This is the second part of the Safe As Houses series; it follows Convent.

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

Nikita stood quietly in the cold, waiting for Michael's signal in her ear. She shifted her machine gun, gently flexing stiff fingers. One hand fingered the charges in her pocket.

She thought it odd that a laboratory would be located in a barn, but looking about, she realized it was not such a crazy idea. The nearest neighbor, according to Burkhoff, was five miles away. There was no one near enough to notice unusual behavior.

The worst part about the whole set up was the smell. It was a swine farm, or at least it had been until recently. Nikita breathed through her mouth until she became used to the odor; even then, it was awfully strong.

"Now, Nikita," Michael said softly in her ear, and she put her gun into position and crept forward. She laid a cautious ear to the door and paused.

"What is it?" Michael asked.

"Nothing," she said. "I thought I heard something. I'm going in." She slowly slid one of the big wooden doors aside and crept in.

The smell hit her like a wall. Something coughed and as soon as her eyes became accustomed to the dark, her chin dropped.

"Are you in?" Michael asked.

"I -- I'm -- yes," she stammered. "Pig."

"Excuse me?"

"Not you," Nikita clarified. "Pigs. Hundreds. I didn't think there was supposed to be livestock still here. I thought this was a laboratory."

Most of them were piglets, and all had runny snouts and rheumy eyes. Some coughed, some milled around, but most lay in sad little heaps.

"Pigs?" Michael repeated.

"Yeah. Sick pigs. What do you want me to do?"

"Hold your position. The intel must have been incorrect. Let me check with Burkhoff."

Nikita waited, leaning against a horse stall. One little piglet collapsed at her feet, and she set down her weapon and picked it up. She received an extremely wet sneeze.

"Nikita?"

"Yes?" She put the pig down and wiped her face.

"Look around and see if there is any type of lab equipment at all. There may be something small set up in the loft."

"Okay." Nikita's nose itched, but whether from the decaying hay, the intense odor, or the dust that clotted the air, she couldn't tell. She gave a mighty sneeze and muttered an apology to Michael, and began looking.

"There's nothing," she said finally. "I don't see any incubation facilities and no lab equipment. Shall I come in?"

After a moment, Michael said, "Yes."

"Shall I blow up the pigs?"

"No," he said, and she could hear him smile.

***********

"Why weren't the charges set?" Operations demanded.

"The intel was incorrect. It was a pig farm, not a laboratory," Michael said.

"We never said it was a laboratory," Operations corrected. "We said they were incubating a virus there. The pigs were the incubators. You'll have to go back next week and blow it up ... if you think you can handle it."

Michael stared straight ahead, and Madeleine said softly, "What made you question your original instructions?"

"They seemed obviously wrong," Michael answered. "I thought it pointless to murder livestock. Waste of ammunition."

"Listen to yourself, Michael," Madeleine said. "'You thought.' 'Obviously wrong.' Since when is it your prerogative to question Section? Are you doubting our abilities to guide you?"

"No," Michael said quickly.

Madeleine studied him. "Good. For a moment, I thought it was Nikita I was speaking with, not you."

Michael sighed. "It was a mistake, Madeleine. It won't happen again."

"If I thought it would, I would pair you with someone else. Or .... otherwise encourage your loyalty to Section. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Michael said softly.

"Next week, destroy the barn."

"Yes, Madeleine."

He made his way to his office, where Nikita was laying on his couch, one arm covering her eyes. She sneezed and reached for a tissue, and Michael sat down heavily in his chair.

"I feel awful," Nikita complained. "Can I go home soon?"

"Yes," Michael replied absently.

"What did they say?"

"The pigs were the incubators. We go back next week to blow up the barn."

"So, they lied about the laboratory?"

"It was a miscommunication."

Nikita sighed. "They allowed you to believe a lie, then. Michael, do you think it can be passed to people?"

"I don't think so, not in this stage. Why?"

"Because I feel like those pigs looked."

Michael smiled faintly. "Pretty quick incubation time."

"Yeah, I guess." She rose, steadied herself against the wall, and studied Michael. "They really grilled you, huh? Let me guess: your loyalty is in question."

"Isn't it always? It was not an experience I would wish to repeat," Michael admitted.

Nikita nodded, then reluctantly said, "Maybe you need to start lying to me again."

"Excuse me?"

"They are afraid I'm turning you against them, that you'll be ... polluted by me and my crazy ideas. We may have to go back to the old way."

"I can't," he said briefly, not looking at her.

"You've kept your part of our deal very well, Michael," Nikita said quietly. "I have been very flattered. And a little surprised, I guess."

"Why?"

"I thought it would be harder for you."

"It's just a habit, Nikita. Like smoking or drinking or remembering to pick up your socks."

"I want ..." Nikita took a deep breath, and slowly expelled it. "I want to know if I'm in danger, and I want to know that you'll be on my side. But if you don't have to tell me something, perhaps ... perhaps it would be better if you kept it to yourself, for the time being. That way, you wouldn't be breaking our deal; you still wouldn't lie, but you'd regain Operations' confidence."

