smooth transition." Again, he twitched his mouth, a subtle sign Michael knew meant he was hiding something-nothing of a serious nature, but something that would inconvenience Michael, no doubt.

"Thank you," Michael nodded slightly and withdrew.

Later, Michael slid through the computer station, stopping just beside Birkoff. He held out a disk, politely offering it, then dropping it with a clatter when Birkoff ignored him. The noise yanked him from his intense concentration and he shot a sour look at Michael.

"What's this?" he picked up the disk.

"An operative's transfer file. Load it to our directory, please."

Birkoff almost put him off a bit, annoyed at being jerked so rudely from his work, but as no missions were on-urgent or otherwise-he thought better of it considering who was asking and pushed himself back in the chair. The castors rolled him silently to the appropriate terminal and he inserted the disc. Information skimmed along the monitor. Birkoff barely glanced at it: this was Michael's stuff. Pages of text, a few pictures of a somber female face that screamed along too quickly for the human eye to process completely, then it was finished. He knew more information lay encoded in that disk, but the deep psych evaluations and whatever else they put in there wasn't required for most mission profiles. Someone-perhaps even Michael-would upload the balance of the file elsewhere in the system. He knew more intel existed, for he had accessed such personnel files before. It was risky, but he was the ghost who could walk through the machine-and he had gotten away with it.

"Loaded," Birkoff gave Michael his disc back, to be stored in some part of Section few people were allowed to access.

Pale eyes pinned him briefly. "Thank you." He turned and glided back out. Birkoff noticed all the female eyes followed, including Gail's.

"Hey, don't you all have something to do?" he snapped at the whole team. Most eyes flew back to assigned tasks, but Gail pouted before she got up from her station and sashayed over. Birkoff mentally kicked himself for opening his mouth. He knew the effect Michael had on females and would never dream of calling them on it, but Gail . . . it seemed she had a hard time keeping her eyes off any male, and that bothered him.

"That wasn't meant for me too, was it?" Gail frowned.

"Are you finished your work?" he shot back.

"I declare! Seymour, are you jealous?" She made his name sound dumb.

"No. I'm busy, and you are too."

"But are you busy tonight? We could do something," she smiled down at him.

"Sure, whatever," he said, resigned, and returned his attention to the monitor. Somehow, it seemed easier to go with the flow and let her have her way with him than try to exert his own will in the matter of her hot and cold behavior. Besides, he wasn't about to turn down the sex. He turned to tell her when to come over but she was gone, back at her station, busily tapping away at the keyboard. Surprised, he glanced around and found the reason: Ops approached. Unlike Michael's silent stalk, Ops charged into the room, snorting and in a bad temper. Gail and the others had flocked away in defense.

"Birkoff!" Ops barked. "Take a look at this."

Madeline took charge of integrating the newest operative to be an active member in this cell of Section One. She purposely did not read the complete file before she accompanied Ops to meet the young woman; instead she skimmed the summarized fact sheet so she could make her own first impressions. Standing silently by his side, she watched Operations accept the new operative's hand-carried folder and her pert salute with no humor earlier in the day.

"Madeline will assign your specific duties," Operations had said curtly. Madeline suppressed a smile-she knew how much the pert attitude rankled him. "She answers only to me, and you will answer only to her, unless you're chosen for a mission, when you'll take orders from your team leader." He outlined more information for the young woman before he nodded to Madeline, ignoring the new op, and walked off.

Madeline gazed without speaking at her, weighing and assessing. Already she felt confident that she would find documentation of an abusive father or father figure in the complete file, just from observing her behavior with Ops.

Her name was Catherine Madison, a name Madeline could appreciate. She traveled light, carrying a backpack and two duffel bags that held all her material belongings in the world. Good she thought. An effective operative could not afford to be tied sentimentally to things. While she had squirmed under Ops' oration, Madeline watched her unconsciously sway her weight from foot to foot in a motion so slight she nearly missed it. The girl had good control, but not perfect. Now it was time to verbally assess the girl and Madeline unhesitating chose a basic pattern of polite inquiry that would spiral down into probing questions.

"How was your trip, Catherine?" Madeline asked.

"I prefer Madison, please." Her voice was clear and low.

"Madison, then," Madeline nodded. "I'll show you to your room and how to get connected to the system after I give you a quick tour of the facilities. As for your other duties, I'll assign your specific tasks tonight," Madeline said. She turned and began walking down the corridor, not offering to help with her bags, forcing her to carry them through Section. With graceful hand gestures, Madeline indicated the various areas of Section that a newcomer would need to know: Systems, Com, Medical, the White Room, the armory, gym, and dorms. The tour ended with Madeline's own office. Sterile, neutral, and modern, the office gave little impression of the owner.

"Please, have a seat while I review your file," Madeline gestured to a padded chair and took her own seat behind the desk. The girl set her things down and sank into the chair.

Used to the ways of Section, Madison sat quietly, taking time to survey the rest of the office while Madeline read from her computer. Perfect little trees lived on display behind immaculate glass. The quality of the carpet felt luxurious even to shod feet.

"Ah," Madeline said as she read. Madison looked at her, but she continued reading and did not elaborate. She looked about some more, marveling at the sheer show of money and power this blank office represented. It was obviously constructed of the very best materials. Not one flaw existed anywhere within sight, yet still it revealed nothing other than the fact of its excellence. A person could sit where Madison sat and know that the owner meant business, but just what that business was the hypothetical person would never determine on her own. After seeing the rest of Section, she was not surprised. The whole place reeked of money and power, far more than the sub-station of her previous assignment. Misgivings over her choice to transfer annoyed her again. She ruthlessly paved them under with the anger she still felt at her former commander, Seth Jensen.

She couldn't help but replay in her head the argument they had yesterday.

"They'll chew you up there," he had said, leaning his lanky frame against his desk. "Chew you up and spit you out when they're through."

"Stop it with the big brother mode, Seth. I'm not a kid," she had snapped back. "And tell me, just what is holding me here anymore? Huh? Paige and Maria are gone. I don't have a team anymore."

"They are dead, not just gone, and have been for nearly a year. Why the hell do you think you need to transfer now?" His agitation almost gave distinction to his nondescript pleasant face and faded eyes.

"I don't know! There wasn't this sort of opportunity until now! And I have no idea why you're trying to stop me."

Seth had crossed his arms and turned his face away. "I know what they can be like. It's not like here at all."

Madison knew he wanted to protect her, even as she sat in Madeline's office awaiting judgment. She would show him how well she could do on her own, but better yet, she would show herself. With a blink and a soft breath she returned her attention on learning all she could about her new home and the people around her.

Finding no more clues to gather by examining the room, Madison focused her awareness on Madeline. Elegant, beautiful, and controlled, she sat with her back perfectly straight as she scrolled through computer information. Madison admired the luxurious fall of rich sable hair and large expressive eyes, and the refined lines of her clothing. She was struck by two things simultaneously: Madeline had stood, still and quiet as a hungry owl next to Operations earlier, and now the transferred operative knew the office was a reflection of Madeline herself-inscrutable. More than Ops, this Madeline frightened her. She shifted her eyes to the bonsai trees once more, loath to be caught staring at her.

Madeline looked up from the monitor and the information contained therein, and silently watched Madison assess her office. "She sees the power here, respects it and is honored to serve it," Madeline thought, meshing the reality of the young woman before her with the dry facts of her file. According to her file, a terrorist bomb killed her entire family. Madison spent most of her considerable inheritance and two years tracking down the trigger man. She had accomplished her revenge, and under unusual circumstances. Remarkable.

The thorniest aspect of the young woman's transfer would be how she responded to Michael. Considering his role in her recruitment, the dynamics between the two could cause problems. Madeline felt confident in Michael's professionalism. Madison, however, was an unknown quantity. She professed to be very content with her job, and according to file, considered her role in Section a very necessary means to protect the innocent from terrorism. Considering how she lost her family, it was a logical conclusion for the girl to draw. If residual resentment toward Michael surfaced, Madeline felt confident she could manage the girl. She continued to other reported aspects of personality.

Madison sought out casual sexual encounters on a regular basis for a healthy woman of her age. In the past she had halted two romantic relationships herself when it seemed her partners demanded more of her than that casual sex: one inside and one outside Section. Good. There was enough of that nonsense flying around this location.

Directly related to the Red Cell acquisition of the directory that led to so many deaths, Madison lost her two roommates-Section agents that she had worked excellently with and were by all accounts close friends. Since that loss, she had been living in-quarters, eschewing the outside.

"A double-edged sword, that," Madeline thought. Such dependency on Section often produced more efficient agents, but sometimes caused gaps in knowledge or experience, Birkoff being the extreme example of that phenomenon. However, the loss occurred nearly a year ago. The woman before her seemed to be through the grief. Perhaps there would be no problem.

"Your file impresses me," Madeline said abruptly. "I see here you were eager to transfer. Please, tell me why."

Madison almost fell into those twin chocolate pools of trustworthiness, but the image of a still bird of prey would not leave her. Trust went only so far within Section, and it was best to keep her innermost thoughts and feelings covered up. This Madeline was frightfully perceptive, though, and Madison sensed it. She stuck to the abbreviated truth.

"Two main reasons, really," she said. "One professional, one personal. Our branch of Section is smaller; an agent pool more than anything. I was called in for sniper assignments, or as furniture."

"Furniture?" Madeline asked, then smiled. "Ah, the well dressed female companion, I suppose?"

"Yes, that's it. My roommates and I got that call often," she smiled at the memory. It quickly faded. "But . . . I went to a movie one night, and when I returned they were dead. I used to daydream the movie was shorter and I came home earlier-."

"Then you would have died with them."

Madison looked back at Madeline from her stare into the past. "That's a good projection, yes. But the hit men were sloppy. I got all four while they looted our apartment."

