The movie over, Nikita and John quietly exited the theater, blinking in the garish light of Connecticut Avenue. The sidewalk was crowded with theater patrons and people finishing dinner. To the right of the theater was a string of small restaurants; to the left of the theater was a bookstore and beyond that, a drug store. John and Nikita strolled down the sidewalk.

It was impossible to find parking on Connecticut; they’d left the car a few blocks away. Near the end of the block was a coffee shop, and John was about to ask Nikita if she wanted to stop for some coffee and maybe a dessert (Michael advised him that if he wanted to keep her contented, he should be prepared to stop for food often), when a car plowed into a line of parked cars, bucking a parked Chrysler onto the sidewalk and straight into the line of pedestrians.

The Chrysler took out a parking meter and scattered people right and left; Nikita lost her grip on John when someone stumbled back into her. Nikita went down with a thud, taking another pedestrian with her. Popcorn from someone’s container spewed into the air; someone else’s Coke went flying. The chain reaction continued -- the last of the parked cars bumped into a fire hydrant, and water shot up, spraying the crowd below with cold water.

The car that caused the accident backed up, shifted gears, and roared off in a burst of bluish exhaust.

Without a word, Nikita hauled herself up. John took a quick look around; in the confusion, no one noticed them, and he hurried her down the block toward their car.

“Did you see the driver?” he asked, for when the wreck happened, Nikita had been nearest the street.

“Not well.” But well enough, she thought angrily brushing a strand of Coke-smeared hair from her face. Dressed in black, piercing eyes, strong jaw ... she was certain it was Michael, and she was absolutely furious.

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

Michael spent a quiet evening at home watching CNN and reading a white paper John had in his briefcase on the feasibility of stationing agents in Hussein’s private guard. This was interesting to Michael because Section already had agents in such a position; reading the paper gave him several ideas, though. Finally, after checking the clock for the third time in half an hour he made a pot of tea for John and Nikita. He thought they’d probably stop by and get dessert someplace; despite quantities of popcorn Nikita no doubt consumed, she’d want something sweet afterwards.

Michael put the bags in to steep, and the kitchen door behind him burst open. Startled, he turned; his eyes widened.

“What happened?”

“What makes you think something happened?” Nikita shot back at him.

Michael’s eyes went from her feet -- wet with the water from the fire hydrant -- to the top of her head -- littered with the peculiar unidentifiable bits of flotsam that adhere to sidewalks. “Did you get caught in a riot?” he asked.

“No,” John snapped, “We did not. A car nearly ran us down.”

“Oh?” His voice was calm and his face impassive, but Nikita detected a twitch in his eyebrow, and his eyes grew a little darker. Michael poured three cups of tea and brought them to the table. “Tell me.”

“A car jumped the sidewalk,” Nikita said icily. “It was hit from behind, and the person who did it left.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Not seriously,” John said.

“See the driver?”

“Not very well,” Nikita said coldly, then she took a deep breath. “He was dressed in dark colors. I couldn’t tell about his hair. He had a strong jaw.”

Michael took a drink of tea, then looked directly into her eyes. “You think it was me.”

John’s jaw dropped in surprise, but Nikita’s chin lifted. “It might have been.”

“It wasn’t,” Michael said flatly.

“Then who was it, Michael? Who else knew we’d be at the movies? Who else knew we’d be in the study when we were? And how did you know I’d be at Bethesda?” Nikita asked.

“Let’s go over it again. You went to the movie --” Michael prompted.

“I already told you what happened.” Nikita slammed her tea cup down on the kitchen table, slopping hot liquid on her hand; she jerked her hand away and looked at him resentfully. His eyes narrowed and Nikita sighed. “We left the theater. I was hoping we could stop for some carrot cake and was about to ask John if he wanted any, when a car barreled into us.”

“What kind of car?”

“Dark. Four door. Maybe a Toyota.”

“Not good enough, Nikita. You can do better.”

“Leave me alone,” she said angrily.

