Wreathed in cobwebs, dirty naked light bulbs emphasized rather than dispelled darkness. The flashing red of laser light dazzled Michael as Nikita grunted involuntarily. He felt a gentle quick puff of movement near his temple and shoved Nikita to one side of the tunnel before he flattened himself against the opposite wall. Crazy red lights scrambled all around. Michael mentally flipped through the possibilities open to them and decided a headlong rush was their best bet. Rifles, with or without laser sights, would do less well in cramped underground passages than handguns.

"Nikita, get ready to charge them," he said softly.

"Michael . . ."

Her utterance of his name held desperation in its timber. Michael felt a jolt of emotions as keen as a broken bone. Nikita had been shot; her voice betrayed pain and fear. Michael ducked back to her side of the tunnel.

"I'm hit," she gasped. The dim light prevented him from determining how bad her injury was.

"Can you walk?"

"I . . .I don't know."

"Can you shoot?"

Nikita swallowed audibly. "Y-yes."

"We have to get out."

"I know." Dim light and rising noise could not obscure her eyes or voice from him. He discerned her grim realization of impending death and refused to submit to her growing resignation.

"Let's go, Nikita."

Michael supported Nikita with one arm around her waist. Together they rose and lurched headlong into the perilous dark, both firing. The sound of pounding feet and voices ran ahead of them in flight as Michael silently relished the satisfaction of being right. Light brightened as the tunnel curved. Nikita gamely continued; her teeth clenched and fist white on her gun.

The tunnel widened suddenly where it intersected the main thoroughfare leading outside. Hostiles awaited them, most armed with high-tech semi-automatic rifles. They held their weapons clumsily but whether or not they were proficient, Michael knew they could blanket the entire space with bullets within seconds. Nikita's weight drooped heavily on his arm, weakened by wound or despair.

Michael saw only one chance and took it. He increased his speed, dragging Nikita with him, and ran through ranks of surprised men. A sharp jab to the throat with the muzzle of his gun felled one attacker. He spun Nikita around in a macabre dance, avoiding a bull-charge, then brought his elbow down hard on the man's head as he passed by. He shrugged hostile attackers aside with graceful force, intent on evasion. On the other side of the thoroughfare, ancient gray wood slats blocked off a low doorway. With Nikita secured in a tight embrace, he smashed through the barrier. Brittle wood splintered all around them in a dusty explosion.

Michael found nothing on the other side-no enemies, no allies, no light, no ground. He and Nikita plummeted down into incomprehensible obscurity with shards of wood falling with them. Two seconds later they plunged into still water so cold it stunned them both.

No longer could the sudden shouts and noise of battle from above touch Michael. He floated motionless in a dark as coldly absolute as a grave. His brain refused to think of a plan to escape this frozen hell, sluggish in frigid water. Memories flashed and floated up along with the silvery bubbles of air escaping his clothing and hair, both mental and physical phenomenon manifested as changeable capsules of light. He closed his eyes and his inner eye saw his son Adam in memory as through the viewfinder of a camera, small and dim in shades of gray. Faces of loved ones dead and long dead were more substantial. They chimed an eerie siren song of hushed longing for tranquillity and sinister sleep.

Solid flesh impacted his shoulder, drawing his wits back to the here and now of life. He fought the seductive call of ghosts as they beckoned him to find true peace and rest on the other side of death.

Nikita! his mind shouted. He opened his eyes and found shimmers of light dancing among churned water. He reached out. Pale silken hair drifting in liquid night ensnared his fingers, so he reached further and clutched a handful of jacket and kicked his legs hard. His head emerged from the water and he gasped, his hollow rasping breath echoing harshly on stone walls. The inrush of oxygen fueled his efforts and he pulled Nikita's head into the air. She coughed and sputtered.

"Hey!" Griffin's voice bounced off water and rock around the shaft. "You guys okay?"

"G-get us out!" Michael involuntarily stuttered. Bone-deep aching cold began to rack his muscles with cramps. More than one pair of willing hands lifted first Nikita, then Michael out of the water.

"They just don't know how to use them fancy weapons they got," Griffin smirked in answer to Michael's questioning look. Bodies lay in bloody mud on the ground-all hostile. Griffin had met up with the other teams at the tunnel junction just as Michael had crashed with Nikita into the dubious safety of a flooded mine shaft. They killed hostiles and drove the remaining back. Now they urged Michael and Nikita down the hall with controlled alarm.

"How much longer?" Michael asked as he slicked dripping hair from his face with an impatient motion. He held Nikita securely on one side while Paez supported her on the other. Her contact kept him warm and he hoped she drew the same comfort from him. Although she was awake and aware she remained quiet, her face obscured by the wet mass of her hair.

"We've got a minute. Maybe," Griffin said as he led them out of the main shaft.

"Take a close quarters delta pattern," Michael ordered from behind. Griffin and Madison alternated the point position with Lei and Holland, forming a moving wedge shape in front of Nikita and her two helpers. They trotted quickly, anxious to depart before the bombs detonated.

"-chael, you've got trou-. . ." Birkoff's voice invaded once more. "I . . .re . . . . . . . de."

"Birkoff, your signal is degrading."

Static and broken words mangled the remaining transmission.

As the survivors approached the opening they hastened their pace. Seconds remained before obliterating destruction brought down the earth over their heads. Ducking under the exit's low clearance, they emerged from the side of the mountain in a headlong rush. Brutal light pinned them down, dazzled. Over twenty men surrounded them, guns raised and aimed while others issued from the mine openings. A tall, thickly muscled figure emerged from the line. It was a former Section One operative.

"Landry?" Griffin exclaimed, thunderstruck. Griffin had been on Landry's abeyance mission three months ago and witnessed his death--or thought he had.

"Where's Michael?" Landry demanded. "I know he's here!"

Michael said nothing but stepped forward, still clasping Nikita close. He knew Landry carried a grudge against him, and worried about Nikita's safety while at his side. Landry had been placed in abeyance several months ago after several incidents of outright defiance to his superiors, Michael in particular. Until the bombs exploded, there was nothing Michael could do but delay the inevitable.

Landry emitted a barking laugh, quickly cut off. "There you are. I looked forward to killing you for a long time, you arrogant bastard." He raised his gun.

KA-WHOOM!

Dust, debris, and fire cannoned out of the mine, bowling over everyone and knocking the spotlight to the ground. Opposing groups exchanged fire, Section drawing first blood in the confusion. Stunned from the blast, no one heard the rhythmic beat of helicopter rotors until large-caliber gunfire began decimating hostile forces.

Michael gained his feet and helped Nikita up. Paez lay on the ground, motionless.

"Madison! Over here, now!" Michael ordered. Madison trotted up and slung Nikita's arm over her neck. Michael raised his arm in command and signaled the surviving team members to follow him. With covering fire from the helicopter protecting them, they ran down the side of the hill.

Crackling and disjointed words whined in Michael's ear. External noise prevented him from deciphering anything Birkoff said, however, so he ignored it. He led the way down to the main compound. The only level clearing, it had been chosen beforehand as the helicopter backup rendezvous point.

"Team one, get ready to jump on board," the pilot aboard the helicopter informed them through the com. "I'll cover your backs for another three minutes then pick you up at the designated meet."

"Acknowledged." Michael spared a glance behind him as they stumbled down through darkness and vegetation. Griffin was the only other operative. "Did Holland make it?"

"No," Griffin said hoarsely from behind. "He's dead. Landry got him!"

"God, was that really Landry?" Madison panted under Nikita's weight.

"Yes." Michael placed his feet carefully. The ground leveled out. Corrugated metal sheds stood among older structures, each well-lit on the outside with spotlights at all four corners. A small distance up under the trees stood a stone folly, the best enduring remnant of the old mansion. He worried at Nikita's continued silence.

"How the fuck did he survive? He was in abeyance and part of a suicide team; I saw the building go up!" exclaimed Griffin.

"Shut up," Michael said tersely.

"-ichael, do you .....-e?" Birkoff's distinctive tenor voice punched through the static for a brief moment.

Michael's head snapped up in sudden realization. The pilot had used the very same com channel with no distortion. Something was jamming signals from the van. He cast his glance all around, searching for further complications he knew must wait for them.

"Team one, get into position. We'll land in thirty seconds." The pilot sounded calm.

"What about Birkoff?" Madison reached behind Nikita's back and tugged hard on Michael's jacket.

Michael ignored her as he stared at the looming tower of stone, dark against a paler night sky. His discerning eye picked out the fluid movement of human figures as well as a familiar military silhouette on top of the folly.

"Well?" she insisted, anxious.

"Abort backup," Michael said suddenly.

"Copy that, team leader: abort." The helicopter rose and began to veer off too late as the night divided and a rocket screamed from the top of the tower and pierced the helicopter.

BOOM!

The aircraft broke into several large chunks and fell, flaming, to the earth. Smaller pieces rained down among them. Griffin stumbled to his knees with a curse, but got up again and quickly followed.

"Take cover," Michael said. He led them to the lee of a dilapidated outbuilding on the east side of the main compound. He and Madison lay Nikita gently on the ground. She grunted softly, an acknowledgment of her continued awareness. Griffin crouched awkwardly and looked out from their slip of shadow, scanning for enemy activity.

Michael reached in his jacket and drew out a small communications device. He wiped beads of water from the face and tuned it to the frequency he required. After an obscure volley of verbal code, he asked for a field deployment. Several terse moments of silence thudded past before he was answered.

"Roger that, Michael," replied a cheerful voice. "E.T.A. is 16 minutes. How many? Space is limited--I hope you don't have a big party down there."

"Who the hell is that?" Griffin glanced over his shoulder. "And where did you get that? Those aren't handed out to just anyone!" He sounded jealous.

"Keep watching," Michael ordered. He spoke clearly into his device. "Three passengers."

"Michael, what about Birkoff?" Madison interrupted. "If he can't hear us, someone's gotta go get him."

Nearly full, the moon glowed fitfully between thick clouds. Michael looked up at them, resentful of the oppressive weight of water in the air. His hair and clothes still dripped fusty water, permeating him to the core with tendrils of cold and digging deep spasms in his muscles. Until that very moment, he had been too preoccupied to differentiate the various pains plaguing him. Sitting still, he could feel burning along his ribs and a poker-hot ache in the flesh under his shoulder blade. He, too, had been shot.

"Michael?" Madison asked again, louder this time.

"They're aware of the van. They'll blow it up as soon as they find it," he said.

"What?"

"Oh, no," Nikita moaned softly. "Y'can't let them do that."

Madison sidled uneasily under the conflict of responsibility and impulse. She was programed by Section One to obey the leader from early adulthood. She found comfort from the structure that Section provided, but she had been indoctrinated under Seth Jensen: closet sentimental and fair-handed ruler of his station. Michael sat before her now; accomplished, ruthless and unknowable.