"Don't worry about it, Nikita."

"I can't help it," Nikita said. "I don't mind not knowing what's going on. I hardly ever do, anyway. But one of us should know what Operations and Madeleine are doing. It's no good, us both being in the dark."

"Go home and rest. We'll blow up the pigs next week."

"Can hardly wait," Nikita said, with a little of her old bounce. "What are you going to do?"

"I have some reading. And I need to clean house."

He waited until she left, then he switched on the computer. He started with CDC, poring over the Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Reports, then he moved on to Navy and Marines illness and injury reports, then, lastly, to lists of recorded bacilli.

When he finished, it was well after midnight. Before he left Section, he grabbed a doctor's bag.

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

Nikita didn't answer her door, but then, it was after two in the morning. Michael listened, then unlocked it and stepped inside.

She was sprawled on the couch on her stomach, one long leg dangling off the end, an arm draped on the floor. Michael took out his stethoscope and warmed it in his hands before sliding it under her sweatshirt.

"What are you doing?" she asked curiously, waking up.

"I need to listen to your chest," he replied. "Sit up, let's hear the front."

Nikita sat and took the stethoscope. Michael pointed to spots on his own chest. Mimicking him, Nikita placed the stethoscope where he pointed, breathing when instructed.

"How high has your fever been?" he asked.

"It's coming up again," she said scratchily. "It got to 102. I took aspirin about three hours ago."

"Don't take any more. Take Tylenol. But not for another hour. Roll up your sleeve, I need some blood."

Nikita did so, and frowned. "Am I really sick?"

"I don't think so. I just want to make sure about something. I've been doing some reading," he said, swabbing the crook of her elbow with alcohol. "Count of three," he said, and on three, she inhaled sharply so she wouldn't feel the needle go in.

"What kind of reading?" She watched the vial fill up with blood; he capped it and begin filling another.

"About germ warfare, mostly. Nothing to worry about yet, though." He finished gathering the blood, then pulled out a petri dish. "I need some mucus."

"Help yourself," she said, indicating the tissues on the floor.

"Cough, please," Michael said, and she did so, giving him a dirty look.

"You sure take all the romance out of these 1 a.m. visits," she complained.

"It's two," Michael corrected. "Take a cool shower and go back to bed. Here's the Tylenol," he said, placing it on the coffee table. "I'll call tomorrow."

"You're a real prince," Nikita grinned faintly. "You can take my blood anytime."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Michael left, and Nikita took his advice. He was right. She felt much better clean.

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

Nikita was ill for three miserable days. Just when she thought she'd have to go to Med Lab, she got better. Except for his irritating habit of listening to her chest daily, Michael left her alone, and all in all, she felt one hundred percent better when she returned to Section.

"I have something for you," Michael announced, as she waltzed into his office. He pulled out a small box, unwrapped, and handed it to her.

"What is it?" she asked, not taking it.

"It's not a weapon," he assured, and she accepted the gift.

Inside was a round, heavy silver disk, about the size of a quarter, but much thicker. It hung from a serpentine silver chain, and Nikita was entranced. "What does it do?" she asked.

Michael took the necklace from her, and showed her the underside. "It's St. Jude."

"How appropriate," she grinned.

"Twist him to the left, like this --" Michael demonstrated, and the St. Jude side of the disk turned. "That activates a tracker inside. I have the other half in my watch. See?" A red pulse beat on the face of Michael's watch, and Nikita smiled.

"Can I track you?"

"Turn St. Jude the other way."

Nikita did so, and St. Jude opened like a locket, revealing a flat, shiny, gun-metal gray surface with a pinpoint of light on it. "Cool," she said. "Why do I need this?"

"Sit down," Michael said, and she did, fastening the necklace around her neck, St. Jude side down so no one would ask questions.

"Your blood now contains Pfeiffer's bacilli."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"It means you've been exposed to a strain of flu that was thought to be dead." Michael handed her a sheaf of notes. "The good news is, if you are exposed again, chances are you won't be infected, unless the strain you caught has mutated. The bad news is, the last time this strain of flu was around, it reached pandemic proportions and infected millions of people. It's estimated that 20 million died from it worldwide."

Nikita's eyes popped, and she fingered St. Jude. "When was this?"

"At the end of World War I. 1918, mostly. In America, this strain of flu killed as many servicemen as died in battle and ten times as many civilians. Twice as many people in the world died from flu than in battle on all fronts during four years of war."

"What's so special about this strain?"

"It hits fast, infects people aged 25 to 34, and can quickly go into pneumonia. But the important thing is, it spreads easily and moves very quickly."

"How quickly?"

Michael glanced at his notes. "In Philadelphia, from September 11 to October 3, 75,000 cases were estimated. For the week ending October 5, 700 died. The next week, it was 2,600. The next week, 4,500. By October 28, the scare was over and children were allowed to go back to school."

Nikita swallowed. "This is an international nightmare. If that happened in Philadelphia, imagine what could happen in a third-world nation. Who is growing the virus? And why?"