"I suspect Red Cell found our retaliations . . . unpleasant," Madeline said. "But go on: you'd lost your roommates and . . .?"

"And there's nothing holding me back from heading here and expanding my capabilities. My reliance on guns has hampered my hand to hand combat skills. I want to expand my knowledge of explosives, timers, and computers, too. I want to improve my skills to accomplish more."

"And prevent the deaths of more families?" Madeline asked, softly sinister.

"Yes," Madison replied firmly.

"There are times when we can't prevent the bombs."

"My family is dead. I've no more ax to grind. The small good Section accomplishes is good enough."

Madeline held her gaze silently for many long moments. The profiler who generated information on the girl gave high marks, but did not seem to perceive the same potential in her that Madeline did. No matter. She was the best purveyor of human souls. Any observations she made would supercede those made by the commander of a sub-station. Then she smiled again. "I'm very pleased indeed with your answers. I think you'll do wonderfully here."

Within the hour, a mission waited hot on the table. Ops called Michael, Nikita, Birkoff, and Griffin together to prepare. Two objectives needed to be met that very night: a building must be destroyed and a man must be killed. Birkoff had already run several sims and it seemed to be a very straightforward mission: plant some bombs and shoot a guy. The planning took very little time when Ops gave the responsibility to Michael-with a condition.

"Go and prepare the rest of your team, but use the new operative for the shooter," Ops said. "Her file says she's the one of the best. Frankly, recent losses we've suffered have left us with inadequate numbers of good shooters."

Michael inclined his head slightly. Ops had said that for the benefit of the rest of the team. Operations leaned over to push the console button. He called up the file on Catherine Madison that Birkoff uploaded into the system this morning. Her unsmiling face looked out from the picture with blank gray eyes under a cap of short dark hair. Bleak facts hanging in the air next to the picture summed up her life.

Michael never glanced at the three-dimensional information hanging in the air, but rather at the other team members as they looked at it. The bluish glow reflected off from the blank and professional faces of his fellow operatives and ignited a glare on Birkoff's glasses so he could not see the brown eyes beneath them. He scanned their faces in less than a second, then looked at Nikita. She held her face as expressionless as the others did but he could see her eyes reading the information and a troubled frown settle on her brow as she finished. When he had the luxury of time to worry about her he wished she would rein in those spontaneous shows of emotion that escaped her will. He wished this even though he knew he would loose something more precious than life on the day that she could contain all the passion within her-and share none of it with him.

Operations killed the projection after a few seconds and the face Michael watched fell into shadow. Ops dismissed them. The meeting broke up and everyone drifted away to perform the tasks needed.

Michael left to inform the new operative of her mission status. She was easy enough to find as she bunked with the recruits in Section. Provisions for a more permanent residence hadn't had time to come to fruition. He walked down and found her.

"Catherine Madison?" he said when he met her at her room's door.

"Yes," she replied. A puzzled crease appeared between her eyebrows.

"You're needed. My name is Michael-I'll be the mission leader. Suit up and be ready to leave. This contains all the details you need to know." He held out a PDA.

"Do I know you?" Madison asked abruptly after she took the device. His silken accented voice ignited an itch deep in some part of her brain she could not scratch.

Michael looked at her again. He cursed himself internally for not reading the file when Ops had projected it although the emotion never flickered on his face. He thought, compared . . . The face was familiar. Soon the circumstances around the how of his knowing her clicked into place, and he now knew what inconvenience Ops had tossed into his lap. Her hair had been different then; long and dyed blonde instead of the shining dark whips clinging to her jaw line.

He drew in a breath. "Not really," he replied. "We met only briefly. There was no time for introductions. Perhaps later we can discuss this." His eyes slid off her face again, then he asked, "What name do you prefer to go by? Catherine?"

"Madison, please," she held her voice steady even as her gut tightened. His voice ran a shiver from her pelvis up her spine to her brain. Low, sexy, and smooth, his speech yet kept a constantly cold temperature of danger.

"Go see Walter: he'll provide you with everything you will need." He gave her additional instructions, speaking quickly and softly.

She shrugged, then frowned again. Beyond handsome, his was a figure she would have been sure to remember, yet . . .. She thought hard, but only fragmented images came to her. "No, no, it may take some time, but I'll figure out who you are."

"Don't let it get in the way of being ready when the time comes to go." He left.

She was a Section One operative. She accepted his comment for the threat it was.

Madison knew better than to rely solely on what the mission leader told her. The average gun-toting muscle-headed agent never seemed to see it coming when suicide missions came down the pike, but she was far smarter than that. Meeting Ops, taking his orders and Michael's told her all she needed to know: this was not the same Section she had worked for under Seth Jensen's command, and Madison was not going to take anything presented to her at face value.

Michael told her when and where to meet the rest of her team at the loading area, and added that someone named Birkoff would be manning the com units. She wanted to review the sims herself, but she still lacked computer access to the mainframe, and there was no time to rectify that before the mission began. Instead, she kept the details of the mission contained in the PDA fresh in her mind, reviewing them over and over until they were memorized. There would be no opportunity to leisurely pull it out after she was deployed, and this first mission under a new command could determine her future.

Walter, a lean old stump of a man with the beauty of his youth weathered deep and his gray hair bound with a navy bandana provided her with her mission gear. Black action wear and a silenced nine millimeter handgun were standard; they was nothing new to Madison. The rest of the equipment impressed her with the variety and expense. It seemed she had made do with far less in the past-but then, Jensen's biggest trait was thriftiness.

"This'll do ya?" Walter handed her the rifle with a grin.

"Oh, yeah," Madison took it with an admiring eye, noting the special scope, easily assembled components and deadly dull matte finish of the stock. She settled it into her embrace and caressed the scope with her cheek, sighting on control panels blinking far down the corridor.

Click.

"Oh, yeah," she repeated. "This'll do."

Michael proceeded directly to his office and delved into Madison's file. Madeline had already interviewed the girl and added what observations she thought relevant. Surprisingly, her assessment was positive. He considered that information carefully, for Madeline was thorough if nothing else. He closed the computer file and left his office in search of Nikita.

Michael found Nikita in Walter's area, holstering her last weapon. As he approached, she looked up then straightened up, squaring her shoulders in an unconsciously offensive position. Catherine and Griffin also stood there, making last-minute adjustments to equipment. Michael gestured to Nikita with a glance to follow him as he walked out of earshot.

"What is it Michael?" she asked, tilting her head toward him.

"Madison . . . have you met her?"

"Well, just now," Nikita glanced back. "Why?"

"I'd like you to keep an eye on her. See how she performs."

Nikita frowned, a question in her eyes.

"She's new here this morning," Michael replied to that unspoken query. "I want the opinion of someone I trust as I can't be there to assess her myself."

Nikita leaned back, her hair still loose and flowing down the all-black gear she wore, and looked with calculation from Michael to Madison and back again.

"I saw her file, same as you. This isn't her first mission."

"No, it isn't." He reined in his roving glance to look at Nikita once more. "It's just a favor I'm asking."

"Ah," Nikita smiled. She obviously enjoyed the prospect of having him in her debt. "In that case I'll do it."

Michael fixed her with a mildly disapproving look before he moved on to the com area. Nikita smirked, knowing she had just won a point. She lost the smile when she transferred her attention back to Walter's area and the young woman standing there, sighting down a rifle scope. Madison smiled as she talked to Walter and handled her equipment with ease. She had a sturdy look to her and an honest comeliness that her file picture never even hinted at. What was Michael's motive?

"Hey, Madison, Grif," Nikita said as she walked up. "You guys ready?"

"Rock and roll." Griffin settled a knit cap over his cropped bleached hair. "Oh, did you hear we're using a jeep instead of the van?"

"No, I hadn't."

"The order just came down," Walter interjected. "No van, but I've got you a nice new Land Rover."

"Does it have a CD player, or is the radio tuned to one of your geezer rock stations?" Griffin grabbed his pack and ducked back to avoid any retaliation Walter might have made.

"Ah, get out of here," Walter dismissed him in favor of watching the women finish preparing.

"Color me gone. Meet you at access." He left.

Madison dismantled her rifle, settling the pieces into the foam forms and zipping up the whole contraption until it looked like an ordinary black back pack. She slung it over one shoulder with a graceful shrug.

"Hell of a first day, huh? Where are you staying?" Nikita tucked her hair up under a cap identical to Griffin's.

"Here, for now. I'll worry about digs after the mission." Madison looked up with admiration at Nikita's lithe form.

"You two be careful out there," Walter admonished.

Madison looked back at him, surprised. "Why, thank you, sir."

"Sir?" Nikita's lips curved upward, glancing from Madison to Walter. "Since when do you rate a 'sir'?"

"Never mind her, Madison," Walter leaned over his counter in a companionable manner. "She's just a wench-no manners at all."

"Walter!"

He shrugged.

Nikita snorted. "Well, at least I'm not leering down anyone's cleavage."

Walter straightened, grinning.

"Hmph," Madison tried to keep her face neutral, but it didn't hold-she chuckled. "I think we'd better go before someone gets in trouble."

"Wouldn't be me." Walter shook his head. He pointed at Nikita, who just shook her head and led the way to van access.

Out of earshot, Madison asked quietly, "That was all just joking, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"He's-I've...He was nice."

"Yeah, he's nice. Is that so weird?"

Madison held her silence. She regretted what she said already; it made her look inexperienced. She thought a bit and said, "It just isn't very professional."

"He may not seem it, but he's the best."

Madison nodded. She watched Nikita surreptitiously, noticing that the woman did not merely walk down the hall but strode along with a swinging animal grace she envied. The woman had an open quality about her that made Madison feel more at ease than anyone had in Section yet. She was suddenly reminded keenly of Seth and instead of prompting anger, the remembrance warmed her.