“All right you two,” John interrupted. “Before you kill each other, let’s think about this rationally. We’ve had a lot of distractions lately, but we have to focus on our main problem. Agreed?”

“Yes,” said Michael.

“The main problem being ....” Nikita prompted.

“Someone is obviously targeting us, or maybe just Nikita. Any idea who it could be?”

Nikita brushed a strand of hair from her face. It was sticky with spilt Coke and little flecks of popcorn adorned her head. She pulled Michael’s computer toward her and went to Nelson’s file. “Okay, then,” she said flatly. “Let’s start at the beginning. Let’s assume this has to do with Nelson ...” Her typing skills limited, Nikita pushed the computer toward Michael. “Try to search previous missions.”

“What parameters?” Michael asked. “Nikita, this won’t work, the search has to be narrowed ...”

“No need,” John said, voice suddenly tight and eyes riveted on the screen where Nelson’s mug shot grimly looked out at them. “Try Guatemala, June 1992.”

Michael’s eyebrow raised, but he did as John asked. “Now,” John said, taking a deep breath, “What does it say under ‘mission status’?”

“That the mission wasn’t completed,” Michael said slowly, reading from the screen. “There was containment, but Antioch escaped. I remember this mission,” he said, looking up at John. “I was in Zurich at the time; when I got back, we were missing two operatives and were in trouble with the Agency.”

“Would one of you please tell me what this is about?” Nikita asked.

John answered. “Antioch is one of those pseudo-mob organizations. We didn’t know it at the time, of course: we thought they were into terrorist activities. I had just been traded to CIA, so when a dual mission came up, they put me on it.”

“Dual mission?” Nikita said.

“Yeah, one like we just got finished with. Agency and Section working together. Seldom happens, but when it does ... it can get a little tense. Especially when it involves a splinter group, like Antioch.”

Michael took up the narrative. “According to Section Intel, Antioch was an extremely small faction interested in bombs.”

“Yeah, but when we tried to flush them out ... all hell broke loose. Turned out the Intel was faulty -- on both sides -- and the 20 or so people we were trying to kill were only a small fraction of the real power behind the organization,” John sighed. “Anyway, the long and short of it is, we got massacred and Antioch learned a couple of things from us in the process.”

“So what does this have to do with Nelson?”

John was quiet for a few moments, and when he finally looked up, he didn’t look happy. “The Agency thought it would be prudent to have an inside man ...” he said slowly.

“Nelson? Nelson was the inside man?” Nikita guessed. “Why not use one of your people?”

“We did,” John said slowly. “We had two people on the inside, just to be sure. The background provided was impeccable. There was nothing to tie either mole to Section or to the Agency. Nelson, we called James. The other operative ...”

Suspecting she knew the answer, Nikita said quietly, “Who was the other operative, John?”

“Me,” he said simply.

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

“Retribution?” Michael guessed.

“Carrying a grudge?” said Nikita.

“My guess is housekeeping. No, not Housekeeping. You know, just ... cleaning house,” John said.

“After six years?” Michael said. “Why wait so long?”

“Maybe because there was a little matter of jail time,” Nikita muttered, quickly scrolling through a list of names. “Look, here are all the people that were on the mission. Here’s the Agency side; over here are the Section personnel. What do you notice, Michael?”

He ran his eyes over the list. “It doesn’t mean anything, Nikita. No one is going to retire from Section; our jobs are dangerous and the mortality rate is high.”

“Come on, Michael. Twelve operatives went out on that mission; in the past six months, eight of them have died in the field. Pretty high mortality rate, if you ask me.”

John peered over her shoulder, scanning the CIA list. “He died in a car accident last May. She had surgery last fall -- supposed to be routine, but she died in recovery. The other three ... I don’t know ... I think one of them was transferred to Hong Kong ...”

“Well, let’s just check, shall we?” Nikita asked, pushing her hair away from her face again. Ugh. It was sticky and smelled of gutter. She pulled up the correct file, input the names of the operatives she wanted, and was rewarded with a brief bio of all of them. “One is in Hong Kong. The other two are dead. I thought life expectancy was longer in the Agency.”