"Griffin, are you injured?" Michael asked calmly.

"Just a scrape. I'm fine."

Michael reached over and pressed on his thigh. Griffin grunted in surprise.

"How mobile are you?"

"I'm fine! Jesus, I've gotten worse biking. It won't slow me down."

"Michael, you've got to do something about Birkoff," Nikita said. She sounded sleepy.

"I know," he said softly into her upturned face. He knew all too well what his responsibility was where Birkoff was concerned. Operations had let him know years ago; the young man was to be considered a priority if endangered in the field. He was too valuable, and knew too much.

Michael had a choice. He had his contacts, with and without Section knowledge, including the pilot winging his way to the rescue. The man used to work with Section, a middleman and a hustler. His shadow recruitment ended only after almost ten years of use, and even then he was required to be at the beck and call of any Section op in possession of the correct clearance. The man was right; his helicopter would hold only a few passengers, three or four at the most. Griffin kept looking over his shoulder at Michael, waiting for the decision he had already surmised. Madison stared at him with large eyes in a pinched face, waiting for permission to run where she obviously so desperately wanted to be. Nikita lay wet, cold and injured in the mud and spent her precious breath worrying about the safety of a friend.

How badly is she injured? he wondered, but could sense from her silent behavior that she had been wounded grievously. If he had to, he could pick her up and walk until he succumbed to his own wounds and fell, but it wouldn't save Nikita. He needed help; the best help he could get if he was to deliver her, yet Birkoff must be retrieved as well.

"Griffin, you're hurt. Stay here with us," he said. "Madison, go to Birkoff. If you can't get back here before the helicopter takes off you'll have to get him out yourself."

"Out? Where?" protested Griffin. "The place is crawling with troops! What sort of chance will they have? Birkoff isn't even a field op, for chrissake! Let me go get him. If I can't get him back here I can get us out to the woods, buy some time until a rendezvous with transport."

"No. You're with us."

"But--"

"Griffin, shut the fuck up," Madison snapped, less angry at the blatant criticism of her abilities than with how he wasted valuable time.

"If you can't get back here, use standard phone contact."

Madison nodded at Michael. She reached down and patted Nikita's arm gingerly, not sure how to reconnect with her after the turbulent testing period they weathered together. "Hang on, Nikita. I'll see you back at Section, okay?"

"Get Birkoff out," Nikita requested simply, her voice breathy. "Get y'selves home."

Madison got up and pelted off into the dark.

"What in the hell did you do that for?" Griffin turned on Michael once more. "Birkoff is useless outside that van, and Madison is just a kid. I'm the better op; you should'a sent me."

"You are the better op. I need you with me."

"For god's sake, why? To get Nikita back to Section? Madison could've done that as well as me!" The logical part of Griffin's brain realized that Michael was giving him great concessions, allowing him to mouth off without a reprimand so far. He wondered how long he could push the envelope. "She's a good shooter, but sending her out, cold? With Birkoff to drag around? She's a city slicker. They'll never make it."

"She'll do fine."

"I can't believe this shit, really--."

"Shut up, Griffin. Now." Fluid steel filled the structure of his phrase. Griffin knew he had reached the limit.

The debate, for the moment, was over.

Griffin seethed silently, worried about Madison until a booming explosion followed a high-pitched scream, shaking the aged remnants of building they huddled against and transforming night into day for an eye-searing moment.

"Shit!" Griffin exclaimed. "What the hell was that?"

"They just got the van," Michael said calmly on the downside of a careful breath.

"N-no," muttered Nikita weakly. "Not Birkoff?"

"Madison went after him, remember?" He leaned over her.

"Aw, shit. Shit!" Griffin pounded his thigh with a closed fist. "Let me go back, see if she's okay."

"No. If she made it out with Birkoff, they've got as good a chance as we do."

"That isn't very fucking reassuring," Griffin complained.

"Michael?" Nikita's voice sounded as if it came from under the ground for all that Michael leaned over her face. "M-michael?"

"Nikita." He leaned closer, watching her eyes droop in the fast fading glow of explosive fire. "Nikita."

They closed.

"Nikita." He shook her gently.

Faint pulses in the atmosphere preceded a helicopter's throbbing clamor. Lights from the craft illuminated the clearing, but it also drew attention from hostiles. Front-runners fell dead as aircraft-mounted gun turrets blanketed the area with bullets and the second wave pulled back. The helicopter landed gingerly, barely touching wind-whipped ground.

"Help me get her up!" Michael shouted over the engine roar.

"Is she alive? We'll have a better chance of making it ourselves if we leave her," Griffin replied as he looked at Nikita's slack, white face.

"Say that again and I'll kill you." The cold metal barrel of a gun materialized at Griffin's temple, but it was warmer than Michael's voice.

Griffin swallowed hard and nodded wordlessly--daunted at last. He gingerly slid his hands under Nikita's knees. Michael looped his arms under her shoulders, hoisting the upper half of her body up with a clench of his teeth and hissing intake of breath. Misty fog thickened to drizzle, frosting them with cold that the whirrling rotors drove into the very marrow of their bones. Bold only in the recesses of hidden darkness, enemy snipers shot at the trio as they lumbered to the helicopter.

Griffin heartily wished he were anywhere else. He got his wish only after he and Michael secured Nikita in the helicopter. He climbed aboard and watched the danger and damp fall away.

Madison ran faster than she thought she could. Pain clawed her sides but she kept focused on her goal. Soon the dark mass of the van appeared through wet night air. She ran into the door and nearly knocked herself senseless, fumbling for a purchase on the handle. Fear enlarged her motions, confounding her efforts.

"Open, goddamn it!" she wailed, clumsily trying to get her gloved hand under the handle and finally succeeding. The door swung open and the barrel of a nine-millimeter handgun jammed into the flesh of her cheek.

"Ah!"

Birkoff lowered the gun. "It's you!"

Madison wasted no words but grabbed him by his jacket with both hands and yanked him from his perch.

"Madison! What--?" He stumbled, hanging onto her to catch his balance.

A whistling scream rolled upon them.

"Run!" she shrieked.

They ran hard, adrenaline and fear giving them the speed they needed to outrun death.

WHOOM!

A hot wall of wrath hit them hard in the backs, knocking them to the ground with bruising force. Reality went red, then black.

"Birkoff, are you okay?" Madison rolled over to check his prone form next to her.

His head came up, eyes wide and bare. Flames reflected in their brown depths.

"Are you hurt?" she demanded again as he stared at the fireball, struck dumb. She shook his shoulder.

"No . . . no. I don't think so." He stretched out his arm and realized he still clutched his gun. Bits of what used to be the van rained down here and there with a leisurely nonchalance. He flinched when the debris hit close.

"We gotta get the hell out of here."

They helped each other rise and scuttle away into the shadows as van remnants burned merrily. Madison led Birkoff back the way she had come, hoping to re-join Michael before the second helicopter took off. She stumbled through dripping bushes and weeds, carelessly allowing them to slap back and hit Birkoff with every step, both of them hating every moment of fearful scrambling.

"Where's the team?" Birkoff said.

"Breached completely," Madison replied. "Michael and Griffin are helping Nikita. The rest are dead."

"Helping Nikita?"

"She's been shot, I don't know how bad."

Birkoff shook his head, disbelieving and worried. Madison quickly outlined events underground and how back-up no long existed, adding Michael's surprise production of a secondary air lift.

"Yeah," he nodded behind her. "Michael's good at having things like that in reserve. What was the E.T.A.?"

"Sixteen minutes, but I don't know how long ago that was. What happened with the com?" Madison asked.

"I lost all contact with the outside," Birkoff said. "Jammed."

His words segued into unmistakable distant percussive engine noise. They ran. Yards from the pick up, Madison and Birkoff watched the helicopter thunder away over their heads, whipping their clothes.

"Where's the chopper going?" Birkoff shouted over the staccato roar of the rotors.

"Michael's taking Nikita in," Madison said tersely. The sound quickly faded to tolerable levels.

"What about us? What are we going to do?" His voice slued out of control for a moment, but he reined in his panic.

"Shut up for starters: we're still not secure," Madison hissed. She pulled Birkoff down with her as she heel-sat and leaned against a wall of the nearest shed. Drizzle gained strength and stiffened to rain, falling straight down in the absence of wind and quickly soaking the two.

"Do you know where we are?" Madison asked, suddenly disoriented in the dark. She shoved clinging wet tendrils of hair from her face. "Can you get us away from here?"

Birkoff shook his head, still rattled with worry and suppressed fear. He pressed his fingertips tight against his forehead. He had grown in the past few years, in no small part to Nikita's influence. He drew on his past success when facing physical danger and tried to take the confidence from those memories to shore up his eroded courage right now.

It helped; suddenly the computer map of the compound and surrounding area superimposed itself in his mind's eye over the shadowy, rain soaked structures around him. His head snapped up.

"That way," he pointed.

Unseen gunfire rattled futilely after the chopper as it beat over them again and faded into silence in the dark.

"Follow me," Madison stood, her gun drawn. Birkoff followed suit. "Keep your gun ready and stay low. Maybe we can get out of here in one piece."

"Out?" Birkoff grabbed a fistful of her coat sleeve and stayed her movement. He seemed to stare at his hand on her sleeve, his eyes unfocused as he thought. He raised his head and moved closer. "Now is the time to get to the main target."

"What? The office?" Madison reared back in disbelief. "We've been breached!"

"It's the best way out and the least likely scenario they'd expect. Besides, this is the only time we'll have an opportunity complete the sequence," he argued. "After this, we'll never get back in, not without a frontal attack and who knows how many casualties. Look! They're confused! They may even think all our operatives are dead or gone."

"Yeah, confused and on alert!"

Floodlights splayed behind them. Birkoff and Madison dropped to the ground.

"Trust me: they won't expect us to go this way," Birkoff whispered. "I'm the one who constructed the sims!"

"Yeah, but did your sims predict they'd blow up the fucking van?" Madison snapped.

"I accounted for that very possibility," he countered furiously. "Operations chose to ignore it! These guys don't have what it takes to get that lucky again."

"You're not a field operative." Doubt weakened her resolve; doubt about her own guesses in the face of Birkoff's superior intel, doubt about his ability to function in the heat of a mission run cold.

"And you're not a team leader," Birkoff replied hotly.

"If we fight about this much longer we'll be dead."

More movement and lights from behind herded them toward the main office in the old mansion, forcing the decision. Birkoff led, bent nearly double to remain in the sharp shadows. Madison followed; gun out and all senses stretched open. As he reached the corner of the next outbuilding, she tugged on his jacket.