Catherine, Nikita, Griffin and two more operatives-Landry and Roush-spilled from the SUV before it had completely stopped, and the driver sped off as soon as the last door slammed shut. Madison knew what to do as well as the others, and her place was far above her head. She jumped up and hooked the fire-escape ladder that clung, rusty and obvious to the side of the building, and pulled. Nothing happened. Nikita and the others pelted away, quickly swallowed up by the dark alley as if happy of this offering of black-clad sacrifices. Madison hung, bouncing all her weight on the recalcitrant ladder until it squealed down and spit flakes of rust on her. She clambered up, and up, and up, gained the roof, and trotted to the northeast corner. She glanced down; the view was perfect. Her discerning eye could pick out Landry's fidgeting behind a dumpster. She hoped that for his sake he did it quietly as she ducked back and set about her task with business-like efficiency.

Unlike some sharpshooters, she was not enamoured with the actual technology of guns. She could appreciate quality when she worked with it, but she never bothered to marvel at the sublime craftsmanship that went into the making of the rifle. If she could pitch rocks at her targets, she would find as much satisfaction; however, rocks would not accomplish what needed to be done here tonight. Whatever her feelings about the gun, the familiar assembly of her tool of the trade came to her hands without thinking and calmed her better than anything else could.

"Madison, are you in position?"

She jumped.

"Yes," she said confidently after censoring the epithet she wanted to utter. She knew she was wired to Birkoff as he guided the mission, but the peaceful, detached silence of the rooftop had lulled her. The last component of her gun snicked into place. She brought it to her eye and trained it on the doorway across the rectangular yard below her. "I have the area covered, but I see nothing yet."

"Expect a target in thirty seconds."

"Confirmation of target yet?"

"No." His tenor voice sounded confident, matter-of-fact even through transmission.

Madison declined to ask too many questions for fear of being perceived as inadequate. She let her concentration flow at once outward through the rifle scope and within as she inhaled. Time suspended for her, but Birkoff's voice in her ear no longer startled her. His voice was the only link to the world she knew existed down there among people and responsibilities and danger.

"I see a target," Madison spied the faintest hint of movement out the corner of her eye and skewered it in the gun sight. "Do I have a confirmation?"

"Where?" Birkoff's voice was terse this time. He did not see the target.

"North, northwest in the square below me. Behind crates."

The guiding voice disappeared, no doubt asking the other operatives for more visual and thermal sensory input.

"We have confirmation. The target will emerge from the northeast door in ten seconds. You found a drunk."

Madison re-trained her aim. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. The door opened and a male figure emerged wearing an overcoat and hat.

"Target confirmed?" Madison asked, although the order had been given.

"It's him. Get him now."

The figure turned, possibly aroused by the drunken homeless person to his right. His cheek and neck lay exposed, silvery in the enhanced vision of the scope. Madison fired twice: he went down. Before his coat stopped flapping, she yanked at the components of her gun, pulling them apart methodically, but quickly. Seconds later she ran back the way she had come to the fire escape and swung down the ladder to the first landing. Noise she knew she did not generate wafted up from the narrow alley. A tractor trailer truck rumbled throatily to itself below her.

"My way is blocked, Birkoff," Madison said.

"Blocked?"

"Yes! Blocked! A damned truck is filling the alley: I can't climb down unless I land on the top of the truck. Should I take out the driver?"

Silence. Michael's voice filled her ear. "No. Go nowhere near the truck. Find another way down."

"There are no other ways down from the roof," Madison said breathlessly, but calm. "What difference does it make if the driver sees me or not, anyhow?"

Once more silence. Then Michael's voice again. "We need the driver alive and unaware of our direct involvement with this mission. Go through the building. Try the roof door."

Madison had learned the trick of squelching fear years ago. She had to actively squelch now. She climbed back up to the roof.

"It won't open." She hit the door once with her fist when the knob failed her, and her fear grew stronger. The other operatives were already inside the building to the west of Madison's position now: she was to meet them at the west entrance for pick up.

"Go to the west side of the roof," Birkoff's voice sounded like a lifeline to her. Another voice said something, but she couldn't make it out. "The next building is close. Jump to it. You'll be hidden from the truck."

"Jump it, eh?" She leaned over to look.

"Yeah. Jump it." Madison could hear the fatalistic humor.

She backed up, ran, and jumped.

As soon as her foot left the roof, she knew she would make it. Something in her left ankle gave way and a sudden sharp pain that radiated all the way to her hip socket told her she had most likely just broken her leg. She grunted, tears welling without her consent. The landing knocked her down and she rolled several times before she could gain control of herself.

"Madison?"

"Yah," she muttered.

"Madison?" The voice was still calm.

"Shit, yes, I made it!" she yelled at him, angry at the pain and the world along with it.

"Go to the door. It'll be open. Any target you see is viable," Birkoff's voice remained as calm as before.

Madison shuffled as fast as she could to the roof access. It opened, and she drew a breath before hopping down, using the handrail to take as much of her weight from her injured leg as possible.

"At the landing, turn left. Go straight through the hall to the west stairwell, then down as far as you can go."

From there, she followed directions, intercepting only one pair of guards as she descended. She drew her handgun and they died silently on the stairwell. The intel Birkoff poured through her com marveled her with the precise detail and lucid delivery. His voice was calm, the consummate professional. With each step, Madison vowed to somehow reward him. She guessed he was probably some older agent, no longer good in the field but too valuable with the computers and mission planning to give up. He was probably like that cold fish Ops, or Michael, ruthlessly efficient. She mentally clung to the unruffled directions, throwing her trust in that ruthless efficiency of Section to get her through this maze safe to the transport. After all was said and done, Section One was all she had now.

"The rest of the team is outside. You've got one minute left."

Madison panted, nearly done in by the effort it took to keep lurching forward on her injured leg. The rest of the team had rigged this building to explode; she had no intention of being anywhere near when the bombs detonated. Bodies lay, all essential animation taken from them by Madison's team-members, and she gained the door without a fight. Outside stood the black SUV that had brought them, loaded and ready to leave, the back passenger door open for Madison. There were no walls she could use for support out in the open. She hobbled forward as best as she could but fell hard just ten yards from the door and swore under her breath.

"Team One, what's wrong?"

"She's down, Birkoff," Nikita said over the com. "I'm going after her."

"Make it quick. You've got twenty seconds."

Madison heaved herself to her feet and shuffled forward inches each painful hop. Head down, sweating in concentration, she never saw Nikita and Griffin emerge from the SUV and run mell-pell for her.

Once more Birkoff's voice invaded her head, this time on an open frequency so all the agents could hear. "Twelve seconds left. Get out of there."

Griffin and Nikita appeared at her side and each grabbed one of Madison's arms to haul her the last few yards to the vehicle. Madison ground her teeth together but failed to prevent an involuntary grunt as the others unceremoniously pitched her into the waiting vehicle. The last door slammed and the driver pushed the accelerator to the floor.

Hellish day came suddenly and violently to the square, pushing the SUV along like a twig in a tempest. Bricks and other debris flew about them. The back window shattered and Landry yelped.

"Are you secure? Team one?" Birkoff asked.

"We're secure," Nikita said tersely. The flames and shrapnel decreased as the SUV increased speed.

"Okay. Debriefing when you get in."

"Great," Madison panted, thinking of the pain throbbing up and down her leg.

"Say again-I didn't get that."

Madison revised what she was going to say. She compressed the pain as best she could and let real gratitude and warmth inflate her voice.

"I said thank you, Birkoff."

Mercy flowed from the powers that be back in Section: they let Madison go straight to medical, where a doctor gave her a wonderful shot of painkillers and made x-ray pictures of her foot and leg. An hour later, Madison lay on a hospital bed, her leg on top of the covers protected by a medical boot. Madeline walked into her room without knocking. Sleepy, Madison was caught off guard.

"You will recover completely, although you'll need to let that broken ankle heal," Madeline said without preamble. "This down time would be an ideal opportunity to set up living quarters, and perhaps some of that additional training you desire."

"Bunking with the recruits is fine with me," Madison said.

"No, that wouldn't be proper. Placing you there was the expedient thing to do at the time, but you must move to other quarters. You are a full-fledged operative, and not only do you deserve your own place, but it would give the wrong impression to recruits if you remained in the dorms. We can find you an apartment, if you don't want to be bothered."

"I'd rather find my own place if I may. I would much rather just stay on campus if I could-at least until this heals. Don't you have a domicile wing, or suites?" She felt as though Madeline were badgering her with all this information.

"Yes, if you would prefer. Just . . . not the recruits' dorm."

"Thank you."

"As to additional training, your injury prohibits you from strenuous physical workouts, but you could certainly use this time to learn more. Explosives, computers, or even history, for example." Madeline walked around the bed, forcing Madison to follow her around the room with her eyes.

"I like that idea."

"Is there anything about tonight you'd like to share with me?"

"Sure," Madison replied, then looked at her slyly. "I don't suppose we could do this over some food?" She finally caught on to the fact that Madeline was treating her with respect-and making plans for the future.

Madeline said nothing but she did pick up the phone handset from the wall and ordered a meal to be brought to medical.

"While you wait for your food, then," she said.

Madison smiled and launched into her account of the mission.

Outside medical, Michael waited for Madeline to emerge. While he waited, he watched and listened as Madison recounted her harrowing adventure on the rooftops. The words and images on the monitor flowed by him and carried him into the past to a dreary city park, a two-bit con man, a suitcase of high-tech explosives and a dead-eyed girl. As he recalled, he had received a big helping of censure because of her. Intel had pegged her as the small-time con man's small-time hooker girlfriend, hanging on because she smelled money just as he did.

Intel was wrong.

Unwilling to kill anyone unnecessarily, and figuring she would just sink back into the street swamp that produced her, Michael had not considered her to be a significant factor in his assessment of risk. He had secured Krupps, his bodyguards, and reported that he was ready to bring him in when that dead-eyed hooker whipped out a handgun and sprayed Krupps' brains all over the ground. She shot two of his henchmen and a Section agent-Deller was his name-before Michael cleared his gun from its holster and fired.