“It is, generally. But not, apparently, on this mission,” John answered, hooking a foot around a chair leg and sitting down with a grunt. “Damn it. Damn, damn, damn. It’s me, damn it. And Nelson,” he added unnecessarily.

“Two questions,” Michael said, eyes steady on John. John nodded, and carefully, Michael said, “First: why has Nikita been the one that’s been injured?”

“Don’t be silly, Michael,” Nikita said. “It’s obvious that I’ve just been getting in the way. The whole time, he’s been aiming for John.”

“All right,” Michael agreed. “Second question: Why now?”

John rubbed his eyebrows fitfully. “I’ve been on hardship duty for the past nine months. I’ve been in Columbia. Nelson, obviously, has been in Section. Neither of us were accessible; the other members of the team were. The assassin must have been tunneling into Section computers ... you might want to ask Birkhoff to check that out ... Nelson and I are the last two, except for the guy in Hong Kong. Antioch is cleaning house; they don’t want any of us to remain. Actually, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened sooner. Antioch is a large group ...”

Michael suddenly went very still. “Nikita.”

“Ummmm?”

“What made you think it was me?”

“There was something about him ... his profile was yours,” Nikita said stiffly. “But I just saw him clearly for a moment; I’m probably wrong --”

Michael nodded, then pulled the computer back. In the awkward silence that filled the kitchen, his fingers tapped out a code, then another, then, finally, he swiveled the laptop around so John and Nikita could see it. “Maybe he looked like this,” Michael suggested, and Nikita shrugged.

“Michael, I don’t know, it happened so quickly, it could have been anyone.”

“Or,” John said slowly, looking at the picture on the screen, “He could have been Mr. Antioch himself -- Paul Porterman.”

“We have a problem. Several, actually,” Michael said finally. “The first is, Porterman is out hunting, and John isn’t safe. The second is, Porterman knows about Section. Third, he’s been into Birkhoff’s files; otherwise, he never would have known about Nelson and Nikita’s safehouse or the Kliman mission. He’s been following us from Day One -- he followed Nelson and Nikita to the safehouse; he followed us to the Kliman mission -- he didn’t attempt to shoot anyone until I’d already retrieved Kliman. The fact he’s technically burrowed into Section alone is reason to take him out.”

“And,” Nikita said pettishly, “He broke my arm. Indirectly, of course.”

“Yes, damn him,” John growled in mock ferocity. “And it’s clear that I’ll never hear the end of it ...”

“Oh, John be serious,” Nikita said crossly. “We’re supposed to leave tomorrow morning and the day after, you’re supposed to be shipped out. What are we going to do?”

“First of all, we contact Section and tell them we’ve been compromised,” Michael decided. “Secondly, we catch Porterman.”

“Let’s take down Antioch, while we’re at it,” John said sarcastically.

“No time this trip,” Michael dead panned. “Maybe next time.”

Nikita yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn. “I nominate Michael to call Operations.”

“Certainly.”

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

In Section, Birkhoff blinked sleepily at his e-mail. Because Michael and Nikita’s latest mission had been so hush-hush, they’d been communicating solely through Birkhoff; now, Birkhoff wished he were someone -- anyone -- else.

It was nearly 3 a.m. He hesitated; he hated waking up Operations. On the other hand, breaking protocol was a serious offense. Birkhoff sighed again and reluctantly rang Operations.

“It’s 3 a.m., Birkhoff. This better be good,” Operations growled.

“I know. I’m sorry. There’s been a problem with Michael and Nikita.”

“When isn’t there a problem with them?”

Unsure of the correct response, Birkhoff cleared his throat. “Michael’s found a good opportunity for us.”

‘Opportunity’ generally translated as ‘blackmail.’ Operations sounded a little more alert. “Opportunity?”

“Apparently the agent they’re working with at the CIA has an unrelated job. According to the Intel Michael just sent me, it’s a piece of cake for us, but will mean a lot to the CIA.”