"I don't know ... yet. My guess is, it's a simple domestic terrorist attempt. Perhaps someone is trying to sell it, and that's how Section found out about it."

"If Operations trusted you, you would already know," Nikita said slowly. "Don't tell me any more," she decided, rising abruptly. "Let me know what I need to keep us safe, and if need be, I'll pitch a fit in front of Madeleine."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"We know it spreads from pigs to people, thanks to me," Nikita said. "But can it be passed person to person?"

"If it could, I'd be sick by now," Michael replied. "I think it needs to mutate first. But I'm not a scientist, I could be wrong."

"Find out," Nikita said. "And tell me if you must, but do it somewhere away from Section. We don't need to be seen together."

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the door burst open, and a small, dark flurry of energy bounded in and soared into Michael's arms. He staggered backward, instinctively holding her, and to Nikita's intense surprise, a smile blazed across his face. "Jess!"

"Michael!" she was laughing and raining little butterfly kisses on his face; Nikita felt her knees suddenly weaken, and she sat down with a thump.

Michael finally set the girl down, and Nikita simply stared at her, taking stock. Bright blue eyes; creamy skin; thick black long hair, braided and wound around her head like a coronet; and so tiny she hit Michael barely mid-chest. She was lovely, and everything Nikita wasn't. Nikita swallowed hard and stood up without stumbling.

"I'm Nikita," she said, holding out a hand.

"Jess," Jess smiled, reaching out with the hand that was not holding Michael. "You're Michael's partner?"

"Sort of," Nikita smiled.

"I thought you'd be paired with a man, Michael," Jess grinned, and Nikita suddenly knew that regardless of Jess's obvious relationship with Michael, she liked her. It was clear to Nikita that they had been lovers; when, she couldn't guess. Jess was younger than she was, and Nikita knew Michael hadn't been involved with anyone since Simone.

Had he?

Feeling cold, Nikita smiled at Jess again, and avoided Michael's eyes. "I ought to go," she said. "Looks like you two have some catching up to do."

"No, you can't," Jess said. "Madeleine sent me in to tell you -- there's a briefing in ten minutes. For all of us."

Michael went white, but Nikita nodded and headed for the briefing. Anything to get out of a room that was quickly becoming too small.

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

"Michael, you'll go back to the barn," Operations instructed. "Blow it up. Return here. In and out, what you do best. Nikita and Jess: you'll go to the location we specify, and wait for instructions."

"That's it?" Nikita asked.

"For now," Operations smiled unpleasantly, and Nikita frowned back at him.

"Michael?" she asked.

"Not now, Nikita," he replied stonily, and Nikita was pleased to see Madeleine and Operations exchange what she called The Look. The Look was perfect; Nikita wished she had one. The Look meant a variety of things, but this time, it meant Nikita and Michael aren't agreeing. Good, Nikita thought. Score one for us.

By the time she tuned in again, Michael was saying, "No. Jess is not an operative. I won't have her going."

Nikita wished she were close enough to kick him. He was ruining everything ...

"She will go," Madeleine smiled. "And for this particular mission, she is an operative. She will take her orders from Nikita, and you will not be involved. Is that understood?"

Say yes, Michael, Nikita prayed.

"Yes," Michael said.

Nikita went home in the afternoon. She saw Jess and Michael leave together, which only made her wish she had left earlier.

It was silly to feel jealous. Actually, it was quite admirable of Michael to be friends with an old lover. Unless she wasn't such an old lover. Nikita frowned and pored another glass of wine, sipping it slowly. Before she got far enough away from them, she overheard Michael telling Jess he had something for her. Nikita twirled St. Jude on his chain, and wondered if Jess had something similar now. Perhaps he gave religious metals to all the women he admired.

If only she could dislike Jess! But everything she knew about her -- which wasn't much -- made her want to know her better. Burkhoff clearly adored her; he offered her his favorite boxed juice which he never shared with anyone, not even Nikita. Walter hadn't stopped smiling since he caught sight of Jess, and he demonstrated several prototypes to her that Nikita had never seen. Jess was funny, she was irreverent, she was almost unbearably nice, she cared about Michael, and more importantly, he cared about her. It was written on his face, as clearly as if someone had stamped his forehead. Nikita counted four smiles in just three hours, and that had to be some kind of a record.

Nikita put down her wine glass and restlessly went to the balcony. The sun was just setting, sending golden light over the city. She wished Ella were here to talk to; it was times like these that she really missed her. If only the convent had a phone. Nikita couldn't even write. Even that could place Ella in danger, and despite her deal with Michael, she knew she couldn't harm her. She loved Ella; life wasn't fair, not for any of them, but to hurt Ella would be an unpardonable sin.

Unhappy and slightly off balance from the wine, Nikita shrugged into a light jacket and headed out of the apartment. There was a church four blocks away; it was just barely twilight and should still be open. She could use a good confession.

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

Nikita came in late. She fit the key into the lock and stepped through the doorway, tossing her jacket on the coat rack.

"Where have you been?" Michael demanded, and she jumped.