Michael could not recall all the details of that day, but he did remember how, while leaning over her, demanding her name, she had looked up at him with such trust and gratitude. He found it difficult to resolve his images from the past with the calm, confident operative debriefing with Madeline from her hospital bed.

A man walked past Michael balancing a tray of food, and entered the medical room. Madeline shortly emerged.

"Did you watch it all?" she asked.

He nodded. "Nearly."

"You've met her face to face," she stated.

"Yes."

"And her reaction?"

"She does not know who I am."

"Hm," Madeline glanced away thoughtfully. "Considering the circumstances, her injuries at the time . . . it could be she never remembers it was you who shot her that day."

Michael looked away and drew breath. "Let's hope so."

"Do you suspect otherwise?"

"Have you asked her?"

Madeline looked carefully at Michael. He did not often answer a question with a question. "No. I haven't. I am asking you now: should I ask her?"

"No."

"Good. She shows potential. When she's medically able, work with her. Now that she's debriefed, I'll send you her updated file." Madeline nodded her head in dismissal and left Michael standing in the hall. He waited until she turned the corner, then entered the room.

Madison looked up from her meal, stifling annoyance. She had been a full operative for nearly three years, and was used to the ways of her sub-station of Section. She knew she had enjoyed an unusual level of leeway under her previous command but never had she been treated with so little regard for her personal comfort.

Michael walked right up to her bed. He did not miss the frown, quickly masked, that creased Madison's forehead. He lightened his manner purposely, leaning companionably against the side of the bed. "How are you?"

"Fine," she replied, the ire in her voice less disguised than the frown was. She continued eating.

"You did well tonight. It was important to the mission that the truck remained undisturbed. I'm glad you made it okay."

"Thanks. I suppose the reason why falls under the heading "need to know"."

Michael read the resignation in her. She did not expect an explanation. "The driver was there to drop off a shipment of supplies. We want him to go back to his boss and report on the destruction of the building for we planted evidence to make it seem a rival arms dealer is responsible. It was a way of killing two birds with one stone."

"Efficient, I suppose, although I can't help but wonder why an alternative exit route wasn't planned for me." She shrugged.

"There was no time. It is the nature of your job to take risks." He took a breath. "Did Madeline tell you what to expect next?"

"Recuperation, mostly. I'll need to find a place to stay once I'm on my feet again," she shrugged, forked another bite into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. "And study. I'll need some equipment, a computer . . ."

"I'll take care of that."

"Thanks." This time her voice held less surliness.

Michael smiled at her, but her response was a coolly polite nod. "You get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night." Madison's eyes as she bade him goodbye remained clear gray windows. Michael felt satisfaction as he left her, for his interaction with her did not trigger more of her curiosity about their brief but shared past.

From the hurried tour Madeline gave her three days ago, Madison recalled where she could find Birkoff and arrange for her computer to be connected to the network. She entered the open area and glanced up at the shining glass box that Ops used for his base and saw the man talking earnestly with three operatives up there, his back to the rest of Section. She looked for the computer stations and now, as it had been three days ago, the stark island of light and flickering monitors hummed along with subdued movements and languid voices.

Madison swung quietly in on her crutches, the weight of her new cast making her feel awkward. A young man abandoned the com area, rushing off on an errand obviously quite urgent and leaving only two of the stations populated. As she got closer she saw an intent woman typing so quickly her keyboard produced a near-constant purr from her fingers striking the keys. On the opposite curve of the circular area, a young man leisurely stared at text on his monitor, hitting the slide bar with his mouse as he finished reading each page and chewing on something red in his left hand. Neither looked like candidates for being the person in charge to Madison. She assumed this Birkoff person she needed was someplace else and hoped one of these people could help her.

"Excuse me," Madison said as she approached the young man reading, thinking he looked the least busy. She saw now it was red licorice candy. "I'm looking for Birkoff?"

He turned. "I'm Birkoff."

"You're Birkoff?" Madison's mouth curled on one side into a disbelieving smile. "Really? Well . . . uh . . .." She blinked, mentally shrugged and thought they never look like you thought they would, do they, and held out her hand. "Glad to meet you. I'm Madison."

He put down the candy and shook the offered hand.

"I've been informed you're the guy to talk to about computer hook up. Frankly, all I think I need is the appropriate link up to the system because the computer was delivered and set up this morning."

"Yeah, I sent Simon to take care of that. It's not accessing the system?" he said, and turned back to his screen, clearing it of text. Colorful windows popped up. He seemed to know what he was doing; it went too fast for Madison to follow. "I can't establish a link; it says here you aren't hooked up at all." He frowned. "It could be a cable problem."

"Could you take care of it? Or should I find that Simon fellow again?" Madison asked. Simon had been alternatively surly and obnoxious, first unhappy with the lowly task of setting up a computer then trying to flirt with a heavy-handed arrogance.

Birkoff looked up at her and shook his head. "No problem. I can do it right now." He stood up from his chair, forcing Madison to lean back a bit to let him pass. "We'll have to get some cable first. This shouldn't take long."

"Sure."

Madison tagged behind as Birkoff purposefully wove his way out of the computer center and off to where he could find a cable, relieved she would be spared Simon's company. She swung out after him, but tired quickly trying to keep up.

"Hey, little help here?" she said as he got too far ahead of her. "I'm not used to these things yet."

He turned and looked sheepish. "Oh. Sorry. How is that?" He gestured to her cast. "I heard you broke it."

"Uh-huh, in two places even." Madison caught up with a few swings on the crutches, and they proceeded more slowly. "Thanks again for saving my butt."

"Uh, sure," Birkoff darted glances her way from around his tinted glasses and seemed to be blushing. He bade her wait in the hall while he fetched a cable. Madison watched him go, bemused. At first intimidated by his knowledge and efficiency as all the operatives here intimidated her, she was pleased to see him do such a normal thing as act a little embarrassed. Her estimation of his age changed yet again, for while on mission, she'd imagined he was older. Walking up on him in the computer center, seeing his close-cropped hair and baggy clothes he looked hardly out of his teens, yet when he launched into the task of fixing her computer problem he aged again. Now, he seemed a shy guy about her age, maybe younger. He re-joined her a few moments later, a cable coiled in hand and composure regained.

Inside Madison's door Birkoff paused and looked around her room. He was suddenly reminded of the last inhabitant, Greg Hillenger, a brilliant if arrogant kid who had been still stupid enough to become an unwilling recruit somewhere else in Section. He shook off that omen and focused on the task at hand.

Madison sat in front of her computer, obviously grateful to be off her feet. "Here, I'll power it down."

Birkoff nodded, and she complied. She said, "Go ahead...it won't bite you now."

He leaned over and slid the CPU from its niche and plugged the wire into the appropriate port, threaded the cable through the hole in the back of the desk, then slid the unit back. A citrus smell rose from her hair and brushed his nose. He looked at Madison, at a loss for words for just a moment. "Uh . . . I need to get under there." He glanced at her legs where they stretched under the desk.

She obligingly pushed away in her chair. He squatted down and completed the connection in seconds. As he withdrew, Madison said, "You're a man of few words, aren't you? Or is that how it is with all the guys here?"

He straightened slowly, silently, a puzzled look drawing his eyebrows together.

"You know, the simple stuff, like: 'How are you? Do you like it here? Things like that." She shrugged and smiled. "I pretty much go by Madison; do you have first name, or is it just Birkoff?"

"Birkoff is fine," he turned abruptly to the computer once more. "Power it up."

"Okay . . .." Madison scooted her chair forward and hit the buttons. Birkoff leaned his hands on the table surface next to her. The monitor lit up and displayed all the correct information she needed. "This looks about right, Birkoff." She let the slightest emphasis land on his name as a rebuke. The deadly serious attitudes that she encountered here were getting her down. "Any tips I need to know navigating this? I've only been granted limited access in the past, and I'm assuming I won't find much more here with the clearances I've been issued." She turned her face up to his, stifling her frustrated vexation and giving this Birkoff the benefit of the doubt.

"Click the main menu...yeah, there." He pointed. "You'll be denied access to all areas you're not allowed to see. There's a built in watch dog on these clearance codes that monitors where you go on the system. If you wander into classified territory, you'll get a warning. If you keep trying to access classified information, you'll set off an alarm that requires investigation and disciplinary action."

"Well, there goes my Saturday night," Madison shrugged.

Birkoff looked at her cast. "I guess you can't get too far on that leg, huh?"

"I got far enough the other night."

He smiled. "Yeah. You did."

"It still aches like hell, though."

"Wait until the itching starts."

Madison groaned. "You just had to say that, didn't you?"

"Somebody had to."

She turned again. "You know, I do have a name, unlike that charming Mr. Operations."

Birkoff looked at her, once again looking puzzled. "Is there anything else I can do for you, Madison?"

"No, that will do," she replied. She enjoyed discovering he wasn't a complete cipher. "I guess you're the one to ask questions of?"

He smiled, just a little, in response. "Sure. Leave me a message here," and he leaned over to pull up the program on her monitor, "or call me. Whatever."

"I'll keep it in mind," Madison warmed up her best smile, and when he returned it she admired the effect. "Can you let yourself out? I'd rather not have to drag myself out of this chair again if I don't have to."

"Oh, yeah, well, sure," he said, losing the smile.

"I'll catch you later, Birkoff. Here's hoping I don't learn too fast so you can come visit me again."

Birkoff's smile returned, just a bit, as he left her. Madison watched the door slide shut, leaving her along once more, and a sudden heavy sense of dread hit her hard in the stomach.