“A favor?”

“Yessir.”

“We don’t do favors.”

“I know, but this favor could have ... implications.”

“What kind of implications?”

“According to Michael, they’ll ...” Birkhoff squinted at the screen and quoted, “‘Be extremely grateful and be more than willing to help us with any future activities we might have with the Middle East.’”

The Middle East ... the CIA had been (in Operations opinion) highly possessive when it came to searching presidential palaces. Section had operatives stationed in Hussein’s private guard; the CIA was determined to find weapons and/or intelligence equipment in the presidential palaces. They did, too, but more often than not it was Section’s equipment, which was not only expensive but time consuming to replace. “Does that mean we’ll be in charge of the searches from now on?”

“That’s what Michael says.”

“How long will it take?”

“Michael says no longer than one week. I’ve checked, and unless something happens, we can do without him for that long. Shall I tell him to proceed?”

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

“This,” Nikita frowned, “Is getting complicated.”

“Double crossing people is always complicated,” John reminded her. “Michael ...?”

“Almost there,” Michael said quietly, and the other two waited for him to finish hacking into the CIA.

Nikita yawned. It was past 3 a.m.; though she’d had a fairly lazy day -- except for getting nearly run over -- she was tired. The dregs of her tea were cold and her arm throbbed.

She hadn’t expected Operations to stand for Michael being gone a week. Then, she’d been surprised when Michael was able to hack into CIA and change the operating orders for the Middle East agents searching the presidential estates. “This is awfully chancy,” she yawned again. “I mean, won’t someone figure out that this whole agreement is a sham?”

“Not if it’s in the computer files,” John said. “Bureaucracy is a great and powerful thing, Duchess. We’re lucky because personnel has been changing a lot in that department -- it’s easier to sneak something in when people are worried about their jobs, and once someone leaves, any agreements he or she made are usually honored. Besides, no one wants to get on Section’s bad side ...”

“Finished.” Michael typed the last string of code in, erased his fingerprints and sat back, cracking his knuckles.

“While you were in there, why couldn’t you have changed my orders? I’d rather go to Switzerland, not Columbia.”

“Ah, but that would be unethical,” Michael chided, smiling slightly. “Besides, you promised to bring me back some of that good coffee.”

“I did?”

“You did.”

“It’s too bad,” John sighed, “That you don’t have a thing for cocaine. That I can get easily. But the coffee ... people ask questions, customs officials harass me ...”

“I’m sure your life is very difficult,” Michael agreed gravely.

Nikita yawned and shook her head, trying to wake up a bit. A piece of popcorn dropped onto to the table and she scowled. “Before we go hunting for Antioch, I want to get my hair washed.” The men exchanged a look, and Nikita said, “What? Hey, if you got pushed into the gutter and had all this gunk in your hair, you’d want it washed too.”

John rose. “She’s your partner. I did it last time. I’m going to bed. Good night, Michael,” he whacked Michael on the shoulder. “Good night, Duchess.” He kissed her cheek. “Sweet dreams.”

Michael crossed his arms and gave Nikita a long, hard look. She narrowed her eyes and looked right back. “I want shampoo this time. Not dishwashing detergent.”

“Of course.” His voice was colorless, but Nikita gave him a sharp look.

“If you’re going to be nasty about it, never mind. I’ll go to the salon tomorrow.”

Michael had stopped by the grocery earlier in the day. Sitting near the stairs, ready to be taken up were a package of toilet paper, some toothpaste, a package of safety pins, a box of aspirin and a container of shampoo. Without a word, Michael retrieved the bottle and Nikita awkwardly scrambled up on the drain board.

Nikita was tense at first. Somehow, with John washing her hair, it was different. For one thing, he told her amusing stories of his younger sisters -- he’d come from a large family and was one of the oldest, so he helped in child care duties, among which was hair washing. And he’d been in a hurry, so he’d rushed through the job.