"Point me in the right direction and I'll take the lead from here," she said softly, her lips touching the shell of his ear. "We'll go with your plan, but do it my way, okay? Keep your gun holstered unless absolutely necessarily: it has no silencer--mine does.

Listening intently, it seemed the hot spots of activity lay on the side of the hill as men dug through rubble, looking for survivors of the earlier explosion and drawing most personnel away. Madison led, right arm extended in front of her with gun at the ready and left hand full of Birkoff's jacket sleeve so he could direct her silently. He led her to the office and they entered together. A guard stood ready in a small outer reception area. Before he could move Madison shot him. He clutched at his neck, spraying a crimson fountain and gurgling noises as his lungs filled with blood. Birkoff's stomach churned with nausea and Madison's face turned to stone. She shot the man again and he fell silent forever. They propped him up in his chair back-to hoping he would function as a decoy long enough to buy them the time they needed.

Past the building's first layer, Birkoff again knew where to go. As she entered the third room, Madison shot one man as he stood up in surprise from a computer terminal. A small black circle opened on the left side of his forehead.

Mercifully, he dropped without a sound.

"Check what he was doing," Madison said with a gesture toward the computer.

"Well, duh." Birkoff glared at her, irate.

Madison shrugged and a chagrined chuckle escaped her. "I deserved that."

He gave the corpse a wide berth and sat down, diving into the work he knew best. Madison holstered her gun and dragged the body out of sight under a table. She reached into one of several lockers lining the wall and grabbed a coat hanging within, threw it on the floor and wiped up the blood trail, kicking it under the same table as the body when she finished.

"What have you got?" she asked, laying her hand on Birkoff's shoulder.

"He was in the middle of dumping files." He flipped from window to window.

"Can we get anything?"

"Yeah, but not here. Further in is the access point we need." He looked up at her. "That was supposed to be Michael's last stop."

"You still think we can do this, right?"

"What else can we do?"

Two more people died by Madison's hand before they reached the heart of data security, both claimed by her deadly aim. Using a swipe card lifted from the last body, Birkoff gained entry to the innermost room.

"It's your gig now," Madison stationed herself by the door.

Birkoff mentally reviewed all he knew about ARM. Considering the scope and variety of arms and technology they dealt with, this organization was relatively poorly secured--certainly by Section standards. The haphazard nature of the establishment showed itself even here. Tables and shelves held extra equipment in untidy piles. He knew the organization's people were inept or ignorant and therefore of little consequence. The computer system seemed a snap once Birkoff sat down and began working. He wondered. How had they anticipated Section's moves so well?

He downloaded the relevant directories onto CD disks since he no longer had any Section equipment to do the job. Once he got the process started, he got up to investigate the piles of computers and whatnot.

"Got it?" Madison asked.

"Waiting for it. This crap is pretty sub-standard," he jerked his chin in the direction of the main terminal. He pulled out a likely looking laptop from the collection and powered it up. Checking the capacity, he decided it would do the job he needed and turned it back off.

"Help me find another power source for this," he said.

She joined him in the search. Soon they had not only four disks of intel from the mainframe but also a laptop, battery, charger, and case.

"I can re-establish communication to Section with this and a phone."

"Something more useful than standard phone contact? I kinda hoped you'd say that," Madison grinned.

"I'll take this," Birkoff shouldered the laptop carry case. "You take the disks. You've got a better chance of making it back."

Madison frowned at him but said nothing as she slid the disks securely in her coat's inner pocket. Birkoff quickly briefed her with an outline of the mission parameters. He emphasized how the last accurate intel showed six hostiles near the main building. Since there was only a single point of entry, they backtracked through the various rooms, Madison leading the way. She paused outside the tiny reception area and cautiously opened the door. Slumped in the chair where they had left him, the dead guard was the sole silent witness to her infiltration of the room.

"C'mon," she gestured for Birkoff to follow her. Several steps into the room, she saw a body on the ground. Face up, she could see the massive damage where a bullet had ripped his throat apart and the black bloodstains that soaked his front. Time suspended as Madison's brain folded in sudden realization--the body in the chair was no body. She prepared for fight or flight. The man in the office chair swiveled around. For one second they stared at each other. Older, handsome, he seemed as surprised as she felt. His face molded into a frozen mask typical of upper-level Section operatives. He raised a gun. Time lurched forward as Madison did, sinking her fist into Birkoff's jacket and throwing him towards the door.

"Run!"

The man fired. Madison shot back as she dashed for the door, following Birkoff. They tumbled into the rain, thankful and amazed they were still alive.

"Go-go-go!" Madison urged, pushing Birkoff from behind and looking anxiously at the open doorway to the office. A tall form filled the angular opening and blocked the light. Small bursting flashes and firecracker discharges chased them down into darkness. Madison extended her arm and sighted as best she could while running. Two harsh whispers spit from her weapon and suddenly the doorway was clear.

"This way," Birkoff gasped. Madison trusted his knowledge of the area and followed, feeling her body demand more oxygen from her lungs. She found they had penetrated what used to be the private grounds of a rich man's home, shaggy and overgrown, yet still clutching a disheveled authority. Details blurred the further they traveled away from the network of lights behind them. A tall stone wall blocked their way.

"Here. We've got to get over this," Birkoff said, breathing hard. Even in the crumbling downslide of age the wall towered above them, imposing. Outcroppings of rock and hardy bones of crawling vines provided a tenacious ladder up. Together they clambered over the wall, spending knuckle skin and black fabric on the rough stone. From the top, the drop on the other side looked daunting but Madison never allowed Birkoff to hesitate when she felt him stiffen and lean back: she pulled him off with her as she leaped. Last autumn's debris and forest loam cushioned their fall. They tumbled down a short slope and gained their feet, covered in wet leaves and brown pine needles.

"Sh!" Madison commanded. Birkoff tried to pant quietly, resting by leaning his hands on his thighs. "D'ya hear anything?"

"Other than my heart trying to come out of my chest?" he gasped. "No." Madison strained her ears but heard nothing that indicated pursuit. She picked up the computer case from the ground where it had flown free from Birkoff and started walking into the dark woods.

"I think we got a head start, but if I didn't get that last guy, they'll come looking for us sooner or later."

Birkoff looked back at the wall and the light that spilled over from behind it. Then he looked at the inky darkness that nearly obscured Madison as she walked further in. He heaved a sigh and followed her.

"How are you doing?" Madison asked him as he caught up.

"Okay, I guess. I'm alive, aren't I?"

"Heh, well, you've got that going for you, yes." He heard her smile but all he could see was a circular pale blob as the gloom deepened. "No, I meant can you go on? We can't stop to rest until dawn and maybe not then."

"Yeah, I can keep going." He stumbled on something--a tree root or fallen branch, he wasn't sure.

"Here, take my hand so we don't lose each other," Madison offered.

He took her hand gratefully. The heat radiating from her hand surprised him.

"Wow. Your hand's so warm."

"Because I use my pockets?" she mocked him and squeezed his fingers affectionately.

He squeezed back, feeling exuberant swell of fierce victory as he realized that yes he was alive and so far successful on a breached mission. "You did great out there. Is it always like that? So, so . . .."

"So damned scary?"

"No. Exhilarating."

Madison hesitated, then said, "We should listen for sounds of pursuit. And we need to go faster."

Landry limped to the operating HQ in pouring rain. Water dripped from his hair and ran down the barrel of his gun, ignored. Defeat had molded him his entire life so he was used to how it felt. He had no love of the feeling, but he knew deep in his maladjusted bones that someone else was to blame. If only he had killed Michael, then the balance would have been set right! Of all the jerks that had ruined his life, Michael had been the worst. It was Michael who destroyed Landry's very last chance at the terminal station of last chances, Section One. Michael never scored his rating high enough. Michael always found fault with his performance. Michael nearly shot his head off during a mission last year. Michael was behind his sudden placement in abeyance. Michael managed to wound him tonight.

If only I had killed Michael! he thought, grinding his teeth. The Old Man had saved Landry from a suicide mission months ago. Landry found great satisfaction in this most recent last chance, especially when the Old Man granted him access to actual Section One mission profiles in a long-hatched plan to destroy the covert organization. Tonight, he had seen the entire report beginning to end, and Section One had still managed to achieve limited success. Landry had been sent to check on HQ to insure that the smaller primary team had not gained access to the computers.

Light spilled from an open door at the old mansion, penetrating Landry's bitter musings and pain. He raised his rifle and stalked the door, approaching obliquely. He darted his head around the jam for a quick glance, then moved into the doorway.

An old man sat in an office chair behind the desk. A dead man lay on the floor.

"Sir?" Landry said.

The Old Man looked up. He had no name--the troops just called him Sir to his face and Old Man behind his back. "Yes?"

"What are you doing here?" Landry asked, confused.

"I decided to take a more active role in the raid," he explained calmly. "Can you give me a status?"

Landry took enough steps forward to stand in front of the desk. He looked down on the Old Man, noting blood smeared on the skin of his neck and soaking his shirt.

"It isn't good, sir."

"Well, then, just how bad is it?"

"The mine is gone. Someone blew the bombs almost an hour before profile parameters. We've lost everything in there."

"Casualties?"

Landry hesitated. "We're still digging men out of the rubble."

"Give me an estimate, man."

"Seventy-five percent. Maybe more."

"Ah." Old Man swiveled the chair back and forth.

"Is there, um, is there anything you want me to do?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact there is. Two operatives came in here to plunder my database. It was not Michael, nor any of his usual team, but Birkoff and some young woman with a rather effective aim. Did you have any idea who that might have been? Do you know what happened to Michael? Is he dead?"

"No, he's not," Landry said bitterly. "There was a second airborne back-up that wasn't in the profile."

"So Michael made it. Good." The Old Man smiled. "What about the young woman?"

"It could be the shooter. Madison. I saw her before the mine went up, but I didn't see Birkoff."

"Madison. Thank you."

"Did you get them, then?" Landry asked. He glanced around for more bodies.

"No. They escaped." Geoffrey stood up abruptly. He pushed the young couple from his mind, assuming they were halfway through the forest by now. Without a full compliment of men, it would be nearly impossible to find them in the dark. Geoffrey gestured at the body on the floor. "Get rid of that. There are most likely others further in."

"Yes sir." At last, the Old Man had issued a command he understood.

Geoffrey left the room and cautiously passed the layers of security to his main data storage. He found more bodies, all with scrambled heads. The girl had deadly aim. The edge of his shirt neck hole chafed a gouge that furrowed the tender place where neck joined torso. She nearly killed me, he thought. One inch to the right and his carotid artery would have been severed--much like the unfortunate guard.