She liked him. First Walter and Griffin, then Nikita, and now Birkoff-she liked all of them. The first flickering of friendship glowing warm in her chest scared her silly. Jensen had warned her again and again that no one here would care about her. The more he had cautioned her, the more determined she had been to transfer. She wanted the people around her to be cold, efficient, objective. Why did they help her when she was in trouble? Why did they joke around with her? And what the hell did she think she was doing, flirting?

This was too risky of an environment to make friends in. And she knew she could not risk any more pain.

She forced herself to stop staring into the past, jaw slack and eyes unfocused, looking at memory-washed phantoms of much loved faces and aching at their absence. With effort, she steadied the prow of her attention against a river of melancholy and began working her computer.

Later that evening a message icon chimed on Madison's computer. From the header she knew the sender was Operations, but Madison could have identified the sender by the content of the message itself.

"Report immediately to the Com for photo update of your file."

He was succinct, was Operations. Madison climbed aboard her crutches and limped down to the Com area. Twilit and dark, few people moved about. She flagged down the one she recognized from earlier in the day.

"Oh, it's you," Simon said. "I was expecting you earlier."

"I just got the summons." She had forgotten how ridiculous his hairstyle looked.

"Come over here and I'll snap you with the camera," he crooked his finger at her and led her through the Com into another area nearby filled with more gadgets. He pointed. "Sit there. Don't smile."

"Oh, really? Hmm, never had my mug shot taken before. Thanks for the pointers," Madison said sourly, settling herself on the indicated stool.

Simon let out a sharp laugh. "Don't mind me. I'm a jerk, but I keep trying to shape up." He sat and tapped at the computer station there until the monitor showed Catherine's basic file.

"Okay then," Madison relented.

"Stop smiling," he ordered. He stood and aimed a digital camera at her, cord trailing to the computer, and flashed it once. "There. Done. You can smile again."

"Let me see the results first."

Simon sat once more, entered commands in the correct fields, and the new picture of Madison popped up, sober as the previous but with her longer hair.

Voices back in the Com attracted Simon's attention. He raised up from his seat and looked through equipment, then sat back down, a smugly amused expression sitting heavily on his face.

"What's that all about?"

"Just the latest soap opera building up."

"Oho, gossip?"

Simon gestured for her to come closer. She wrangled her crutches with a minimum of fuss and joined him, looking between two racks of computers and the wrap-around partitions. "What am I looking at?"

"Well, see her?" he indicated a young woman standing back to them as she spoke to a man facing her.

"Yeah. What about her? Seems she's got a cute boyfriend." The couple was obviously flirting.

"That's not her boyfriend," Simon smirked. "She dating someone else."

"Really? Not too nice of her, then, is it?" Madison backed up. Simon was quickly losing the thin thread of appeal he had spun a moment ago. "Am I through here?"

"Yes. You're done."

She nodded with minimal polite gratitude and left without further comment.

Four days passed before Nikita gave up on Michael ever asking her about the little "favor" he wanted. The evasiveness and detachment that he seemed to save especially for her continued to bewilder and annoy her. If he would not come to her, she would use this favor business as an excuse to track him down. She took advantage of a quiet noontime to corner Michael in his office and ask him herself.

"Hi," she said, entering his office. He looked up at her, expression blank even as his eyes darted to her blue knit tank-dress. She ignored his apathy and closed the door behind her before commandeering the chair in front of his desk.

"What do you want?" he asked. "I'm busy."

"I thought you wanted my opinion on this new operative-Madison," Nikita said.

"I do. What do you think of her?" He took his hands from his keyboard and faced her.

Nikita skewered him with her annoyance, glaring, but he would not respond. Trying another tactic, she slung one leg daringly over the arm of the chair, then answered breezily. "She's plucky."

"Plucky?"

"Yeah. Plucky. I mean, that was some jump the other night," she demonstrated with one hand flying over the other. "And then making it back on a broken ankle-did you know she broke it in two places?"

"Yes. Continue."

"Hm." She frowned, concentrating. "She did her job, and she managed to get out when things got bad." Nikita gave up on her impudent approach and threw her hands up in exasperation. "I'm not sure what you're looking for here, Michael. You've got more information on her performance than I do; I was planting detonators with the rest of the team. I only found out about her end of the mission when I got back to transport."

"Did she ever mention me?"

"You? No. Why would she mention you?" Suspicion deepened her voice.

Michael evaded the question by ignoring it. "I was just asking for information." He swiveled his chair to face his computer in an obvious dismissal. "Thank you."

Nikita glared at him, clenching her jaw and fists. She inhaled deliberately and deeply, gaining control over her anger, and stood. She said bitingly, "As long as I was helpful."

He glanced up from his typing. "You were."

Nikita spun on one heel and stalked out, closing the door firmly behind her. She shut her eyes and let her head fall back, re-centering herself before she walked out into the populated areas of Section. Again and again she threw herself against the tempered steel of Michael's mental armor, and again and again she was thrown back, confused and bruised. He could lie to her-she knew he lied to her-but sometimes he shucked the armor and she saw what lay under. She flashed briefly on a memory of his lovemaking, feeling the gestalt experience of physical pleasure and emotional closeness in a flicker of thought that made her shiver.

Pain. She could tell he felt pain, felt great agony of spirit. Somehow she could perceive that even through his expertise in lovemaking, even through the caring he showered on her during sex. Her hands caught each other, gripping tight as the wail rose in her head, "Why won't he let me share the burden?" She shook it off and walked slowly towards Com.

Bodies moved with urgency about the various stations. Nikita dodged her way in until she found Birkoff standing behind a rack of computer nodes holding cables ready to plug into ports.

"Hey, I need something," she asked, pitching her voice low as people walked by purposefully.

Birkoff rolled his eyes in annoyance and snapped sarcastically, "Yeah, I need "something" too-when are you free?"

"You're hanging around Walter too much. He's been a bad influence on you," she admonished. "It's just a little favor, really."

"Nikita, look around-I'm swamped! My whole team is swamped. What the hell do you want? Can't it wait?" A cable slid from his grasp and he brought his knee up to prevent it from hitting the floor and picked it up.

"I just wanted to know where Madison is." She leaned back on one hip and crossed her arms in exasperation.

"Oh." His annoyance lost some momentum. "She's here in Section." He told her which room Madison lived in. "Why?"

Nikita looked down and away. "You don't know if she's worked with Michael before, do you?"

"No, I don't. And don't ask me to go fishing for stuff like that either," he warned, shifting some of the cables in his hands. "I won't have time to breathe for the next week." He shrugged. "Why don't you just go ask her? She seems nice enough."

"Hm," she frowned in thought for a second. Then she smiled at Birkoff. "Maybe I will. Thanks. I appreciate it."

Birkoff sighed, shook his head, and continued to sort the recalcitrant cables.

Madison sat happily enthroned on a comfortable reclining chair, her legs elevated and several books weighting down a light blanket on her lap. She dutifully trudged through the textbooks sent in by Madeline, each one giving her a broader picture of recent history all over the world, but when she could bear no more she lay them down and picked up one of the fiction paperbacks David Griffin gave her. His glib presentation of half a dozen dog-eared books with a friendly-if lecherous-flourish meant more to her than the books themselves. Deep in the machinations of evil forces and human drama of a Stephen King novel, the door chime startled her.

"Come in," she called out. "It's open!"

"Hey," Nikita entered, her face smiling between long wings of blonde hair. She tossed the hair back with a graceful flick of her hands. "How are you doing?"

"Better than the last time you saw me," Madison replied, smiling politely.

"I can see that."

"Pull up a seat."

Nikita sat and talked with Madison companionably for nearly an hour. At the end, she had no more inkling of what Michael's interest in the young woman was than she did when she first walked in. No, Madison had never worked with anyone from Section's headquarters before. Yes, she was determined to settle in despite of the bumpy start. Yes, she'd be delighted if Nikita helped her get back into form after the ankle healed and she appreciated the company now. Madison had a curious reserve about her that Nikita could sense but not put her finger on.

"I've taken you away from your books long enough," Nikita said. She read some of the titles. "History? Political science? Madeline's been here, I see."

"Yes," the young woman said ruefully. "It's pretty dry stuff."

"Take a break once in a while. Maybe we could catch some coffee sometime."

"That'd be nice. You know where to find me-I can't get too far right now."

"Must get boring," Nikita sympathized. "I hate being house-bound."

"It's not as if I can go on any missions, or even any hot dates."

"Oh, ho! Are you on the prowl so soon?"

Madison chuckled. "Section headquarters does not lack for comely man-flesh."

"Ah. Is there someone you fancy?" Nikita grinned.

"Well, that upper level operative Michael must be the muse of Renaissance artists, but he's so . . .."

"What?"

"Cold." Madison shuffled the books around on her lap and missed Nikita's suddenly grim expression. "Now, Dave Griffin or Birkoff, well, I may have to dig up some phone numbers there." When she looked up, Nikita again wore an amicable expression.

"Oh, I think Birkoff is spoken for, and Griffin? He's Walter's student in more ways than one," Nikita's voice took on a tone of warning. "He's got a reputation with the ladies, I hear."

"Who, Walter or Griffin?"

"Both," she snorted, and stood up.

"Thanks for the warning, then," Madison smiled a warmly genuine smile, the first Nikita had seen. "Come and visit again soon, huh?"

In the weeks following Nikita's visit the tall blonde kept her word. Madison found she enjoyed the company and the occasional jaunts outside of Section for dinner or a drink. Sometimes she couldn't help but be reminded of her former teammates Paige and Maria, and how they had died, but the ache didn't hurt so much now.

Madeline foisted more work upon Madison, adding textbooks and tapes to improve her schoolgirl French and other books and tapes to teach her German. She chafed under the schoolwork, for she wanted to know more of the technical side of anti-terrorism rather than the covert. She finally took upon herself to pester Walter for unofficial apprenticeship, hanging around his workbench when she could, even putting up with Griffin's obnoxious enthusiasm for unmerciful teasing and never-ending flirtations. She recalled Nikita's admonition about his reputation, but paid it little heed. It was easy to slip into girl talk about boys, but she was far from wanting any sort of entanglements of that nature. She verbally gave Griffin and Walter as good as they gave and let matters stand.