Michael didn’t rush. He didn’t talk. His hands were slow and methodical and -- unlike John -- he didn’t get soap in her eyes. His hands massaged her scalp; Nikita’s stiff muscles began to relax. She sighed closed her eyes. Michael rinsed her hair, then squeezed more shampoo out.

Nikita was about to tell him not to bother -- she felt a little bad about being mean to him before, and she especially felt bad about accusing him of attempted murder. But then his hands were in her hair and she sighed again in contentment. “Mmmm ... that feels wonderful Michael,” she murmured. “If you ever stop being a cold op, you can always get a job in a beauty salon.”

He methodically poured warm water over her scalp, careful to not get it in her eyes. Then he turned off the water. “Finished.”

Nikita slowly sat up, dripping. Michael handed her a tea towel and she blotted her hair with it; wringing the water into the sink. Michael stood back, hands clasped in front of him. “Thanks, Michael.”

He nodded, and feeling a little light-headed, Nikita hopped down from the drain board. Michael put out a hand to steady her, and once she regained her balance, she slowly turned toward the back staircase.

“Nikita.”

She didn’t turn, but she stopped. “Yes?”

“Sweet dreams.”

She waited, but he didn’t add anything else, so she said, “You, too.” She started up the stairs, then stopped. “Michael, don’t ... don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t.”

Nikita slowly went upstairs, still blotting her hair. I should have asked Michael to help me with the window, she thought. The sash was stiff and she couldn’t push it up by herself -- she needed two hands. Maybe John --? She paused outside of John and Michael’s room, but the only thing she heard was steady, even breathing, and she hadn’t the heart to wake him. She sighed and went to her own room.

Someone had already opened her window the regular three inches. And her bed was turned down. Nikita frowned -- had John --? Surely not -- Michael?

Baffled and too tired to sort it out, Nikita took off her clothes and slipped into her black nightgown. Maybe Michael wouldn’t appreciate it, but she was very glad she’d brought it -- it was easy to put on and easy to take off, and as she pulled up the blanket, she hoped tomorrow would go off as successfully as Michael seemed to think it would.

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

The sham mission that Michael and Nikita would attempt was quite simple. Michael informed Birkhoff (and, indirectly, Antioch) that he and Nikita merely needed to accompany John to a meet at the Museum of Natural History.

The next day John spent packing for Columbia. Michael spent most of the day working, for although he was out of Section for a week, he still had work that had to be done. Nikita slept late and went for a long walk down King Street. She searched for easy clothes to put on at Banana Republic and the Gap, bought a darling black hat at Hats in the Belfry, had lunch at Ben and Jerry’s and took a tour through General Lee’s boyhood home, which just happened to be in the neighborhood. It wasn’t very exciting, but then, she was only killing time till evening.

When she came home, Michael and John were packing the car. “Ready?” John asked.

“Yeah, lemme go get my gun.” Nikita dropped her packages and turned back around. “Are you wearing?”

“Yep.” John lifted his shirt and showed her the edge of his vest; Nikita raised her eyebrows at Michael, and he did the same.

Michael got in the drivers’ side and John hopped in the back. They waited for Nikita. Five minutes passed. Ten.

“Should I go get her?”

“She’ll be here,” Michael said tranquilly. “We’ll give her five more minutes.”

Nikita hurried into the garage, tucking in her shirt with her good hand. “Sorry. It takes longer with one arm --”

“We’re fine on time.” Michael started the car, pushed it in reverse and backed up. Nikita grabbed the garage door remote and shut the door after them.

“You know,” she said, “I’ve not been to the Natural History museum. This might be fun.” She raked her hair to one side and fastened it in a barrette, then she pulled on her black hat. “Maybe next time, we can go in without breaking in.”

“Maybe,” Michael allowed, and they sped across the bridge, toward the Mall.

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

They entered on the Madison side of the museum, which faced the Mall. The guards -- for there was one in the rotunda and one in the west wing -- were tranqed and dragged off to the safety of the stairwells. Nikita disabled the alarm system. Michael retrieved a collapsible ladder he’d left in the stairwell a few hours before. John thoughtfully taped a door open; he actually did have to meet someone here, and the quicker the contact came and left, the better.