"You nearly gave me a heart attack," she snapped. "Don't do that."

Nikita went to the kitchen and pored a glass of water. "What is it, Michael?" she asked, suddenly feeling very tired and very old.

"Are you all right?"

"Still feeling the effects of the flu, I guess," she lied. "What's up?"

"I wanted to ask you a favor."

"Whatever it is, yes. Now will you leave?"

Michael rose from the couch and came toward her until he was standing about eight inches away. She took a subtle step back, and Michael promptly took a step forward putting a hand under her chin, looking directly into her eyes.

"Can you tell me what is wrong?" he asked.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because," Nikita said, "I'm not sure. What's the favor, Michael?"

"You have to keep Jess safe. It's important, Nikita."

"Of course," Nikita said dully. "You know I take care of the people I work with, Michael. Jess will be no different. I'll do what I can."

Michael let out a breath, and Nikita breathed it in. "Where is Jess now, Michael?"

"At home." Not at my apartment, or at Section quarters, but at home. Like they lived there together. Nikita swallowed past the lump in her throat, and Michael continued. "We had some cleaning up to do, and I needed her to make decisions about some things."

Misery washed over Nikita like warm bath water. Decisions. Cleaning up. She couldn't stand it. She stepped out of Michael's arms and turned away from him.

"I'm tired," she said finally. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"All right," he agreed. "Sleep well, Nikita."

She waited until she heard the door close before she threw the glass she was holding against the wall. It shattered with a satisfying crash, and she looked wildly around for something else to throw. But before she could locate anything breakable, she started crying, and it took her a long time to stop.

As Nikita had done a week earlier, Michael crept along the outside of the barn. Burkhoff waited in the van for him, and he anticipated no problems. He had a HEPA mask slung around his neck so he wouldn't be affected like Nikita had been, and at Burkhoff's signal, he put the mask into position, opened the door to the barn, and planted five charges.

He was back in the van when the building blew. In and out. What he did best, just like Operations said. Michael wondered if it actually was a compliment.

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

The first thing Nikita noticed was a huge ring on Jess' middle finger. Talk about a headlight, Nikita thought. Should've brought my sunglasses. It was at least two karats, and possibly more. Round cut, platinum band. Classy. From Michael? It wasn't exactly Michael's style, but ... Nikita felt her chest begin to tighten, and she took three deep, cleansing breaths.

They were on a commercial flight to Washington, D.C., and Jess, who was not a good flier, was turning a bit green. To take Jess' mind off her obviously unsettled stomach, and determined to be nice, Nikita pulled a Sprite from her shoulder bag and popped the top.

"Sometimes I get a bit woozy too," she smiled. "I know you aren't an operative from what Madeleine told me. What exactly do you do?"

"Dance," Jess answered. She kicked off a loafer and held up her foot for inspection, and Nikita grimaced.

"Looks painful."

"It's a trade off," Jess grinned. "The price we pay for being graceful and beautiful everywhere else." Jess lowered her voice; it was a red-eye flight and no one was near them, but Section talk needed to be conducted in whispers. "I'm a courier, really. I'm placed in ballet companies all over the world, which means it's easy for me to pass information."

"Isn't that a little ... medieval?"

"Some intel can't be passed any other way," Jess shrugged. "It's an easy life, considering. I get to dance, Section gets to use me as a delivery person. Everyone's happy."

"So, how did you pull that off?"

Jess took another sip of Sprite. "I guess you could say someone cut a deal for me."

She didn't have to say who; Nikita could guess it was Michael. Involuntarily, she looked at Jess' neck, and was childishly pleased to see pearls hanging around it instead of a silver disk.

The plane shuddered, and Jess groaned.

"Here," Nikita said, pulling a vial from her bag. "I use these sometimes. They're for motion sickness."

"I'm not sure ..."

"They knock you out, but you don't throw up," Nikita said. She took out her Swiss Army knife and halved a pill, and Jess, after a brief hesitation, downed it. In 20 minutes, she was asleep.

Half an hour after Jess and Nikita arrived in Washington, Operations called.

"Josephine."

"Here," Nikita sighed.

"There is a warehouse in the next block, where a man named Franks is holding a toxin. According to our intel, he will be arriving at the warehouse at midnight. Intercept him and bring him back to Section."

"That's all?"

"Yes."

"Can I ask what kind of toxin we're talking about?"

"No."

Nikita's frustration level rose. "And if he doesn't show?"

"Then you'll wait until tomorrow. That's all." The connection terminated, and Nikita slammed down the phone, muttering.

Jess had kicked off her shoes and had practice slippers on, doing exercises with one hand on the back of a kitchen chair. "What ... did ... he ... say?" she gasped, sweat shining on her brow.

Nikita relayed the conversation, then slumped onto the couch, biting her lip.

Jess finished her series, and sat down, splay-legged, on the floor. She bent from the waist, stretching her body out over the floor. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Something. This just doesn't feel right." Nikita frowned, then unzipped a suitcase, tossing clothes out. "We don't even have gas masks."