In the course of routine regulation of the operatives in her domain, Madeline took note of Madison's initiative. The girl seemed to have time to seek out avenues to further her agenda; perhaps her energy could be used more productively. Madeline summoned her to her office and assigned her a share of the mammoth amounts of remote surveillance and related paperwork.

"You seem resourceful. Get down to the computer center and find the relevant manuals and software you will need to work from your room."

Madison half-smiled, partly from confusion and partly from disbelief. Madeline held her face strictly serious, and Madison felt her mouth slacken. During the language lessons she had felt warmth from Madeline, camaraderie. Now she sensed another cold touch of the ruthlessness that inhabited the elegant woman.

"Yes, of course. Thank you. May I go?"

Madeline nodded, and Madison retreated as quickly as her damaged leg would allow.

Three weeks after putting the new operative to work, Madeline looked up from her printout of the day's tasks as Operations sat down to the breakfast table.

"Good morning, Madeline," he said, shaking out his napkin. He flicked his awareness over her, noticed a new suit with a rounder profile in the neckline.

"I see Walter is on duty today. Is that a mistake?" She skipped the pleasantries.

Ops slowed his hands as they poured coffee, surprised at being attacked so abruptly. "No. It's not a mistake. I want him on duty."

"He lost his wife yesterday."

"His wife of what, six hours?" Ops finished pouring and set the carafe down.

"He'll need some time."

"Time for what? Time to wallow in his sorrows? Time to figure out a way to get back at me? No," he heaped steaming eggs on his plate. "I want Walter kept busy."

"I don't agree."

"Disagree all you want-I know Walter. Frankly, if I saw much of a change in his performance, I'd be surprised. Even if that unlikely complication came up work would be the best thing for him anyway."

Madeline held her counsel, recognizing Ops drawing a line in the sand. The meal continued in silence until Ops began the small talk again, as she knew he would. Now the conversation would continue as if they had not disagreed at all.

"The suit looks good on you," he said.

"I know."

Operations smiled. He glanced at her list.

"I notice that you are requesting a lot of training for Madison."

"Yes."

"Is there a reason for this?" Ops asked, annoyed that she always made him ask the question.

"Isn't there always?" Madeline smiled. She sobered. "Her performance numbers are not consistent with her profile."

"She's been doing very well-what's the problem?"

"The problem is she's doing better than what her profile suggests."

"What do you mean? She came with excellent recommendations." Operations frowned, his annoyance growing.

"Yes," Madeline admitted. "As a sniper and in low-risk interfaces. She has far more potential than that, as we've seen from her performance. What I want to know is why does it say in her profile that she has reached her highest plateau as an agent? Why has her previous training been limited? It is as if her talents were ignored in favor of where someone wanted her placed."

Ops shook his head.

"She should be a level two operative, not a low-level single-task op no matter how effective," Madeline said. "Seth Jensen, her former commander-do you know him well?"

"Well?" Ops sniffed and thought. "Reasonably. There was a time we worked together quite a lot. You've met him before."

"I haven't worked with him as much as you have. Would he purposely hold her back?"

Ops ran his thumb against his jaw. "What motive could he have to do that?"

Madeline blinked reproachfully at him.

His mouth tightened. "From what I know of him it seems unlikely, but . . .."

"Get me his file."

Operations nodded. "Do you see a problem with Madison?"

Madeline drew a breath deep into her lungs as she thought carefully. "No, but I must investigate this inconsistency to be sure."

"Of course."

Looking away from the monitor to ease his eyes, Birkoff watched as Madison approached his work area with the swinging gait peculiar to crutches. He casually glanced up to Systems in a habitual surveillance. It leered over him, bright but empty.

"Hey, Madison," he said in greeting as she stopped next to him, welcoming the chance to take a break. Since Nikita had pestered him for her whereabouts a month ago he often saw the two women together. "What's up?"

"Nothing much," she replied, the enforced boredom evident.

"How's your foot? D'ya want a seat?" he gestured to the office chair sitting empty at the station next to him and hoped she would stay. She was one of the "nice ones", as Walter would say-or would say if he weren't so morose since Belinda died. Most of the women working in Section were hard-eyed females with an edge that drove off any sort of feelings of friendship. As tough as life was for the men of Section, the women found it harder, he supposed. Madison was one of the exceptions.

"Nah, I'm fine," she brushed off his offer. "I was just passing through. I'm all finished with the reading material you gave me. I need some more." Madison wore a flowing white cotton blouse over gray leggings. She leaned on her crutches and reached into the top of her shirt from which she produced a small colorful disk.

"Heh, sorry: no pockets," Madison pulled her mouth into a sheepish half-smile. "I kinda need the hands free if I'm going to get anywhere. I suppose I could have carried it in my mouth but I didn't think the drool would be a good idea."

Birkoff grinned widely. "No problem-really." He took the offered disk and it felt warm. "So, did you have any questions?"

"No, not really. When I ran into troubles I could find what I needed elsewhere in the data base."

"Good." He said and began tapping on his keyboard. He continued speaking as he typed, calling up relevant text and programs. "I'm making you another disk. If you don't have questions on this one, then I'll figure you're lying or cheating."

"So there's a test?" Madison chuckled.

Birkoff flashed her a challenge over his glasses. "Of course." He returned his attention to the monitor.

A young woman with red hair entered the com and inserted herself between Madison and Birkoff, forcing Madison to shuffle awkwardly back.

"The report you wanted." She gave a floppy disk to Birkoff. He glanced at it and said absently, "Thanks" without looking up. The girl left abruptly, forcing Madison back an additional step. This time Birkoff did look up as the girl retreated, then to Madison, his look inscrutable.

"Ah, your foot okay?"

"Yeah, fine. Only two more weeks," she said. "Two more long, boring weeks."

He finished with his computer and a disk tray obediently slid out. He removed a rainbow mini-disk from the slot and handed it to her. "This will help pass the time."

"Hm, more work. You're a slave driver!"

"If only you knew."

Madison laughed easily. "I'm outta here!" She grinned, winked, and slipped the new disk into the snug comfort of her bra. Nikita's influence certainly showed in her mannerisms, but what gratified him was she didn't have the same aggressiveness Nikita used sometimes. She was just easy to talk to. "See ya around."

Birkoff watched her leave, then turned to look for Gail, puzzled with her actions. All last week she had acted cool with him, managing to be too busy to go out or cutting short the time they did spend together. He wondered if it was just her or did all women in general act so unpredictably? He couldn't imagine she was actually jealous because he talked to Madison. No, intuitively he knew it was something else. The weekend was nearly upon them and they did have plans . . .. Perhaps she'd warm up then.

Gail was nowhere to be seen. Thinking of exactly how she might warm up to him this weekend, Birkoff left to search for her.

Of the Section operatives in-house, Madison was one of few who did not catch the engineered bacteria brought in unknowingly by Mowen. The quarantine protocol caught her in her room reading, startling her with a electronic warnings and a synthetically calm female voice. She dropped her book, her thoughts racing, but she realized there was little she could do. The computer would tell her more, so she hobbled to it without her crutches.

Section was now compartmentalized to help contain the infection. Even if she were to leave her room, Madison would not be able to go anywhere. She assumed Systems, Com, and medical were far too busy at the moment for chit-chat so instead of reaching out for information she waited. And watched her computer. Status bulletins updated the number of people infected-and the growing number of dead as the hours passed.

Worry lurked, empowered by helplessness and time. Nikita was out of the country-Madison knew that much-so she was safe. The rest of them, however, were now at the mercy of an invisible assault, and Catherine fretted over their safety.

Well, some of them.

She chewed on the end of a pen, staring at her monitor and willing it to show the latest update. She had now lived here what, five weeks, six? Reaching back in her mind she realized it had been over six weeks since Operations had accepted her transfer. Her cast would come off soon. Perhaps then Madeline would stop burdening her with schoolwork and attacking her with penetrating questions when she least expected them. Perhaps then Ops would stop being such an ass. Madison chortled to herself-perhaps then pigs would fly.

She looked forward to more freedom when her leg was back to normal, although more responsibilities would come as well. She was right about one thing here at headquarters; there was no lack of training. There might be a window before full capacity was reached when she and Nikita could go night clubbing without dragging along the crutches. One could hope . . ..

God, hope was dangerous. How had she let herself get friendly with Nikita? Not only Nikita, but Griffin, Walter and Birkoff as well? At any given time any one of them could be struck down, and once again Madison would experience the pain of loss. Before the day was through the entire Section could be dead, killed by some unseen illness, and she had no illusions about what would happen to the few survivors if that happened.

Yet, she couldn't help herself. If Nikita made it back, if the infection was eradicated, if they had a chance to just hang out again she would. If she could trade sarcastic barbs with Griffin and Walter in the armory again, or joke around just one more time with Birkoff, she would.

Life was not a vacuum. She could try to shut herself off from people. For over a month now she had shut herself off from her old boss, Seth, but what had she done in the meantime? She had a handful of people she cared about already! No matter past pains, in the end she started living again. Even this emergency protocol containment would eventually end-one way or the other.

So as Seth often said in the past, "Are you gonna fish or cut bait?"

She could only shake her head in confusion.

When it seemed she could no longer bear the walls of her room and she began to seriously contemplate leaving, Nikita blew through her door dressed in full mission gear and out of breath.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah!" Madison stood up, bracing herself on the edge of the table. Elation filled her at the sight of her friend, unscathed. "What's happening out there?"

"We've got the cure. Hold still." She held up syringe filled with green fluid like a gun and inoculated her.

"When-?" She winced with the momentary pain of injection.

"I can't explain now; I've got to get medicine to as many people as possible before anyone else dies of this," Nikita explained tersely.