Geoffrey had taken the guard's place when he discovered the body still and dead in a chair. From the detailed mission profile he had purloined, Geoffrey assumed Michael was busily plundering computers within. He had tumbled the body to the floor and slumped in its place, ear cocked on the door and fingers cocked on his gun. As he waited, he had mused on the gory mess Michael had made. Michael's accuracy was excellent but in fast action situations he usually aimed for the main thoracic mass. The guard's neck and head had been pulped.

The door sighed gently around the edges. Seconds of furtive movement preceded the door's opening. Geoffrey sat sill in his chair. He heard a gasp, and spun around.

Who is that? He paused, stunned. Where is Michael?

A young woman and young man had entered the room. Geoffrey automatically categorized the man--Birkoff. The woman shoved him to the door and fired at Geoffrey. The gunfire exchange exploded fast and furious, but both parties had been so startled nothing came of it. The young pair disappeared out the door. Geoffrey followed, firing. A flash of white was the woman's face and stinging fire drew across his neck. He had fallen back, cursing his stupidity.

I deserved to be shot! he thought scornfully. He had forgotten over forty years of experience and training as he stood in a lit doorway at night. With difficulty, he set aside his mortification and examined the computer. Directories had been downloaded and information sabotaged on a wider scale than he anticipated. Considering it was the computer expert who had done the deed rather than Michael, Geoffrey was not surprised. Either way, Section One would find little help within the stolen data.

Should I have come here? Geoffrey wondered. He had never intended to be near the mine; it was too risky, yet earlier in the day he found himself with a duffel bag full of gear, seated on a plane flying to Pennsylvania. He needed to feel the rush of action again, the thrill of killing. I engaged the enemy only once and unsuccessfully at that! Was it worth the risk?

Landry entered the room. "I've cleared out the bodies, sir."

Geoffrey stared at the man speculatively from his seat in front of a computer. He reached up, as if to scratch his head, then brought his hand down sharply. A knife penetrated Landry's right eye, piercing the bony socket and dividing the front part of his brain. Geoffrey stood up quickly so he could watch Landry's body fall. He nodded in satisfaction--the man died silently, perfect.

This night wasn't a total waste after all.

Medical technicians clustered around egress. Walter spared them a nervous glance as he walked by. He seldom required their services, and when he did he was a terrible patient, impatient with infirmity. While convalescing last year he had saved his best behavior for visitors but the med staff were heartily relieved to see his backside when he went home. The first week had been the worst. Not only was he suffering from dire mortification, but also he was at the mercy of his own weakness. He could do nothing on his own, not eat, nor drink, nor shamble to the head under his own power. It had been humiliating and humbling and he never wanted to face such a trial again. More than dying, Walter was frightened of dying badly.

A fourth person joined the medical personnel waiting around a gurney. It was a doctor from Medical. Walter imagined the incoming injury was worse than usual from the preparations taken. He had just arrived in Section this workday and had not yet had a chance to check the status of any active missions. Two teams went out last night--a security job in the Middle East and the raid on ARM in the eastern United States. Of course, something else could have gone down in the middle of the night. Sometimes a flash mission hopped up to the ready and resolved between the time that Walter left Section and when he returned.

Walter walked away from the anticipation-charged tableau at egress, intent on slipping into his own area where he could find out just who was still out in the field. If she had no reports to file or interviews to conduct, Nikita would be home--most likely sleeping at this early hour. The same went for Griffin and Madison. Michael would be in his office if he were on-site. Birkoff was the most visible person in Section; Walter looked hard into the bright circle of computers where Birkoff was most often found, but his absence meant nothing. He was never around this early in the morning if he could help it. Craning his neck to look past the various stations, Walter nearly walked into Madeline.

"Excuse me, Walter," she said.

"Sorry," he drawled in reply and moved aside quickly.

Madeline nodded at him and walked toward egress. Walter almost called after her to ask who was coming in need of a full medical unit, then decided he could find out soon enough himself.

Madeline knew full well what bothered Walter as he ambled preoccupied through Section; he had seen the med team on full alert. Like the very old or terminally ill, everyone in Section was morbidly interested in who got injured, who got lamed, who died. She was surprised he asked her nothing about it, but then, he was never forthcoming with her and she knew he preferred to utilize the resources he commanded for his personal use rather depend on anyone else. She put Walter from her mind and focused on the task ahead.

As she approached egress, a sudden tensing of bodies and faces of the med team spoke to her more eloquently about Nikita's arrival than the status bar over the door. She spared a glance for the scrolling red sign and saw the timer hit zero. The powered door unlocked, inexorable as it opened slowly. From outside a hand with lean fingers gripped the edge of the door. The knuckles tensed and turned ivory, vainly pushing.

"There she is," one of the meds called out excitedly.

"On the stretcher, easy now," urged an older woman steadily. Michael and Griffin emerged from behind the door and lay Nikita down. Mud, leaves, and bloody water stained the sterile white linens on the stretcher.

"C'mon, some vitals here, people!" snapped the doctor.

A writhing mass of modern medical knowledge huddled over the gurney as it rolled away, taking with it productive noise and leaving Michael and Griffin standing alone in the corridor, both watching Nikita recede down the hall.

Madeline had long ago cultivated the habit of gliding forward slowly for it gave her ample time to size up any situation. Griffin looked tired, but not spent. He was a well-formed young man and handsome in an athletic way. The new haircut with shaven sides and military brush on top did not favor him as well as the cheekily dyed spikes before, but it did draw more attention to his elegant nose and cheekbones. Since his psychological profile precluded any Valentine assignments, he had never received any such training. Madeline tucked away the licentious impulse before it formed--she had no time for recreation. Like Michael, he was wet and splattered with mud. Slightly shorter than his companion, usually he moved with restless energy. This morning he stood quiet but straight and Madeline spied immediately the staring challenges he aimed at Michael. There was some conflict between them.

Michael, of course, never indicated one way or the other what had transpired between he and Griffin. He had long ago tamed his outer demeanor to obey his command and, like a deep-water fish, only through the movement of others around him could one detect his true behavior. Madeline knew she could intimidate Griffin easily. Michael, however, was immune to most of her more obvious ploys. She must work harder to control him.

"Where is Birkoff?" she demanded coldly of Michael. With snake speed she turned to Griffin. "How did you lose the entire team?"

Griffin sputtered, unnerved yet outraged. "I--we were breached! They knew just where we were and where we were going!" For the first time Griffin made the leap of logic. "They must have known everything about our attack before we even got there."

"Yes. There was a major security leak. Why was it missed?" Madeline again turned on Michael. His eyes were fixed on a distant point beyond her left shoulder. She froze her voice with icy scorn. "Michael, would you care to elaborate on this?"

His focus shortened and centered on Madeline. "It wasn't leaked from Section."

"Oh?" Madeline held to the same level of sarcasm, ignoring the pounding force of presence his gaze could impart. He may be unaffected by her ways, but she was immune to his as well.

"No." He seemed sure of himself as he always did. "I need to go to medical."

"Nikita is in fine hands," Madeline said firmly. "I need your report."

"I need to go to medical," Michael repeated. He lifted his black shirt and turned sideways, revealing ugly grooves in the smooth flesh along his ribs and a puckered bloodless hole where a bullet had penetrated. The smell of stale water and cold sweat, gunpowder and blood escaped.

"Shit," Griffin exclaimed, faintly disgusted at the gore.

Yes, thought Madeline. The pallor, the faint hesitations in his movements. I missed it. Aloud, she said, "I'll take it you're capable of debriefing, Mr. Griffin? Then you can join me first. Michael, I will visit you shortly in medical."

Madeline gathered what she needed from Griffin efficiently. His account of events disturbed her greatly. Taken in context of the myriad traps and surprises from ARM, this last massacre indicated a level of security breach so high Madeline indulged in a moment of reluctance to search for the truth. A level five operative could do the damage done in last night's disaster. Operations, Birkoff or the prime profiler could have orchestrated the coup. So could Madeline herself.

She was loath to believe any of her level five ops could be capable of such sedition for she worked hard to weed that tendency from them. Her faith in Operations' fealty to Section One was complete and provable; the man could never be suborned. Madeline realized she was falling close to sentimentality when she thought Birkoff would never turn on Section--or her--but ruled as he was by fear, she knew him to be incapable of putting himself in such immediate danger. The fact remained that Section One had been betrayed. It was her unpleasant responsibility to determine who had done the deed, so Madeline sent Griffin to medical to deal with his minor injuries after she finished with him. Alone, she called Oversight.

"George, please. Madeline at One."

Madeline waited for the connection to clear. After an exasperating period of waiting, she was rewarded with the distinctive voice she anticipated.

"Madeline, a pleasure as always," said Claire. George's personal assistant, she screened all his phone calls when routed through standard channels. Her accent evoked upper crust Boston; debutante parties, Ivy League colleges and old money. She had come to Oversight after years of service to the CIA. She was also Madeline's eyes and ears in George's court. "Shall I put you through to George?"

"Thank you, but before you do, I need some archived data from the past five years." Madeline listed the relevant reports and statistics, surreptitiously inserting code words Claire understood meant she was to contact Madeline later under more secure communications.

"I'll have your request ready in half an hour. I'll transfer you to George now."

"Thank you."

After another click, George spoke to her.

"What do you need, Madeline?"

Madeline's eyes narrowed at his tone and choice of words but her voice was friendly, chiding. "How often do I ask things of you, George?"

"Often enough. What would it be today?"

He knows something, Madeline thought. Aloud she said, "I wish I could say nothing, but sadly I can't. Claire is fetching profiles for me for we have a security leak. Evidence suggests a traitor within our midst."

"Why do you bother me with this?"

"Oversight clearance is required for all primary-level personnel file reviews."

Silenced hissed over the phone line. "You suspect someone that high in your organization?"

"Yes," Madeline relished the note of uncertainty in his voice. "It is my job to be suspicious."

"Give me the list, then."

Madeline calmly spoke several names, some of them legitimate sources of doubt in her mind; some of them added as a smoke screen to obscure her true motives from George.

"You have clearance. Claire will hand deliver the information to you later this afternoon."

"Thank you, George. I hope to have this matter resolved quickly."

"As do I, for your sake as well as these suspects."

Madeline closed the connection, a bitter taste in her mouth from George's blunt threats. He had power to support his boundless arrogance, eliciting grudging admiration from Madeline. She still resented the limits the Adrian affair imposed on her dealings with Oversight. It was a serious disadvantage. The emotion turned with an eel-like slither into secret satisfaction. He still knew nothing of her connection to Claire, or of Claire's fidelity to Madeline.

Hopefully, Claire will soon provide me with the information I need.