"Do we need them?" Jess asked, curiously.

"I don't know." They would if the toxin was the flu virus. Of course, this mission might be completely separate from Michael's. From Michael's research, she knew quite a bit about flu, but not nearly enough if she were going to be exposed again. Would it be like an allergy -- the first exposure an aggravation, the second exposure deadly? Or would it be like Michael expected -- Nikita would be immune, but Jess in danger? I wish Michael were here, Nikita thought, watching Jess rise again and place her hand on the back of the chair. She extended her left leg, and Nikita wondered how easy it was going to be to keep Jess safe.

The hours trudged by. Eight o'clock. Nine. At half past eleven, Nikita threw her book down. "It's early, but I can't stand it anymore. Let's get this over with."

"All right," Jess agreed, relieved.

They put on their mission clothes and turned out the lights, exiting the apartment by the fire escape. They made their way to the warehouse, and stayed in the shadows until Franks appeared.

Without hesitating, Jess aimed and fired, the silenced gun making a little popping sound. Franks slumped to the ground and Nikita drug him into the shadows.

"Is this our boy?" Nikita asked. She turned on a pin light and shone it on his face, and Jess squinted.

"Nikita, I think I shot the wrong guy."

Nikita frowned and leaned forward. She heard the crack on her skull before she felt it, and closed her eyes as pain enveloped her. Then she sank gratefully into darkness.

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

When Nikita woke up, the first thing she did was check her watch.

She'd lost two days. No wonder she was so thirsty.

The second thing she did was activate St. Jude.

She sat up groggily, and waited till her head cleared. Jess lay beside her on the floor, pale as the concrete underneath her. Nikita clumsily felt for her pulse, and although faint, it was steady.

There was water by the door. She half-heartedly tried the handle; of course, it was locked. One boarded up window let in little slivers of light. There was a small air vent. Nikita drank half of the water and waited for Jess to wake up or for someone to come and tell her what was going on, whichever came first.

She took a quick inventory. They were both still in their mission clothes, minus their weapons and first-aid kits. Nikita dug in a pocket and came up with a battered candy bar, which she unwrapped and nibbled on.

Jess looked bad. If she didn't make it, Michael would be very, very disappointed, and Nikita couldn't bear that. Well, then. That just couldn't happen.

She folded the foil over the rest of the candy and tucked it away. For the past couple of months, she had been practicing memorization. Shakespeare, the Bible, whatever. She even had a few Dorothy Parker and Edward Lear poems committed to memory. Now seemed like a good time for Psalm 140.

Nikita drifted to sleep; when she awoke, two containers of water had been placed in their cell. Jess still was out, but instead of being pale, she was flushed. Nikita felt of her forehead. She was burning up.

Nikita pulled Jess to a sitting position and took off her own top shirt, carefully wetting it with the water. She blotted Jess' face, and tried to force some water down her throat. Jess gagged and her eyes fluttered open.

"I feel bad," she groaned.

"I know," Nikita said. "Drink this."

Jess nodded and drank, but fell asleep before she had taken three sips. Nikita pored some more precious water on her shirt, and then pored some on Jess' head to cool her off.

Sometimes Jess woke, but more often, she slept. Nikita tried to keep her cool, but the moment she put the wet material on Jess, it dried. Even in her underclothes, she shook with fever.

Why doesn't someone come? Nikita thought furiously, beginning to get seriously aggravated. No one questioned them, no one even spoke to them. Periodically, water appeared inside the door, but it always happened when Nikita was either asleep or busy with Jess.

She was so sick. Sicker than Nikita had ever been. Nikita sat on the floor beside Jess, watching her labored breathing, and sighed. Michael better hurry up. She didn't think she could escape with Jess comatose, and she wasn't going to leave her here alone. She'd give him 12 more hours, then she was going to have to take matters into her own hands.

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

Sometime during the night, Jess began babbling. Nikita certainly experienced delirium a few times herself, but other than Michael, this was the first time she had to take care of someone who was out of her mind.

It was a losing battle. Jess was little, but she was strong, and it took all Nikita had to keep her from hurting herself. She got a black eye for her troubles, and finally ended up half sitting on top of Jess. By the time little shards of light came through the boarded up window, Nikita was exhausted. She actually dozed off, and when she jerked awake, she realized how still Jess was.

Nikita took a deep breath and felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

Frantically, she gave Jess a little shake. She felt her wrist, her neck. She put her ear to Jess' chest and strained for something, anything.

Finally, she heard a lazy thump. With shaking hands, she felt Jess' neck and was rewarded with a faint beat under the skin. Nikita automatically timed it against her watch. It wasn't good, but it was better than nothing.

Nikita sat back, numb. Thank goodness, she thought, closing her eyes.

Her relief gradually ebbed, replaced with anger. Enough was enough. She gave Michael more than ample time to rescue them; it was obvious he wasn't coming, and Jess needed immediate attention. Nikita looked around the room, searching for anything she might have missed.

Four walls, a small window, one electrical outlet. Concrete floor.

And water. They had water.