“Where are you meeting him?” Michael asked.

“Bones. This way.”

In the center of the museum was a huge stuffed elephant. Galleries circled around it; the three climbed the stairs, passed the gems section and entered the mammal bones. In the second part of the exhibit, right above the dormice and bats (their bones as tiny and fragile as broom straws) hung a huge whale. “You’re kidding, right?” Nikita asked, looking up.

“You aren’t going up. I am.” Michael fit the ladder together and scaled it, carefully putting his weight on the top of the bat case. The case shook, and the tiny bones wavered.

“Michael --”

He carefully edged to the back of the case, carefully straightening up behind the cavity of the whale. Nikita backed up and looked up at him. In the dim lighting, wearing black, Michael blended into the shadows, and sighing, she nodded at him. “You’re fine. Just don’t wiggle too much.” Nikita collapsed the ladder and shoved it behind another case.

From his look out near the doorway, John announced quietly, “Here comes the contact.”

Nikita melted back to the next room, pressing herself against the snake case. Ick. She hated snakes almost as much as rats; but at least these snakes were only skeletons. They were big though, and as she studied the small, powerful ribs, she remembered the stories she was told as a child -- there was one about the boy who lost a leg -- how did it go? He was in the field without his knife, and a snake came up. The snake attacked and swallowed the boy’s leg, but for some reason didn’t swallow the rest of him ... then someone heard the boy’s cry for help, and they had to chop off the leg to save the boy. Nikita shuddered. She had her doubts about the validity of the story now, but as a child it effectively kept her from the fields during thrashing season, when snakes became irritated enough to attack. It also enforced the cardinal rule of the farm: don’t leave home without a knife. Even now, she didn’t like to go out without one. Tonight she had a small one tucked in the back of her pants. Always be prepared, she thought.

She couldn’t see John, but she could see Michael, and she kept her eyes trained on him for the slightest sign of trouble. Her gun was out and ready, and she bounced a little on the balls of her feet.

“Johnny,” a voice greeted, and Nikita’s eyes fastened on Michael, reading his body language.

“Hiya, Trevor,” John answered.

“You have something for me?”

“Right here.” Nikita heard the rustle of paper, and the sound of Trevor flipping through currency.

“Looks like it’s all here.”

“Would the United States government try to defraud one of its citizens?”

“Two words -- income tax.” Trevor sighed and Nikita heard him put the money in something -- a briefcase? She heard the locks click closed, and Michael tensed. Nikita followed suit, prepared to jump out and shoot Trevor.

“Cordon is planning a big shipment on Tuesday. Really big. Thousands of kilos, and it’s headed for Miami. His cousin is on the receiving end,” Trevor said.

“‘Everybody’s got a cousin in Miami,’” John hummed, and Trevor laughed.

“Never woulda pegged you for a parrothead, Johnny.”

“Some people don’t think I look like a CIA agent, either,” John replied, and Trevor laughed again.

“True ... more like a mafia up-and-coming.”

“Ah, now, you’re trying to sweet talk me. Transportation?”

“Yacht. Owned by George Corrizon. Pilot is a Columbian guy. I don’t know his whole name -- they call him the Pirate.”

“I know him. Must be a pretty big yacht ...”

“Yeah, it’s nice. All the amenities, including staff, if you know what I mean.”

John sighed. “How many?”

“Girls? Or people all together?”

“All together.”

Hurry it up, Nikita thought, glancing at her watch. Their primary target would be here soon -- if at all possible, Trevor was to escape unscathed. He was an excellent source and John would be sorry to lose him, but he was necessary for bait if they wanted to catch Paul Porterman.

Finally, John wrapped up the interview. He walked Trevor to the Constitution exit; Nikita followed them, quiet as a cat, her gun up and ready. John saw Trevor out into the night, secured the doors, then turned back toward Nikita.