Pale light filtered slowly through wet foliage, gradually rising until Madison realized she could once again see. She and Birkoff stumbled through blind wet woods for the entire night, guided only by occasional glimpses of moon glow through rain clouds and drenched by constant precipitation. She felt nearly done in--cold, wet, tired, and so hungry that her stomach complained constantly now. Weaving, hands thrust deep in his pockets and shadows cast deep under his eyes, Madison saw Birkoff was worse off than she was.

"Let's stop," she broke dawn's silence and her voice sounded harsh. She cast about for a suitable place to hide, but there seemed to be little choice here. Semi-clad trees stood gaunt and dark with the damp, providing little cover. An old grandmother of a tree, knocked down by winter storms, exposed its roots in a vaguely umbrella shape. Madison led Birkoff to it and hunkered down, looking at the small space under the dangling roots.

"It ain't much, but it'll do," she said wearily. She kicked up a drift of dead leaves to help conceal them further, then crawled under. Birkoff stood watching her, blinking stupidly in rising light until she crooked her finger at him. Madison remembered he lost his glasses last night when the van exploded as she realized how vulnerable he looked without them. "C'mon, now: get in."

The space was indeed small, wet, and smelled of dirt and mold, but it effectively hid two wayward Section operatives from searching eyes.

"I can manage for a while," Madison assured Birkoff and patted the ground next to her. "You sleep. I'll wake you when I need to rest."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Go to sleep. I'll keep guard." She put her arm around his shoulders and urged him to lie down. He lay and gingerly rested his head on her lap until it grew heavy with trust.

Steadily lightening rain sounded in a gentle susurration above, punctuated by fat plops when moisture collected and dumped off leaves. After the frenetic scurry from danger, Madison found the sound soothing. Curiously, she could feel Birkoff tense whenever any small forest noise stood out from the rain.

Was he still keyed up? Was he scared? She lifted her hand, hesitated, and gently ran her fingers across his temple into his hair. Her fingertips traced the half-moon scar hidden there. He shifted and said faintly, "Thanks. That's nice." Within moments his breathing changed.

Madison pondered the events of the previous night. None of her missions under Seth's command had reached the fevered pitch of last night's frenzy. Almost from the time she left the van she had careened into sudden death only to escape and run into another ambush. She had ridden many adrenaline highs like stalwart beasts since her family died, but the mounts Section One headquarters provided demanded everything she had to give--then asked for more.

This quiet moment feels like heaven, she thought. No energy remained for fear. No bullets whined about her head, no spotlights picked her out of a crowd, no bombs threatened to bury her alive. The throbbing in her feet slowly abated, and she had found a position that allowed her to rest completely. Birkoff's slumbering weight radiated warmth and an embryonic feeling of protective tenderness in the way his hand tucked snugly into the crook of her knee. The tendrils of responding feeling in her gut astonished her. Madison had thought she was beyond the ability to care about anyone anymore, but she and Birkoff shared such an equitable friendship it seemed to roll forward of its own accord.

Only two nights ago they had consummated a mutual attraction thwarted over several months' time. The evening began with a standard dinner date and was supposed to segue into a movie following the meal, but Madison's eye was caught by fancy electronics in a store window. She wanted to buy a television, so she dragged Birkoff with her and she walked out with a TV and a VCR, both top of the line.

"Hey, I don't have to pay this," she had grinned as she presented her credit card for payment. Together they picked out movies to watch on the new equipment and purchased those as well, then annoyed a cab driver by flagging him for a ride. The TV box was far too large for the trunk and the driver had to scout for a rope to secure the trunk door on the trip back to Madison's apartment. With several near-disasters, a jammed finger, and breathless laughter, she and Birkoff heaved the newest addition to her apartment up the steps. Soon they flopped on the only piece of furniture--Madison's bed--and watched taped movies.

Somehow, during the second movie, a connection sparked born of long anticipation. A fixating stare drew them close and for a long moment they hesitated, figuratively balanced at the top of a long slide into new waters. Madison hesitated at first with the fear of pain looming large in her mind. Never coherent enough to enter her conscious mind, abused memories warned her with a sense of dread unease. You have lost your family, said the fear. You have lost your friends. You have lost your lovers. You have lost your mentor. Family leads to pain. Friendship leads to pain. Love leads to pain.

But . . . Madison willingly submitted and joined Birkoff in a wild rush to foolish pleasure. What had it bought her? Almost as if found out, Birkoff had been called in the very same night. Now they faced circumstances so dire she wondered if they would get out alive. And yet in spite of all the worry, Madison still felt at peace. It was a choice she made, something that was hers and hers alone no matter what happened to her, or Birkoff, or their liaison. In that moment before their lips had touched for the first time, she had had a choice and spent it. Now, in the quiet of a rain-soaked forest, she savored a sweet morsel of time snatched from the inevitable danger they both shared. It sustained her several hours into the day until fatigue poisons finally overwhelmed her and she had to wake Birkoff.

"Wake up, sleeping beauty," Madison said. "I need to sleep. It's nearly ten in the morning."

Birkoff slowly sat up. It seemed as if only moments passed since he fell asleep. His neck and shoulder screamed with stiffness and his bladder was nearly bursting.

"I gotta--uh--go out," he gestured vaguely around him.

"Be careful and hurry up--I've got to go, too," Madison admonished.

"No, you go first then."

Madison got up with alacrity born of necessity. "Whatever. You don't have to tell me twice."

She left him under the tree, taking longer to return than he expected.

"It looks quiet and clear." She climbed back under the tree.

Birkoff left without comment, nearly running to get behind the nearest adequate tree and rip open his fly. Once the hydraulic pressure eased, coherent thought was possible once more and he zipped up, looking around and noticing damp blue sky between barren-looking branches. Ambling back, he recalled last night. Nearly unconscious with fatigue, he remembered Madison gently stroking his hair, lulling him to sleep. He slept well, despite the primitive shelter, if not long enough. He stretched out the stiffness in his neck and rolled his shoulder and they quickly limbered up. He felt rested and prepared to face what the day would bring. Compared to the horror show of a mission he endured last night, nothing could be too awful.

As he ducked back under the tree, he saw Madison lay curled in a ball, head pillowed on the computer case, asleep. Birkoff found an unusual pleasure watching her sleep: pride, perhaps, that she and he were still alive. He had less interest in identifying what he felt than in enjoying it, so he kept vigil until she woke when the sun sat as high in the sky as it would get and his watch flashed noon.

"There's a town to the east of us, I think," Birkoff said after they shared the single energy bar Madison found in the bottom of her jacket's inner pocket. Both wished heartily there were more crushed crumbs in the package after they devoured the greasy morsels. "We need to find a phone."

Madison nodded sluggishly, one foot still firmly caught by Morpheus. She reluctantly got up and stretched her arms high over her head then swooped down and lay her hands flat on the ground, groaning when her shoulder popped loudly in the forest quiet.

"That hurts just to look at," Birkoff said with wincing sympathy.

She glared at him. "Yeah, it does hurt. You know which way is east?"

"Um." He looked around.

"That way." Madison pointed. She still retained most of her equipment, including a compass, while Birkoff had nothing but the coat on his back and the nine-millimeter gun from van storage.

Birkoff made a gallant 'after you' gesture and Madison smiled, shaking off grumpy fatigue. They walked, getting hungrier and hungrier, until mid-afternoon found them traveling parallel to a road. They agreed it must lead to a town eventually and continued their trudge, keeping to what cover of vegetation they could find when cars whizzed by. Perseverance was rewarded at last when they saw a dirty sign advertising gas. Broken, spattered with bugs and cobwebs, it was an accurate indicator of the establishment's quality.

Madison asked the cashier inside for a key to the restroom while Birkoff dialed Section from a pay phone outside. Madison joined him after she utilized the facilities and returned the key. He was still punching numbers.

"Getting anywhere?"

"Mm," he said, distracted. He finished dialing number codes and listened intently for several long moments. Madison leaned against the side of the open phone booth and peeled back the wrapper of a candy bar she had bought inside. Birkoff looked up when the rich smell of chocolate penetrated his concentration. His stomach rumbled loudly in response. He missed a street name from Simon's droning voice. "Repeat that . . . okay, got it."

He hung up.

"Hungry?" Madison teased. She handed him his own chocolate bar and he ripped into it. "I've got a couple more, but that's it. Did you find us a place to crash?"

"Uh-huh."

"All right! Is it close?"

Birkoff swallowed before he could answer. "About eight miles that way." He waved his candy bar at the road.

"Eight . . . miles?"

"Where's that other candy?"

They shared the rest of the sweets, then took turns with a can of cola, all bought with a five-dollar bill Madison found in a zippered pocket. The resulting sugar-high only teased their hunger, and sustained them poorly as they walked along the road. Although it seemed more like centuries than hours, the sun set only once as Birkoff and Madison walked up to the grimy garage they had been instructed to look for.

"Hi. We're looking for Harriet," Madison asked the burly mechanic.

"Harriet? I think you've got the wrong place, miss," he frowned, thinking.

"Are you sure? This was the address she gave me."

He grunted. "Ask the boss. But I still think you've got the wrong place." He jutted his chin in the direction of a half-door that linked the garage to the house.

Madison and Birkoff rang the bell and waited. A woman emerged from the back and addressed them.

"Can I help you?" she asked, her tone apathetic, her voice roughened as if by the tracks of cigarettes as well as age. The left side of her face had been burned severely in the distant past, scars thick along her jaw line, her left earlobe a melted rim of flesh. Her faded brown hair waved in strangely attractive random swirls.

"We're looking for Harriet," Birkoff said.

"Strange garments to be wearing in this weather."

Her words seemed nonsensical, but "garment" was the counter-code. Birkoff continued the string until both parties relaxed ever so slightly. Security had been achieved.

"I'm Harriet," she admitted, her husky voice as quiet as she could make it. She looked over the lost operatives' shoulders. "Frank's under the car. C'mon in--quiet like."

She opened the half-door and they entered.

Through the back of what used to be a living room and was now a car parts department lay an entrance to Harriet's living quarters. At one time the house had stood alone, but over the years a detached garage grew and grew until it loomed over the old saltbox, leaning hard on the brick building. Harriet led them through a slant-floored kitchen and down into the cellar. She reached up to open a wooden cupboard, revealing her destroyed right hand. Only her thumb and two knuckles of forefinger remained; the rest was a twisted nub of white scar tissue. Behind the back panel was a latch. She opened it and the entire piece of furniture moved. She pushed against it and the cabinet swung aside.

"C'mon." She disappeared into a shadowy cave behind the cabinet. A white light came on, diffused and reflecting off the white-painted walls.

"There are small windows so don't use lights at night unless you cover them up. Still, this place is pretty damned hard to find even in the cellar." A faint note of pride could be detected under her ruined voice. She pointed to various metal cabinets, doors, and alcoves. "Clothes, sundries, MREs, bedding, towels, a hot plate, shower, toilet, a utility sink to wash your dirty laundry. Any questions?"