"Can I help?"

"Get down to medical. I'm sure they could use another pair of hands." Nikita spared her a smile before she ducked out, leaving Madison to nurse duty.

Walter crouched down, balancing himself with one hand on the counter. Both knees cracked loudly. He sighed in disgust, fetched the spool of fine gauge wire he needed from a low drawer and heaved himself to his feet again, further annoyed that it seemed to take so much more effort than it should. The engineered bacteria Mowen inadvertently infected Section with had hit Walter hard. Since Belinda died, everything hit Walter hard. After all the loss he had experienced in his life he wondered if he would ever get used to it. His body seemed to have, for he was still alive in spite of what his brain and heart wanted.

"You could have asked me to get that," Griffin said behind him.

"Say that again and I'll break your thumbs," Walter growled. He wanted coddling from a youthful bleached-blond surfer-dude wannabe like he wanted a 250-pound Harley rider to make him eat his own beer glass. David Griffin was a good operative and Walter was glad enough for his work in the armory, but the kid had too much energy for his own good.

"Chill out," Griffin dismissed the threat. "You've been sick. This is your first day back. I wasn't making fun of your old age . . . this time."

"Then I'll only break one thumb," he replied.

"Walter," a familiar voice interrupted. Michael stood by the workbench, dressed in mission gear and setting down two black hard-sided cases with deliberate precision.

Walter ambled over, spool of wire in hand, Griffin right behind him. "Yeah?"

"Some items from the raid," Michael explained. "These detonators have an unusual construction. I've never seen the like, and I need you to investigate them. It's a hot priority."

"Now, then," Walter said, voice filled with rebellious resignation.

"Yes. Now." He handed a small transmitter to Walter. "This is the radio carrier set to the signal frequency they used to trigger ignition of the detonators. Inform me when you finish." He turned to leave.

"How'd it go, anyhow? Any casualties?"

Michael paused but remained faced away. "The mission was successful, but there were three casualties."

"Jeeze, three? Who?" Walter shook his head. Michael didn't often lose operatives.

"Yvonne, Petrie, and McPhearson. It was a bomb we never detected, ignited by one of those detonators." He walked away.

Walter sighed again.

"Did you know any of them?" Griffin asked.

"Bernie Yvonne and I used to go out for a drink now and then. Guess I can't count on him now." He set down the spool of wire and gingerly examined the cases. He lay one on its side and opened it. Griffin opened the other. Two devices lay within each case, well padded by foam blocks. "Don't touch anything. If Michael's never seen it before, you can bet it's brand-spanking new. Watch if you want-maybe you'll learn something."

Later, they had one of the detonators ripped apart, impotent, and a schematic drawing begun from the reverse engineering. Michael was correct: these babies represented an interesting twist on the current technology of detonators. Walter had requested Birkoff go dig up some archival material on a type of computer chip that had similar properties to the controls he now faced. He was hoping any insight he could gain from background material would help him further comprehend the curious design. The detonators alone packed quite a wallop. He shook his head in dismay contemplating what they could do hooked up to a few bricks of C-4.

The intercom chimed with warning of an imminent mission departure.

"Go take care of that, kid," Walter told Griffin. "It's the Mexico City hit. You know what they'll need."

Griffin saluted him smartly and barked "Javol, Herr commandant!" before turning on his heel and marching out the door.

Walter shook his head. Yeah, that kid had far too much energy . . . made him feel old. Hell, he was old: old and tired and lonely. Mere weeks ago he had felt young when Belinda had been alive. Weeks, days, hours . . . he could track them all from the moment he got the news she had died. There might have been more beautiful women in his life, but damned if he could remember them anymore. She had been a Valkyrie, a towering blonde beauty with a dimple and a sense of fun bigger than her valor.

And she had loved him

Love. Who needed it? He'd warned others before; don't fall in love. A person can't live a lie every minute of every day, and a person couldn't count on anything in Section-not job security, not safety: nothing.

He picked at the defunct detonator. He had knowledge, and he had wisdom to go with the age, and he could pass it on to others. Sometimes he looked on the younger operatives like wayward charges under his care. There were one or two who managed to get under his skin and make him care about them. He wondered if those friendships were enough anymore.

"Hey, Walter," Birkoff appeared at his door, a PDA in hand, expression wide open. His sweater sleeves were so long only his fingertips showed below them. Walter saw a kid standing there, a kid that alternately puffed his pride with his genius and drove him crazy with frustration when he wouldn't learn the rough stuff.

"Speak of the devil," Walter snorted softly under his breath, and his mouth quirked. Maybe those friendships were enough.

"What?"

"You got what I asked for?"

"Sure." He handed it over. Walter skimmed through until he found the diagram he wanted.

"Ah ha!" Walter touched the relevant circuit on the pad screen with a callused finger. "That's what I thought!" He set the pad down and re-examined the eviscerated detonator. Birkoff leaned in to look from the other side of the workbench, curious. Walter waved him back, complaining, "You're in my light."

Birkoff straightened up again. Walter glanced up at him. "Don't let me chase you away, partner. I'm just kinda knocked out. You heard Michael lost three today?"

"Yeah. He's at the briefing table again already," he said. "Something new."

Walter craned his neck to look past the boy. Sure enough, Ops stood lording it over Michael and a half dozen other operatives at the briefing table. He recognized Nikita from her blonde mane. "Shouldn't you be over there?"

"No, I already finished all the sims and the intel is straightforward," he shrugged it off. He had visited Walter in Medical while he recovered from the contagion but Birkoff had been so busy there had been no chance to stay more than a few minutes and shoot the breeze. He figured he could steal a few minutes now. "Besides, Michael really wants you to figure out where those detonators came from."

He turned and leaned his hip against Walter's workbench, idly watching traffic walk by. Across the way an attractive female figure walked slowly in from the hall opposite Walter's area. Birkoff admired the view unabashedly with one side of his brain while the other was angrily thinking, "Hey, I'm single now. Guess I can look if I want to." Suddenly he realized it was Madison-without her crutches. He watched her go by, tracking her with his eyes and hoping Walter wouldn't notice the scrutiny. He fiddled with the PDA to give his hands something to do.

Watching Madison disappear around the corner he came to a sudden insight. For the first time since Gail so gracelessly broke off the relationship with him he could consider something more than just looking. Of course hindsight is 20/20, he thought. He recalled Gail's compulsive behaviors and posturing and evasiveness. On some level he felt relieved she dumped him. On another level he remembered how much he had liked her. Still, she had dealt a painful blow to his ego and he didn't like that feeling at all.

"Hey, partner, where'd you go?" Walter poked him on the shoulder.

"Huh?"

"You were wool gathering. A whole flock, I'd guess," he said slyly. "Does it have something to do with a certain ewe?"

"What?" Birkoff looked at Walter, finally hearing what he said. "Sheep? What are you talking about?"

"Actually, I was beating around the bush and trying to find out what's going on with you and that girl."

Birkoff involuntarily looked across the common area of Section to the hall where Madison had disappeared moments ago. Then he realized Walter was speaking of Gail.

"I'm not sure."

"You told me she wants you back," he said, raising his voice at the end to make it a question.

"Yeah, that's what she said, but . . .."

"But a man's got pride, right? Not too much pride, I hope." Walter looked down nonchalantly at his work.

"Pride?" Birkoff snorted in derision. "Not likely." He paused. "Well, maybe."

"Do you care for her or not? That's what it boils down to," Walter set down his tools and leaned on the workbench, focusing his attention all on the young man in front of him.

"I did care for her. Now . . . I don't think so. Not like that anymore."

Walter tilted his head back knowingly. "Is there someone in the wings?"

"Wha-? No!" Birkoff protested. "She, oh, I don't know." He shook his head, thinking of Gail and how they had interacted, especially in the last few months. The words came with difficulty. "She didn't treat me with respect."

Walter held his peace, waiting. Now wasn't the time to regale the boy with any tales of wisdom; he needed to blow the steam.

"I think . . . I think she's needy," Birkoff fiddled more with the device. "I don't think I could trust her again, either." He looked up at Walter.

Now was the time. Walter nodded his head. "No matter how much affection is there, or even love-if there's no respect you've got nothing. That respect has to go both ways, and sometimes you've got to earn it the hard way. If you don't care for each other enough to work for it, well . . .it just ain't gonna happen."

Birkoff nodded slowly. "I guess I do know what's going on with Gail and me. We're not going out anymore."

"You'd better let her in on that. Leaving her hanging, well," he tsked and picked up a tiny screwdriver.

"Mm," Birkoff grunted, again lost in thought.

"Get back to work," Walter said. "And cross-reference anything you've got on that circuit." He indicated the diagram on the pad.

Birkoff scooped up the PDA, isolating the relevant diagram while Walter tackled the next detonator. "Just this one? What about-?"

"Damn, what is that?" Walter grumbled as he lifted the plastic casing off.

"What's what?" Birkoff leaned in to look closer, this time careful of the light. He caught sight of a tiny circuit board with blinking lights with a miniscule LCD silently flicking down numbers. Five, it read. Four, three-.

In a split second Walter realized the fatal mistake he made when he assumed the detonators were radio-signal ignited only.

"SHIT!" Walter cursed wildly. "GET DOWN!" He lunged across the workbench and shoved Birkoff in the chest as hard as he could, knocking him down and sending his PDA skittering across the floor. Everyone at the briefing table heard Walter swear and turned around in time to see Birkoff sprawl on the floor in front of Walter's alcove as the pad slid almost to their feet with a plastic clatter. Walter couldn't muster enough momentum to get his own body over the bench and fell back. His brain clutched a split second of comfort from knowing that Birkoff had a good chance to survive if the workbench held. He knocked the cases away from him as he dived to the floor.

BOOM! BA-BOOM!