If she could create a circuit ... if the outlet was live ...

Right before she and Jess left Section, Nikita's shoestring broke. She'd been near Walter's station, and there wasn't time to go back for another pair of boots. She'd stolen a black rubber-coated piece of wire, threaded it through, and forgot about it.

Nikita unlaced her shoe and bit through the rubber. She slowly stripped the wire. It wasn't very long, but then, it didn't need to be. Carefully, she wrapped one end over the metal doorknob, then quickly jabbed the other end in the socket. She pored some water down Jess's throat, took a swig herself, and dumped the remainder of both containers in front of the door.

There wouldn't be enough water or voltage to kill anyone. But it sure would give them a jolt, she thought, quite pleased with herself. If only she'd done this before.

The door rattled, and her anger returned in full-force. She pulled Jess to the far corner of the room, and stood in front of her.

The door opened. A small man holding a gun grinned unpleasantly at Nikita, and she gave him The Look, as perfected by Madeleine and Operations. He opened his mouth to say something and took a step in, and as his feet touched the water, the circuit completed.

He twisted and trembled, uttering a harsh cry. The gun arched out of his hand, clattering to the floor. As soon as he was down, Nikita threw her shoe at the outlet, and the wire fell harmlessly to the floor. Then she checked her victim.

Suddenly, her head jerked up, and she scrambled for the gun, pointing it at the door.

A shadow crept across her line of sight, then took substance. Nikita's gun lowered.

"It's about time, Michael," she said, annoyed. "I was beginning to think you'd never get here."

Michael's eyes slid from Nikita to the body on the floor, and fastened on Jess. He gave a little groan and started immediately for her, reaching up to take off his mask, but Nikita stopped him. "Better not. She may still be infectious. And I simply cannot do this again."

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

After his belated rescue, Michael delivered the scientist and destroyed the samples and the incubators -- except, of course for Jess. Nikita and Jess stayed in Washington until Jess was well enough to fly.

"Watch after her," Michael told Nikita before leaving, and she nodded.

"Of course."

He hesitated, obviously reluctant to leave. "If you need anything ..."

"Michael, we'll be fine. Now go, you'll miss your flight."

Michael nodded, then gave Jess a hug and smoothed her long black hair away from her face. She smiled up at him. Nikita leaned against the door frame for support, and watched Michael down the hall. "Be careful," she called after him, and he nodded without looking back.

Meaning to reassure her, Jess said, "Michael will call after he makes his report."

"You don't seem too worried," Nikita said, thinking about Operations and Madeleine. They would be furious that Nikita and Jess were staying behind, and Michael would have to diffuse the situation.

"He'll be all right."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I know Michael. If he believes things will be fine, he doesn't say good-bye. And he didn't kiss me before he left," Jess said, matter-of-fact.

Nikita blinked. Suddenly, she felt an almost crushing pain in her chest. All the little gestures she observed between them melded together in one huge, comprehensive understanding. The ring winking on Jess' hand was just the cherry on top. Nikita felt like Saul must have, when God zapped him on the road to Damascus. "You are still in love," she said, her voice high and unnatural.

Jess choked on her drink. "What are you talking about?" she asked.

"You and Michael. You are still in love with each other." The chest pain turned into a dull ache, and Nikita took a deep breath. "I've seen the way he is with you, Jess. And you obviously love him."

Jess looked at her, a little dazed, and carefully sat her soda down. "Of course, I love him. He's my brother," she said.

Nikita froze. "Brother?"

"Brother-in-law, actually. My half-sister was Simone."

"You were both recruited? When?"

"Ten years ago. I was twelve, Simone was 18. We met Michael when we came to Section."

"Why were you recruited?"

"We killed my step-father. Actually, Simone did, but I was an accessory."

"Why?"

"My mother married him when I was four, and Simone was ten. He abused her. I didn't know it, and she kept quiet for years. She couldn't fight back. He was her father and she was terrified of him. So was I, and I learned to be even more frightened later."

"He started abusing you, too," Nikita guessed.

Jess nodded. "When I was eleven, he raped me. I was so scared, and so confused, I didn't know what to do. But Simone found out."

"What about your mother? Couldn't she stop him?"

"She wouldn't believe us, and Simone was forced to take things into her own hands. When my mother was away, I pilfered her sleeping pills. Simone would cook and drug his dinner. Or we'd both sleep over with friends."

"So ... what happened?"

"Alan made sure we both knew how to shoot a gun. We had a place in the Catskills, and he wanted to be sure we could defend ourselves."

"And I take it that one night, you did," Nikita said quietly.

Jess closed her eyes. "My mother was away on business. So we knew he would take advantage of the opportunity. Simone drugged his dinner as usual, even though she said it wasn't very sporting. And instead of sneaking out to sleep at someone else's house, Simone made me bring the car round to the front of the house while she shot him in his sleep."

She was quiet for a few moments. "The trial was awful," Jess said softly. "I wasn't sorry he was dead, and I couldn't hide my feelings. We were both tried as adults, and though my sentence was lighter -- only 50 years -- I never expected to see the outside of prison again. And I knew I'd never see Simone."