"No," said Birkoff. Madison wordlessly shook her head, looking all around, taking mental notes of the various features Harriet had indicated.

"How long d'ya think you'll be here? Or can I ask?"

"We're just waiting for pick up. Two days. Maybe three," Birkoff replied.

"Okay. Enjoy." Harriet left and secured the door with a sharp click.

"Where'd she say the food was?" Birkoff began opening cabinets. They tore into the processed, dried, and preserved reconstituted meals as though into ambrosia, sitting at a small square table.

"Ah," Madison sighed and crumpled the foil, lofting it accurately into the waste bin across the room. "That was the most awful stuff I've ever eaten...and it was wonderful."

Birkoff scooped up the last spoonful of food in reply, scraping his paper plate for the last chunks of some unidentifiable chicken meal.

"You look better," Madison glanced at him. "Your color's back."

"I was just hungry."

"And tired. God, I could sleep a week."

Birkoff balled up the foil wrapper from his meal and tried to copy Madison's shot. He threw, winced, and missed. With great effort he got out of his chair and dutifully retrieved the bit of trash. As he bent over his sweater hiked up.

"Birkoff, what is that?"

"What?" He straightened.

"Come here," she commanded and stood up. He obediently padded over and she turned him around and lifted the sweater.

"Cripes!"

"What?" He turned his head, trying to look over his shoulder.

Madison tugged down on his pants, exposing more of his lower back and hip. "You got hit. Doesn't that hurt?"

"Uh . . . yeah?" He sounded unsure.

"Sit on the table." She helped him take off his sweater and the black tee shirt underneath. A wound marred the lean curve of his back, a long laceration shaped like a thin backward letter J. Shallow at the top of the downward stroke, it deepened in the curve over the top of his hip bone. Madison knew little about medical care, but it looked to her that perhaps a piece of shrapnel had carved a path across Birkoff's lower back. It had stopped bleeding a long time ago; in fact, it looked as if it had not bled much at all.

"I guess you'll live," she announced. "I think it was cauterized the same time you got it."

"Really?" Birkoff reached back and gingerly touched the stiff edge of dried blood. He seemed surprised. "It really doesn't hurt."

"I bet it does tomorrow." She yawned. "I have to sleep. You should, too."

He slid on his tee shirt to warm the gooseflesh that covered his torso. In silent agreement they shared a bed and body heat, not even bothering to undress under the covers. Sheltered and secure as they could possibly be in a Section safe-house, they fell together into dreamless sleep.

George left the authority and responsibility of his desk and walked to the window. Dogwood trees reached up, their tips swelling perceptibly with purple promise. Delicate white crocus had yielded to the more flamboyant scarlet tulips and yellow daffodils, all marshaled into orderly if rather tedious patterns. Adrian would have been appalled to see the conventional landscaping, even if it were perfectly framed by the spotless glass panes and polished hardwood of his windows. This was one of the most beautiful springs he had seen in years and evoked Adrian's presence greatly.

She had been on his mind lately. George insured she had the protective eye of the Agency on her, even if from a distance. She would abide nothing more direct. George respected her desire for privacy, but he wished he had gone further now. Adrian was gone, and, he feared, dead.

"Sir?" Claire quietly intruded. "I brought you some tea."

"Thank you." George turned from his contemplation of the gardens to take the cup and saucer from her. She was a tall woman, elegant in her bone structure and elegant in her dress. "How was your trip to One?"

"A bore, as usual," she said, her voice laden with sophisticated scorn. "It used to have such style . . . I truly detest the décor there now."

"Adrian used to have a very hands-on approach in that regard," George mused. He sipped the tea. The leaves had been steeped too long.

"You really are worried about her, aren't you?"

George tilted his head and conceded the point. "Things usually are what they seem, eventually."

"Oh, I shouldn't worry about her, unless you want to prevent her from taking over the world," Claire smiled. "That is just what she is most likely doing, too: hiding someplace and hatching a plot."

George had never been known to smile often. Claire was one of a very select few people who could coax one from him with her natural charm and cutting wit. It was the deciding quality that won her a position as his personal assistant, but she could not raise a smile now.

"Has Geoffrey returned?" George asked.

"Yes, but I peeked in his office; he's not there now." During her trip to Section One, Claire had reported to Madeline in a secured room just how concerned George seemed about Geoffrey Blanchard. Nothing about the man seemed suspicious to her, but she knew that defining his dysfunction was not part of her responsibilities to either George or Madeline.

"Thank you." George turned to the window, a tacit but explicit dismissal. Her unobtrusive noise followed her out. He tired of gazing out the window for he hated the reminder that he could do little about Adrian. A thousand other tasks needed doing; he could ill afford wasting time in rank sentimentality.

His intercom interrupted with a dulcet chime. Claire's voice projected sprightly from the speaker. "Sorry to bother your tea. William Falkenburg is here to see you."

"Show him in."

William "Falky" Falkenburg walked hesitantly through the door. Claire closed it behind him, leaving him and George alone. Falky was one of George's personal agents, one of many moles he kept well hidden in all his Sections. Falky had been placed to keep tabs on Seth Jensen, a known convert of Adrian's. George did not believe in any supernatural power and he especially did not believe in coincidence. Something subliminal had turned his thoughts to Adrian's disappearance and since Falky found reason to visit him personally, he hoped to find out more.

"What do you have for me?"

Falky took several steps deeper into the room.

"Come by the window." George gestured.

"I--. Thank you." Slim, sober, the young man approached George. Fine white light from the window illuminated his bright black eyes, sable hair and boyish good looks.

"Seth is dead."

"I know. What of it?"

"Section One may have had something to do with it."

"As I recall, they had the most direct dealings with his death possible. They canceled him," George said dryly.

"I know that," Falky said, his voice sharp like a broken stick. His usually neutral accent thickened enough to identify a Scottish brogue. "They framed him first, though."

"What was the charge? Bribe-taking and general incompetence, correct? As I recall, the evidence was iron-clad against him." George had thoroughly investigated the facts himself as he did anything that remotely involved Adrian. Jensen's transgressions had been real.

"He would never take a bribe. Never."

"What about his lacking training practices? He was soft." George dismissed the event with a scornful flick of his fingers.

"He was eliminated by Section One because of his ties to Adrian."

"Do you have evidence of this?"

Falky looked down. "No. Not hard evidence, but the pattern of questions that Madeline used during the investigation suggest it."

"That's all you can give me?"

Falky heaved a sigh in frustration. "Nothing concrete, no. There are coincidences, though. A tall blonde woman was seen near Adrian's residence around the time she disappeared. It could be Section One's Nikita."

"There aren't many like her, no," George agreed.

"There are others in the business," Falky played his own devil's advocate. "Interpol has that Finnish girl. The CIA has a few tall blondes. Even Red Cell has a six-foot blonde we've tracked lately . . . but the list is short."

"You're correct about the coincidences piling up."

"I just wanted to bring them to your attention, sir."

George returned to his desk and set down the teacup as he settled in his chair.

"How is the new commander coming along?"

"Robert? He's a fine leader. Loyal to Section One. Things are going as smooth as they can, considering the upheaval."

"Hm. Good. I thank you for taking the time to come in. Do you need anything to cover your presence here?"

"No sir. Thank you." He left.

George watched Falky exit and close the door softly. He was a reliable and competent agent. George had disdain for the sexual persuasion Falky followed, but he never let such personal and irrelevant issues cloud his judgment. He believed the young man, and trusted his suspicions. The time had come to actively search out Adrian, and Section One was looking more and more like the most logical starting point. George had well-placed moles even in the bosom of Section One's headquarters. The time to use them had arrived.

A gunshot pop jerked Birkoff awake. He opened his eyes to a baleful red light that illuminated a strange room, then changed to cool blue light and back to red over and over. He sat up carefully, disoriented. Madison sighed in her sleep next to him and turned over. The light came from two small cellar windows high by the ceiling. Old wood in the floor above his head contracted and settled noisily in the drying night air. He was still in a safe-house, waiting for transportation from Section to arrive.

He had been twitching in his sleep, dreaming of faceless men bearing automatic weapons as they pursued him through the house he had lived in as a kid. He could see them slap bombs on the walls next to awkward and innocent grade school pictures of him and his sisters. In his dream it seemed the bombs detonated with unholy red wrath, but it was just the changing light from outside. He drew in a deep breath and shook off the nightmare, then slipped from the narrow bed and walked to the window. He raised up on his bare tiptoes, chinning himself up with his fingertips on the edge of the small rectangular window. Low bushes stood clustered in front of the windows but early-spring leaves were too small to prevent much from invading the cellar. Craning his neck, he could just see the bottom of a neon beer sign that switched from red to blue again and again.

He dropped down lightly, satisfied things were as they should be, satisfied that he could logically dispel the nightmarish illusion of violent death in his childhood home. He scrubbed his face with his hands, then ran a palm over his hair. Rumpled from sleeping in them, his clothes were dry now, at least. A push of a button lit his watch. It was 3:55 AM. The adrenaline jolt that woke him closed the path back to sleep, so he decided to work.

He retrieved the laptop computer from its case, set it on the tiny table, and powered it up. A phone jack caught his attention before he slept and he had meant to build a connection to Section after he ate something, but sleep had beaten him to the punch. Now he plugged in the proper cord and began initiating a computer link to Section's mainframe. The soft glow from the liquid crystal display seemed overly bright and he automatically looked around for his glasses, forgetting that he had lost them when the van exploded.

I almost didn't make it out, he thought, suddenly sick. If he had sat there a few seconds more, he would have been ripped apart along with the van. He absently scratched at his hip and encountered the scabbed wound there. But I did make it out. Madison and I both made it.

Birkoff knew how to get where he wanted to with a computer, and soon had a realtime interface trading information fast and furious. He only had a few minutes before security protocols terminated the connection, but in that time he retrieved transport status for him and Madison and also an update on the balance of the breached mission team. Names were impossible to get at this level, but the reports told of three operatives returned to Section headquarters. Two had been taken to medical for treatment. Birkoff wondered who the second one was. He closed the laptop and stole quietly back to bed, heedful that Madison was still sleeping. As he sat down on the side of the bed, she stirred.

"Is our status the same, then?" she asked quietly.

"Yeah. I thought you were asleep. Sorry I woke you."

"No. It's okay."

He settled next to her and she immediately backed into the curve of his body, spooning warmly. He draped his arm over her waist and his hand continued moving restlessly, at first laying flat on her stomach but then moving south until he found the edge of her shirt and slid under it.

She sighed. He could hear the smile in it. He slid his hand up her torso, heated between smooth flesh and warm clothes, and began making inroads on her bra.