The flash of light and noise that followed blinded everyone in the common area with surprise and confusion. Arms covered faces in reflexive defense. The automated disaster protocols initiated a warning siren that hooted through all the halls of Section.

"What the hell was that?" Operations demanded, lowering his arm.

Michael was already on his feet, running for Walter's area, Nikita one step behind him. He knew what had happened: those damned detonators exploded. He felt confident he had heard three distinct events in the explosion. If the fourth were going to blow it would have by now.

"Oh my God," Nikita breathed.

All lights were out around the debris field. Dust clouds made soft and sinister shapes in the flotsam of destruction. The sturdy top of the workbench remained mostly intact; when Walter had knocked the cases down they had landed in the well behind the bench and blew the top up and out along with huge chunks of the front. Nikita looked at the damage, stunned, and realized there was a hand sticking out from under the debris.

"It's Birkoff!"

She and Michael began lifting the jagged hunks of wood and plastic. The other operatives from the briefing joined them; together they lifted the bench top off Birkoff's unconscious form. Nikita knelt by him and gingerly lay her hand against his neck, unmindful of the blood running from a deep laceration on his forehead. He stirred under her touch before she had to search for a pulse, and she closed her eyes briefly in gratitude.

She turned to Michael. "What about Walter? Where is he?"

Operations appeared, standing tall and casting a shadow over the wreckage. He watched, at first doing nothing as Michael heaved the larger pieces of destruction away. Then he waded in and helped clear away rubble.

"Get medical down here," he commanded as he worked. "And someone shut off that damned siren!"

Madison returned to the common area just as Ops found Walter. The siren stopped, cut off in mid-wail. People milled around the blast area, moving aside as medical personnel cut through the crowd with a stretcher. Madison took advantage of their wake and moved to the front. The wreckage she found there hurled her heart someplace south of hell as memories of her family's demise splayed on the back of her eyes.

She found Nikita with her arm around Birkoff, both bloody and dazed.

"Nikita! Birkoff! What happened? You're bleeding!" Madison looked with alarm from face to face, a tremor in her voice.

"It's not mine," Nikita said stonily. "It's Birkoff's."

"Are you all right?"

"He saved my life," Birkoff murmured. Madison moved to his other side, examining the damage. A nasty cut near his hairline had produced most of the blood staining his sweater and Nikita's hands and dress, but it had congealed into an ugly scab. Small cuts showed where his glasses had been ripped from his face-they remained missing-and a red mark high on his right cheekbone promised a colorful shiner in the near future.

"Who? Walter?" She turned to look as the medical people gingerly placed Walter's inert body on the stretcher. Michael emerged from the chaos that was once Walter's area, his black mission clothes smudged with pale streaks and his hair frosted with dust.

"He's alive."

"Thank god," Nikita said.

"Will he be alright?" Birkoff looked unsteadily at Michael.

Michael shrugged. "The doctors are doing their best."

Nikita reached out her free hand and lay it on Michael's chest, wanting comfort from him and afraid he wouldn't give it. He covered it with his own and squeezed.

Operations broke into the huddled group. "What the hell happened?"

"It was the detonators." Michael said tonelessly.

"Of course it was the goddamned detonators-what I want to know is why it happened! Why wasn't he using proper containment procedures? How could he let this happen?" Ops gestured to the mess. "Birkoff?"

"I-I don't know, sir." His gaze was focused on the stretcher as it wheeled past. Walter's face was a gory mess behind an oxygen mask, covered with blood and dust. His trademark bandana was lost, his hair a tangled jumble.

"You were there. What was he doing just before the blast?"

"Um," Birkoff looked confused. His skin grew pale and sweaty and he suddenly turned and vomited. Madison stepped back and barely saved her shoes. She took hold of his arm while Nikita held the other and between them they supported him until the heaving stopped. Ops looked disgusted. Birkoff wiped his mouth on his sleeve and slowly straightened up, his bloody hands shaking.

"Well?"

"I . . . don't remember-."

Michael interrupted, stepping forward and looking intently at Birkoff's eyes. "I think he's got a concussion. It'll be no good to question him now. We should get him to medical."

"Go on," Ops dismissed them with a nod, his angry frustration deflated.

Nikita came into Section early the next day specifically to see Walter and Birkoff. She first stopped at Michael's office, where she found him deep in data analysis.

"Am I bothering you?" she asked, standing with her back against his open office door. "I'm on my way to see Walter and Birkoff, but I wanted to know if anything had been done about the mission we were working on yesterday when the bomb, well . . . you know."

"It's on hold until tonight. More intel came in and we're short staffed in com."

"You mean you usually make Birkoff do it all, right?" Nikita regretted the sharp comment as soon as it left her lips. She looked down, contrite. "I'm sorry. I'm worried about him and Walter." She looked at Michael again and saw the fatigue in his posture. Was that dust still in his hair? Had he slept at all last night? She hardly dared to ask. Instead she asked the more difficult question. "How is Walter? Will he really be all right?"

"Go down to medical and see him for yourself. I was informed the surgery went very well and he gained consciousness around dawn."

Nikita smiled in relief from the nagging worry. "Um, Michael? After I get done in medical, can I help you with any of that?"

Michael looked up and allowed her to see some of his surprise. He glanced away as he cataloged in his head the types of tasks that needed to be finished before nightfall.

"Yes, there is something you can do. Check in with me when you're finished with your visit."

She smiled as she withdrew from his office and walked away with a much lighter heart. In the hall just outside medical, Nikita found a far less happy soul.

"Madison! Is everything okay?" She had a sudden fear that perhaps Walter had somehow taken a turn for the worse since the last time Michael had heard.

Madison stood leaning against the wall, her arms crossed and head down. She wore jeans and a wrinkled blouse from the day before. When she looked up, Nikita could see the red eyes and dried tear tracks on her face.

"Is Walter-?"

"He's fine," Madison said softly, her voice congested. "Resting comfortably."

"What's wrong then? Is it Birkoff?"

"No, no, they're both going to be fine. It's not that." She pushed away from the wall. "I-I need to go."

"No," Nikita demanded. "Not until you tell me what's going on."

Silence. Madison slumped against the wall once more and threw her arm over her eyes as if that could somehow protect her. She couldn't control the tumbled stream of her thoughts and emotions as they rushed over the rocks and shoals of traumatic memories and she had no inkling of how to communicate her confusion to another soul.

Madison had spent the night outside medical, pacing, remembering, crying. Ghouls applauding some tragic play haunted her mind and each clap of their ghastly hands forced her to view again and again terrible scenes of calamity. She saw the shark's glide of a nondescript car; a soundless burst of light, flaccid bodies, blood, debris. Her parents' bodies lay side by side, her big brother torn apart on the pavement behind them. Cynthia, her little sister struggled between her parents, wheezing with terminal effort, blood bubbling out of her mouth and asking if she should go with the angels.

Madison watched again as her own hands dealt death with a handgun, spraying blood and tissue all over the ground and ending four lives. She saw clearly the fifty-nine death grimaces of people she personally killed for Section. She witnessed scenes of death in her own home as she stumbled upon Maria and Paige's limp bodies, bloody and no longer vital. She succumbed to her own violence as she killed the intruders as slowly as she could with grief and a gun.

Again, even today. She had seen blood staining Nikita's dress, fouling Birkoff's hair. She saw Walter look like an old man for the first time, eyes closed, dirt- and blood-encrusted. Stilted, excited people gathered around to gawk and help. Dust and chaos reigned.

"Answer me!" Nikita demanded, her accent thickened and her insistence strong enough to drive away the visual memories.

"They're alive."

"What?"

"They are alive," she repeated. "They are alive. Why? Why them and not-?"

"Why not who?" Nikita had no idea what the girl was talking about but she knew something was eating at her heart.

"Before the ambulances came, I found them all: my family, I mean. They were dead, except for my sister. She was only eight years old." Madison fought to force the frightened words out, nearly failing. "She died in my arms."

"How-?"

"A bomb."

Comprehension rippled over Nikita. She moved closer and lay her hand on Madison's shoulder. "Have you been in to see them yet?"

She sniffed mightily. "No. Why the hell bother? They made it this time but they'll die some other time, and if not them then you or Griffin will." She turned away angrily. "Why bother at all?"

Why bother, indeed, Nikita thought. Her entanglements with Michael gave her doubts, but she was a straightforward person. She knew her own heart and her nature demanded that she had to keep trying. "You can't give up, not on your friends. It's all we have."

"But I keep losing them!"

"Yes, and eventually, they'll lose you." Nikita countered. She had heard another facet of this fear before, nearly two year ago now, from someone else. Perhaps the same advice would work as well. "To the rest of the world we're already dead. We'll all die for real someday. Are you going to sit there and let it happen to you, or are you going to grab what happiness life has to offer?"

Madison shook her head, thinking how simplistic Nikita's reasoning sounded yet knowing there was nothing else to grasp: nothing. Her eyes closed in vain disavowal of the tears that leaked out once more. Nikita pulled her into a tight embrace, rocking her. The strong arms molded around her with far more compassion than the cold wall and Madison drank in the warm physical reality of Nikita's hug, slaking her need for simple human touch. Afraid to take too much comfort, she pulled away and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Thanks."

"I'm going in there now," Nikita jerked her head at the door to medical. "You coming?"

"Not just yet. I don't feel all that cheery."

"But you are going in there to visit them, right?" Nikita pressed.

A watery smile floated to the surface for an instant. "Maybe later." She sniffed loudly. "I don't want to look like I've been crying my eyes out. Walter has been through enough trouble lately. He doesn't need to try to comfort me."

Nikita tilted her head. "Maybe he does. C'mon, I'll tell you what. Open the top few buttons of your shirt, and I bet he never even notices you've been crying."

A startled laugh bubbled out of both women.

"Okay," Madison said shyly. "But I'm splashing some cold water on my face first."

"Fine. I'll be inside. Don't keep us waiting."

FIN

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