"Then you were recruited?"

"Simone was. She pitched a fit when she found out what was going on, and threatened to cancel herself and anyone who got close to her if I wasn't brought in, too. She thought she could protect me better in here than in prison. And in a way, she was right. At least here, I could study."

"Study what?"

"Ballet. It's all I ever wanted to do. Once Section realized they'd made a pretty poor deal with Simone, they made the best of it and trained me to be a courier. And that's what I've been doing for the past eight years."

"You've been working since you were 14?"

"Yes. I went through the regular operative training with Simone. After that, I enrolled in a ballet school in Toronto, and with Section help, I made the corps of a company by the time I was 16. I've been traveling ever since."

"And Simone?"

Jess shrugged. "She was good. The only one better was Michael. He'd been in Section for a few years, and was just starting to train operatives. When his partner died, he and Simone were paired. She was very relieved I wouldn't make cold op status; she knew it would be harder to protect me, and she guessed we would never be paired. And she and Michael were a good match."

"Then they fell in love," Nikita prompted sentimentally.

Jess shrugged again. "I don't know whether they did or not. But they were good together, and they cared for each other. It took her a long time, but Michael was the first man -- the only man, that I know of -- that she trusted. And that meant more than love to Simone."

"What about Michael?"

"Section rules say that partners can't be married. They were going on more and more dangerous missions, and knew that sooner or later, one or the other of them wouldn't come back. Most likely, they would both die."

"So they got married so they wouldn't be paired?"

"More or less. There was a great friendship there, Nikita. He felt responsible too, because he backed Simone up when she requested that I be recruited. He knew she'd never forgive herself if something happened to me, because by that time she was feeling a lot of guilt for dragging me into the whole mess to begin with. And there was no way to protect me if she were gone. The only reason they put up with me was Simone."

"So why weren't you canceled when Simone died?" Nikita asked.

"By then, I was fulfilling a needed role," Jess answered. "People suspect couriers to be journalists, or businessmen, or politicians. But not teenaged ballerinas. And I've always suspected that Michael had a little bit to do with it, too."

Nikita slowly said, "I overheard something the other day that's been bothering me. Michael said he had decisions for you to make."

Jess frowned, trying to remember, then she smiled. "Michael's been cleaning house. He finally packed up all Simone's stuff and wanted me to go through it before he donated it to a consignment store for battered women. Simone's things should bring a lot of money; she had some nice clothes." Jess held out her hand, the diamond sparkling madly. "And he wanted me to have her ring. It was her grandmother's. Quite a rock, eh?"

"It's large," Nikita admitted. "Do you mean to tell me Michael's been living with Simone's things for three years now?"

"Strange, isn't it? But I guess he's ready to make some changes now. Thank goodness." Changing the subject, Jess said, "I should be ready to travel in a few days."

"I don't think anyone knows how sick you were. I could just kill Madeleine. The only reason she brought you in was to get to Michael," Nikita said. "I can't believe the tracker was defective."

"Did you ever field test it?" Jess asked.

"No."

"Nikita, even I know you have to field test trackers," Jess rolled her eyes. "We're lucky Michael found us at all. Although if he hadn't, I'm sure your rescue would have worked."

"If he'd written us off sooner, we could have saved a lot of time. Only when he admitted we were acceptable collateral did Madeleine tell him our location. All the same, I'm glad he showed up. Better late than never, I guess."

"I will miss you, Nikita."

"I'll miss you, too. And I know Michael will, as well."

"I'll come back for training. Probably in a few months, so they can assure themselves that I'm fully operational. Hope they don't test my blood."

"Pfieffer's bacillis isn't something that is usually scanned for," Nikita said. "When he tested my blood, Michael had to specifically ask for it. Anyway, there's no proof that it was passed person to person in your case. We were both unconscious. You could have been injected with it, like the pigs were."

"Such a pleasant thought. At least you didn't get it."

Nikita shrugged. "Thanks to Operations and Madeleine, I was immune. I'm sure it was unintentional, but there it is. Somehow, within just a week, Franks was able to mutate the virus enough to make people sicker, quicker. At least the tissue is destroyed. Michael said there may be some frozen cadavers left over from the first pandemic, but they're in Greenland or some dreadful cold place. Even the CDC doesn't want to dig them up."

In a few days, Nikita put Jess on a plane, and caught one herself, feeling very mellow. Her good mood lasted exactly three hours. Then she stepped off the transport and into Section.

The first person she saw was Michael. His eyes were flat and cold and when she saw how angry he was, her eyes dropped immediately. Madeleine and Operations were waiting as well; they didn't seem as angry as Michael, and Nikita would have far rather had a session with both of them than Michael. But she didn't get the chance to voice an opinion.

"Come with me," Michael said curtly, and Nikita shot him The Look, which she had been practicing. She raised her chin and regarded him coldly; he returned her look, then took her arm in a vice-like grip and hustled her down the hall to his office.

"Let go of me," she hissed.