"Hm," she snorted. "You can't sleep, either?"

"Uh-huh," he agreed, deep in his throat. She pulled away enough and turned her head to look at him. Neon light changes colored his face red, blue, red in endless sequence.

"Sleep is overrated," she said huskily, her voice thick with more than just sleep now. She kissed him over her shoulder before spooning tighter, raising her hip so his other hand could gain access and explore. While his right hand continued the assault on her bra, his left began the same journey but slid into the cup of her hip under the waistband of her pants. He kissed the back of her neck, his breath warming her hair, and took her earlobe playfully between his teeth.

"Catherine," he murmured, lost in sensation.

She froze.

Birkoff felt the difference immediately. "What's wrong?"

Madison rolled away, severing the languid link between them.

"What's wrong?" he repeated.

"I'm sorry," she said, feeling foolish. She scooted closer once more, this time facing him, feeling too vulnerable to expose her back again.

Birkoff frowned at her, confused. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No!" Madison protested. "Just . . . don't call me Catherine."

"Why not?"

"I . . . oh, hell," she chuckled ruefully. She burrowed into Birkoff's side, pulled his arm around her neck, and lay her head on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat hammer faintly, smell dried rain and sweat on his tee shirt.

"What?" His voice betrayed defensive frustration.

"It's . . . hard to explain." She could hardly find words that made sense to her.

When Griffin had teased her about her name, she had parried his efforts easily but hearing her childhood name escape Birkoff's lips brought up her family's ghosts. Each time her life had violently changed, her name had changed as well, closing the door in a comforting barrier between her and the pain. Her parents had called her Catherine. After they died, she prowled the streets in search of revenge as Cathy. The friends she made in Section playfully tagged her Cat. After they died she had nothing left but the bald use of her last name, Madison.

"So try to explain anyhow. It's not like we don't have the time," Birkoff pointed out. His body reluctantly relaxed from its state of arousal. Somehow he had hurt Madison and he wanted to fix it. "So you want me to call you Madison, huh?"

"I want you to call me anything you want," she said dryly. "It's just . . . you reminded of my life before Section, is all. I was surprised."

She felt him nod.

"Sometimes I can think of all that I've lost and it doesn't hurt, but most times I don't want to be reminded," she said softly. "My family called me Catherine. They're dead now. Considering the things I have to do now and who I work for, going by Madison seems more appropriate."

"Makes sense. Sorta."

"I mean, did your mother call you 'Birkoff'?" she snorted.

"No."

"What is your first name, anyway?" With sudden embarrassment she realized that she had known him for the better part of a year, became his lover, and still didn't know his first name. She continued quickly, covering her confused emotions with a light balm of humor. "I almost asked Simon once, but he can be such a snobby son of a bitch I figured I'd better just keep my mouth shut. Walter would've obliged, I'm sure, but then I'd have to endure his teasing. I mean, he's got only one thing in that filthy gutter he calls a brain."

"You really want to know, huh?"

"Well, I was respecting your sense of space and such before, but now I've seen you naked I feel like I can ask," she said wryly.

A wide grin filled his voice. "Seymour."

"Seymour. Seymour," she tasted the name. She sighed. "I'm sorry, but somehow it just doesn't fit you. Is that what your parents called you?"

"Well, when my mom was mad at me, yeah," he chucked. The laugh abruptly died. He began to understand Madison's unease. He was years removed from the daily nickname of childhood and realized he did not want to hear it again.

"Frankly, I rather like the name Birkoff. It sounds like you've got roots somewhere in Germany or maybe Russia." He shrugged under her ear. "Besides, if I get really mad at you, it can sound just like a swear word. Birkoff!"

"Oh, great!" He laughed in spite of himself.

"Well, I don't have the best name in the world, either," Madison confessed. "Did you know that I don't even know my real last name?"

"Huh?"

"No, really," Madison said in all seriousness. "My great-grandfather came to the United States from Poland and changed his name. Mom said he wanted something that sounded successful. Since my dad was poor until after I was born, I guess he didn't want to jinx the success he finally found. I never did find out what he changed it from. I was going to ask one day, but time just . . . ran out." She paused a moment. "Now I have a fake name for a fake life."

"It's not so fake." Birkoff turned, lay his hands on either side of her face and kissed her.

She fell silent and he upheld the quiet. One of the floorboards above them settled with a sharp crack. Madison shifted to her side, settled her leg on top of Birkoff's and lay her arm on his chest, returning his earlier restless exploration of her torso with her own questing hand. They helped each other remove shirts and pants and undergarments, moving slowly and deliberately circling the inevitable inrush. Neither said a word but savored each mingled breath, each turbulent sigh, all washed in blue, red, blue.

Griffin swore loudly and pounded his fist on the table when the cell phone rang. His glass jumped, spilling water on the sandwich. He swore again and abandoned useless attempts at mopping up the mess to answer the phone.

"What?" he snapped.

"Hello, David."

Griffin's anger quickly cooled. His assumption that Michael required him at Section so soon after a mission was wrong.

"I--Hello. Sir."

"I require your assistance."

Griffin swallowed hard. The leader of Oversight had a distinctive voice, full of compelling authority and velvet scorn.

"What do you need, sir?"

George quickly listed those actions he wanted taken. Griffin paid close attention, fearful he might miss something. George did not like to have to repeat orders.

"Do you have any questions?" George asked.

"No."

"Good. I expect results immediately."

"I'll take care of it right away, sir." The connection went dead. Griffin folded the phone closed and set it on the table, his movements slow.

"Fuck," he said to the empty kitchen. Calls from George heralded uncomfortable days. He ran his hand over his hair and swore yet again. He hated the buzz and missed his bleached spikes. Remembering why his hair was short reminded him of Madison and the irritation he felt at Michael.

Michael is an idiot, he thought angrily. Or was he just thinking with his gonads instead of his head, sending them kids out in the woods alone like that? There were rumors--there were always rumors--but some rumors hinted that Michael and Nikita had some hot-and-heavy on-again-off-again thing between them. Griffin shook his head in scorn and got ready to leave for Section. Thinking with your dick will always get ya in trouble.

Inside Section, Griffin prepared to tuck into the chores George gave him, his usually straightforward mind seething with all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts and emotions. He was angry with Michael, worried about Madison, irritated at and fearful of George for his kid brother's sake.

George had a big club over Griffin's head. The upper-management at Section One knew nothing about it as far as Griffin could determine, but George knew all about Griffin's younger brother Thomas. George promised Tommy's continued safety and well-being in exchange for favors, favors completed without Section knowledge. Griffin could appreciate a good case of blackmail, especially since he had no choice if he loved his brother, and he did. Tommy was ten years younger than he was, smart, funny--an all around good kid, unlike the screw-up Griffin had become. It was to save Tommy from that asshole stepfather's ugly attentions that Griffin went out and got a shotgun, came home one night and blew the jerk's head off in his sleep.

Well, he liked to think he did it was to save Tommy. Truth to tell, he had been so wired on crack and booze it was hard to remember that entire year, let alone analyze his motives on one night. His downward spiral into drug-drenched death ended that night. Within two years, he was clean, sober, and a paid foot-soldier in the covert fight against terrorism.

Then George approached him, threatened to harm Tommy or expose his existence to Section. Since Tommy was a half-brother with a different last name and had never appeared in any of the police reports or newspaper accounts of that night, Griffin figured he had a good chance of keeping the kid secret.

Apparently not, according to George. So, Griffin became a double-agent, walking a fine line of politics and power-struggles within the same army. It was a trade off he found he could live with. George funded Tommy's education. The kid had graduated college, become a math teacher and got married. George gave him pictures sometimes, reward and tacit threat. When Griffin put aside fear for his brother's safety, he was content with the arrangement.

Griffin carried a PDA full of data right into the computer area. One tech looked up at him, but he remained businesslike and the tech ignored him. He made his way to the back of the area and changed a communications protocol, as per George's instructions. It was an easy task for an insider, and one George had asked for before. It was obvious he was spying on Operations and Madeline specifically. Griffin enjoyed getting one up on them.

A light blinked. A soft chime sounded. Griffin froze. Shit! Did I just kill myself? he thought. The settings were slightly changed from the norm, but there seemed to be no impediment to what he had to do, so he quickly finished. Voices prevented his clean get-away. Already unnerved by the systems changes, he ducked behind a rack of equipment. Two people entered from the hall, talking and oblivious to Griffin's presence: Birkoff and Madison.

Huh, so they did make it, he thought, smiling and relived it was no burly escort to the white room. He had no feelings one way or the other about Birkoff. He was a bright kid, book-smart just like Tommy, but rather serious and intense. Madison however, warmed the cockles of Griffin's heart. In a weird way, she reminded Griffin of Tommy more than anyone else. They were about the same age, both had dark, dark hair, and both had a playful sense of humor. That she was one of the few female operatives deployed in the field and in possession of a nice set of tits only made her more enticing.

"Ah, ha! You have a stash," Madison said. Birkoff reached into a drawer and produced a box of chocolate.

"That ought to hold us until Madeline's through and we can get some real food," Birkoff replied. He shook some chocolates into his hand before he handed the box to Madison. She emptied a fistful of candy into her mouth, chewed.

"Thanks," she mumbled. "Another real shower and some real clothes, and I'll be ready for a real sleep. Cat-napping on a noisy transport plane just don't cut it."

"Yeah. At least there was some useful stuff in the safehouse." Birkoff looked around his domain, squinting slightly against the glare. Griffin ducked down further behind a rack of controllers.

"I'm not complaining, really," Madison smiled. She plucked at her shirt. "It's too big, but it started out clean, at least. It wasn't a luxury hotel, but I think I'll always remember that cellar fondly."

Birkoff paid her smile back in kind, seemingly in complete agreement. "You still got my chain?"

"I'm wearing it. I figured it was the best place to store it."

He stepped closer and tugged on the neckline of her oversized green tee shirt. A heavy, flat silver chain reflected bright sparks from halogen lights.

"You want it back now?" Madison reached up behind her neck to work the clasp.

Birkoff stayed her hands. "No. I, uh, I think I like it right where it is."

They grinned foolishly at each other for a moment. Griffin sighed, disgusted. He could live with the fact Madison turned him down, but for a systems geek? The head of geeks, even!

Birkoff looked up at the soft sound Griffin made. Griffin lowered himself to the floor, annoyed with how ludicrous this whole task had become.

"I'm sure Madeline is ready for us. We'd better not keep her waiting."

"Yeah. Let's go," Birkoff agreed. They left together, smiles gone, and Griffin hastily retreated before anyone else could pin him down.