"Shut up," he replied coldly. He whipped his office door open and shoved her inside; the door slammed shut and the lock clicked into place. Nikita rubbed her arm resentfully. Michael went to the window and with a quick, angry flick, lowered the shades.

Nikita watched him from under her bangs. His back was to her, but he held himself so stiffly. She hadn't been afraid of Michael in years, but now ...

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

What had she done? She prepared herself for a torrent of angry words and closed her eyes, hoping she could stand up to him. She felt him come closer, and she cringed a little as his hands wrapped around her shoulders, and she braced herself for a shaking. To her astonishment, his arms went around her, and he was kissing her. "I was so afraid," he muttered. "So afraid."

Stiff with surprise, she didn't move at all at first; but then her body began responding, and by the time her mind caught up to what was happening, she was breathless and not a little shaky. His hands traveled down her torso, checking her ribcage for damage, creeping down her backbone ...

"Michael, stop," she gasped, and he immediately froze, his mouth a millimeter from her right ear.

"What is it?" he asked, a little unsteadily.

She didn't move, and neither did he. "I'm a little confused," she admitted.

His breath was warm and irregular on her neck, and she took a deep breath. Making a superhuman effort, she reached behind her and untangled his arms. She took a step away from him -- not even a foot, but enough to separate them, and enough for her to see his face clearly. His eyes were clear and warm, and though he looked tired and tense, he seemed fine.

"Once I asked you to not do this, unless you meant it."

"I remember," Michael said.

Nikita rubbed her temples fitfully. "So, what are you saying?"

"This is becoming increasingly difficult," he answered, hooking a foot around a chair and falling into it.

"What is?" Nikita asked, confused.

"You said once that sometimes you have to lie to do what is right. I believe you mentioned Queen Esther."

"So, what do you want to do?"

Michael put his face in his hands and muttered something.

"Beg pardon?" Nikita leaned forward, trying to catch what he said.

"I said, I don't know what I want. But I know it isn't this. It doesn't matter," he said, miserable.

"Matters to me." Nikita perched on the edge of his desk, swinging her legs. "You know what you need? A vacation. I get two months. What about you?"

"It's never been mentioned."

Nikita nodded, then hopped off. "I'll ask Madeleine if you can have one of my months. Maybe you can go see Ella."

She was almost to the door when Michael stopped her. "Why would you do that?"

"You need it," she shrugged. She went to him and extended her hand, helping him to his feet. He put his hands on her shoulders. "Consider it penance," she suggested.

"For what?"

Slowly, she admitted, "I was awfully jealous of Jess."

"Why?"

"I didn't understand the exact nature of your ... relationship." She put her hands up on his face, gently rubbing his forehead. He was so tense. "Michael. You don't have to tell me what's going on up there if you don't want to. But I might could help you if I knew."

"I don't know what's going on anymore. I need to know," he said haltingly, "I have to know if you are all right."

Nikita shook her head to clear it. "As you can see, I'm safe as houses. No broken bones, no torn ligaments, all in one piece. You can listen to my lungs if you want," she offered.

"That's not what I mean." He took her hands down and put them on his chest; she absently smoothed his shirt fabric. "You know how you feel when you get the breath knocked out of you?"

"Very well," Nikita answered.

"The only thing you can think is, I never knew breathing could be so difficult." Nikita waited for him to continue. She had never seen him look this uncomfortable; she made a mental note to ask him to go to Med Lab. Perhaps he was catching something. She hoped, for his sake, it wasn't flu. "I knew Jess would be fine because she was with you. But then I lost you for three days. I didn't know where you were or if you were all right." Michael swallowed, and forced himself to continue. "I would rather spend six months in traction in Med Lab than relive those three days," he said.

She eyed him, uncertain, hands still. "Is this your idea of a declaration of love?"

"Forget it," he said, and he turned away. "Go away."

But Nikita went to him, and as her arms went around him, she thought it was a little touching that he actually hesitated. But when she kissed him, there was no hesitation, and when her arms went round his neck, he abruptly pulled her closer, arms enfolding her tightly, lips warm and possessive.

"Michael," she murmured, when she was able to catch her breath. "If this is a trick, I'll cancel you myself."

He murmured an agreement, one hand moving slowly up her back to the nape of her neck.

"Are we going to have an affair?" she asked, curious.

"An affair doesn't last. Besides, Gabrielle wouldn't approve," he mumbled into her neck.

"Then what are we going to do?"

"We'll think of something."

Finally, before things got too out of hand, Nikita pulled away, suddenly fully aware of her Section surroundings. She gently extracted herself, took a few deep, settling breaths, and smoothed her hair with shaking hands. Michael slowly backed off, straightening his shirt and tucking in the ends, not able to meet her eyes. As she watched him, his face took on that shuttered look it so often had, and his eyes turned flat and dead. It was a little scary, and Nikita shivered.

"Michael?" she said, uncertain.

But then he turned to her, one eyebrow raised inquisitively, and his eyes shifted warm again. He held out his hand, and Nikita, after only a second's hesitation, took it.

-End-