Michael sat at Nikita's bedside as he had done in times past. Strong as she was, she had always shown extraordinary powers of recuperation. He had seen the phenomenon many times in her: the swelling vitality and irrepressible growth elemental as the spring.

He took her for granted. He knew that. Michael had learned many things from observing various people around him in Section. Jurgen taught him about the element of surprise. Simone taught him tenacity. Madeline taught him to spend that he might gain an advantage. Walter taught him how to use luck. Operations taught him to seek out the best people. Birkoff taught him that sometimes the smallest things could affect the most change. Others within the echoing halls of Section had imparted wisdom: some purposely, others inadvertently. However, Michael had taught himself how to gamble long ago. Michael found he could take huge chances, but he also found he had a gift that enabled him to know when he held the winning hand. He used that ability every day. He used that ability when he gambled Nikita's safety.

His head bowed down to the side of her bed and rested there on his folded arms as he watched her sleep. He had planned for his visit earlier, performing mild sabotage in the back of Systems. The artificial ears would hear nothing, the artificial eyes would see nothing but what they were supposed to. He needed this small quiet moment uninterrupted.

"Nikita," he said quietly to her closed eyes. "Nikita."

Nikita would not answer, even if she were awake. He had used her too much for unreserved forgiveness. He deserved her silence. He wanted her silence.

He resented her power over him.

He had lost more loved ones than he could bear to count yet Nikita pulled reluctant emotion from Michael. Each time he had lost loved ones he had risen to try just one more time. Maybe this friend/lover/child will live longer than me, he used to think. Could he do it again? Since he was denied the right to hold his second son in his arms ever again, Michael's heart, that paragon of his greatness, closed down. Madeline was wrong all those years ago he thought. His great heart was not his strength. His heart was his foremost defect at the helpless mercy of upturned blue eyes that demanded the depths of his soul even as Nikita turned him away. Whether she was aware of it or not, Nikita required his total capitulation to her demanding love.

I will not submit again!

A tender smile curved his lips, a smile for his own foolishness. He had lost to Nikita years ago, and when his mind was clear, he knew it without question. She called to something within him with an emotional cry so insistent he could not refuse her, just as he could not refuse the primal need of his children. Michael had used his powers of risk on Nikita numerous times in self-deluded ploys to save her not only from Section, but also from him. He did it again and again, without thought, tricking himself and telling himself he would not give in to another fatal love.

"Nikita."

"She can't hear you, but I'm sure it helps."

Michael turned around, instantly ready. His face stiffened into a neutral shield. Madison stood behind him with naked concern on her face. Her hair was disheveled, as if slept upon, and the loose cotton drawstring pants she wore hung in baggy drapes of cloth. Michael knew she had seen far more than he hoped. It seemed to him that the best offense was a hasty retreat. Anything he might say would only emphasize the tender tableau he presented as he bowed before Nikita's slumbering form. He stood up.

"Don't leave on my account. I can come back later."

"No. I'll go." He remained by the bed despite his words.

"I'm not an idiot, Michael. I've got eyes, and a brain."

"Excuse me?" he said, softly polite.

"You. Nikita." She shrugged, as if that was all that needed to be said. "Sorry. I'm too damned tired to be very tactful. You and Nikita do have an understanding, right?"

Michael said nothing. He should walk out and say nothing else, but he felt no threat from Madison. They had a strange history together since his actions intersected with hers and caused her recruitment into Section years ago, but his inner sense told him she would never purposely harm him. Madison looked irritated at his continued silence.

"I know that sort of thing is frowned on, but it goes on anyhow," she said matter-of-factly as she absently tugged on the bottom edge of her shirt, better exposing a heavy silver chain around her neck. "Don't ask--don't tell, y'know?"

"You're right. That sort of thing is frowned on. Why are you asking?"

"Sorry," she repeated. "I kind of caught you with your hand in the cookie jar, so to speak."

"There's no need to apologize. There is no 'understanding'."

Madison's eyebrows climbed in disbelief. "Really?" Her eyes narrowed. "Or . . . is it 'that's my story and I'm sticking to it'?" A serpentine glint of light from the necklace on Madison's neck caught on the edge of Michael's attention. He recalled where he had seen that very chain many times before--around Birkoff's neck. The connection clarified various observations made in past weeks. It seemed Madison knew quite a lot about "don't ask--don't tell".

Michael stared hard at Madison as the ramifications of her relationship with Birkoff sunk in. She was entirely correct; despite policy, people did forge 'understandings' between each other. Management sometimes did more than just frown on these clandestine relationships, but unless the lovers worked in the same department, Management often looked the other way. Management decisions were not what held him back, but the creeping horror of dreadful memories and fearful speculation.

For a moment, he wondered how Madison managed to overcome her own demons and forge a relationship with Birkoff. He knew her history and knew that she had suffered a ladder of losses as cruel as any he loss had endured.

"I really am sorry," Madison quickly dropped her eyes under Michael's silent assault. "I don't usually eavesdrop. I just wanted to check on Nikita before I sleep, is all."

"She's going to be fine."

"I'm glad. She had me worried." Madison sighed heavily and penetrated further into the room to stand next to Michael by Nikita's bed. She touched Nikita's golden pale hand with a tentative finger.

"Perhaps you should get some sleep," Michael suggested.

"I guess I will." A jaw-popping yawn engulfed the end of her sentence. She rubbed her eyes with closed fists. "I can't remember the last time I had a full night's sleep in a bed."

She turned and walked to the door where she paused before leaving. "Goodnight. When Nikita wakes up, could you tell her I stopped by to say hello?"

Michael nodded. When the doorway was empty once more, he glanced at his watch. Four minutes remained before the repeating surveillance loop would end and the ambient equipment would once more transmit truth. He sat down and returned to his contemplation of Nikita's slumber.

Two days of rest and supreme medical care brought Nikita from a shock-induced holding pattern of unconsciousness to a somnolent restlessness. She felt tired as her body carried on the hard labor of healing, too tired to do anything but let the process happen. And she was bored.

Visitors relieved the tedium. Walter sat by her side when she first woke from surgery. As appallingly lewd as he could be, his was a most soothing presence to ease the fevered ennui of convalescence. Others dropped in to wish her well, for Nikita was popular. The one visitor she looked forward to with the most secret anticipation had yet to stop by.

As if conjured by her thoughts, steady footsteps walked to her door. Nikita looked up and Walter entered. She covered disappointment with an increasingly easy mask.

"Hello, Sugar," Walter said.

"Hi, Walter." Affection for Walter burned through her frustration and lit her smile with genuine feeling.

"I see more bloom in those cheeks," Walter winked at her. "Hospital food is agreeing with you?"

Nikita chuckled and looked down. "I don't think it's the food." She looked up again and Michael stood behind Walter.

"Hi." She said automatically. Reflex molded her face into a transparent mask that turned her emotional reactions to glass, giving Michael nothing to find.

"Hi," he replied. "I can't stay. I just wanted to see if you were feeling better." His voice was a smooth cool cream in contrast to Walter's rugged rasp.

"Thanks. I am."

"Madison said to tell you hi."

"I'd heard she and Birkoff made it back. I was so relieved."

"I had the honors to pass on the good news," rumbled Walter. "And, oh, the gratitude she showed me was worth it."

Michael glanced at Walter with something like amusement. "I have to go."

"I'm glad you came by."

After Michael left, the rest of Walter's visit faded to the back of her brain, buzzing pleasantly with the presence of a friend but not the substance of conscious focus. Walter recognized the futility of penetrating her preoccupation, so he patted her arm and bade her get some rest.

"I'll check on you tomorrow, okay Sugar?"

"Sure Walter. I'll be here."

Walter returned to his work, picking up a checklist and walking into the deep recesses of the armory. With disgust, he idly wondered how the long tons of unnecessary paperwork slowed down the covert anti-terrorist machine. Ours is not to wonder why, he thought and continued the never-ending inventory chores that were uniquely his. Suddenly, some silent instinct of preservation raised tiny hairs on the back of his neck. He spun around, startled.

"What are you doing here?" Walter demanded.

"Hey! Whatever happened to 'Hi, Griffin, how are you doing?'" Griffin exclaimed, his arms up, unthreatening.

"You shouldn't be back here and you know it," Walter reprimanded.

"Busted!" Griffin smirked and put his hands on top of his head. "Actually, I was catching a few Z's where it's quiet."

"Back here ain't the place for that," Walter snapped. "Get out before I take some action we'll both regret."

"I'm going! Shit, cut a guy some slack."

"I'm cutting you more slack than you deserve. Git!"

Griffin shook his head and walked out from the back of the armory. As he passed into the open area under Systems, he darted a resentful glare at Birkoff where he stood talking to two computer techs. Griffin could have circumvented the others, but he could not have changed communication settings from the com area while Birkoff was actively logged on the network. To reach an alternate station with high enough clearance, he had to drag himself through crawl-way passages accessed through the back of Walter's armory. He undid all the changes he performed just yesterday, as per George's orders, leaving no traces of his activities behind. The strange glitch that startled him yesterday was gone but since he had no idea what it was in the first place, he gave it no mind. Griffin did what he had to do to walk a razor path as a spy of Section One, but he hated to deceive Walter.

Maybe I'll take him out for a beer to make up for it, he thought. The concept of beer reminded him that noon had passed without benefit of lunch. He had discharged his obligation to George by hiding the tampering he did early yesterday morning for the head of Oversight. No one had prevented him from breathing, so he figured he had successfully covered his tracks.

He scratched his hair and winced at the brutally short length of it. With no demands on his time for now, he realized he could bleach it again. With a clear mind, he left Section.

"Sir, Oversight is here," a disembodied voice issued from a speaker in Operations' office.

"Is Madeline with George?"

"Yes sir."

"Tell them I'll be right there."

Operations held on to the report he read. He finished reading the last paragraphs and scribbled his approval at the bottom, idly wishing he had other pressing matters demanding his time just so he could keep George waiting longer. The head of Section One answered to no other authority on the planet--except Oversight. Operations had imagined assuming that position on occasion, seduced by the power. George was answerable to too many checks and balances and the petulant whims of world leaders, however, so the thought of leading Oversight quickly lost all allure. Still, he found it difficult to suppress resentment for George.

In the vaulted space of Committee, Madeline's modulated voice parried with George's. Operations entered, confidence worn like a weapon.

"George, this is an unexpected pleasure."

"Dispense with the banter. You don't mean it, and Madeline is far better at inimical repartee than you are."

"To business, then."

"There has been talk, talk that Section One has too free a rein to do as it would."

"There is always talk, George, but there's never anything to fix."

"Oh, I think there is room for more checks in your organization."

Operations shook his head. "George, you know how I feel about this. We have the autonomy we do so we can do the things we do. Look at our performance ratings; they speak for themselves."