Without speaking, they quietly swept the area. “Go,” he said quietly, and Nikita crept back to the second floor, standing on the balcony so she’d be able to see John. He quietly followed her up, and silently, they slipped back into the mammal room, standing just inside the door.

They waited without speaking. The air conditioning system kicked on, quiet hissing in a quiet building.

A thump. The shatter of glass. Nikita tensed, then melted back, hugging the case that enclosed Early Man. John prudently moved forward, so he was standing silhouetted in the light. Below him, a dark figure slunk close to the opposite wall. “Trevor?” John called out, and the figure froze, pivoted, and snaked toward the stairs. “Trevor? Is that you?” John took three steps out into the hall; Nikita crouched behind him, covering him.

Jail hadn’t been good to Paul Porterman. The leader of Antioch now walked with a slight limp, and, leading him on, John backed slowly back into the mammal room. Nikita quickly took her position behind the snakes, giving them one loathing glance, then focused, once again, on Michael.

“Not Trevor,” Paul Porterman corrected. “It’s me. Remember me?”

Feigning surprise, John gasped, “Paul? Is that you?”

“Funny. That’s exactly what your friend said. James. Or was he really called something else?”

“Oh, well, ‘what’s in a name?’” John quipped, and Michael brought up his gun, taking aim. Though he moved slowly, Paul’s eyes zeroed in on Michael, and without blinking, Paul brought up his gun, lightening-quick, and fired.

John crumpled.

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

Michael took aim and fired, but nothing happened, and with a sick jolt, he realized his gun jammed.

Paul grinned up at him, took careful aim, and was completely knocked off his feet as Nikita barreled into him. With a grunt and a curse, they tumbled onto the floor, falling over John; Nikita whacked Paul neatly on the head with her gun. The gun glanced off Paul’s head, and somehow she lost her grip -- the weapon went spinning across the slick floor. Frantically, she tried to lean away from him so Michael could shoot him; but nothing happened except Paul became even more enraged, if that was possible.

From his perch, Michael reloaded and aimed -- but by this time, Nikita was in his line of sight. Paul gripped her shoulders and crushed her to him; then he stumbled to his feet, holding her as a shield, his own gun digging into her hip, where the vest didn’t protect her.

“Drop it, or I drop her,” Paul snarled, and Michael slowly lowered his gun. “I said, drop it.”

The gun clattered to the floor. Michael’s eyes locked on Nikita’s and she wriggled a little. Paul tightened his grip, then, in one fluid motion, he trapped her good arm behind her, wedged between his body and hers.

“What do you want?” Michael asked.

“I got what I came for. Him.” Paul jerked his head toward John’s still figure, and, to Nikita’s relief, Michael asked another question.

“So you’re killing everyone who was on the original mission?”

“That’s right. They took out my best people. Now I’m taking out theirs. I got me a ticket to Hong Kong. Maybe I can persuade you to take me to the airport.”

“Maybe. But why would I want to do that?”

“Cause if you don’t, I’ll kill the girl.”

“Pretty steep cab fare.”

Almost, Nikita thought. She bit her lip, then her fingers closed around the handle of her knife. She slid her feet apart slowly, sagging against her captor, and he jerked her closer, giving her the leverage she needed.

She struck hard and true, bent nearly double, and flipped him over her back. He cried out, clutching his stomach; blood began gushing out, and without even looking to Michael for advice, Nikita quickly slit Paul’s throat. One hand circled her ankle; she kicked it off and hopped nimbly back.

John groaned and sat up. He looked from Nikita to Paul to Michael. Paul gurgled once, then was silent; John’s eyes came to rest on Nikita, and she felt suddenly a little embarrassed. “Mother always said,” she quipped finally, wiping her bloodied knife on her black pants, “‘Don’t leave home without it.’”

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

Michael and Nikita dropped John off at National. He tried to give back the borrowed vest in the car, but Nikita wouldn’t hear of it. “You may need it,” she insisted. “You never know.” She hesitated, then, offering it handle-first, asked, “How are you with a knife?”

“Take the vest,” Michael advised. He pulled up to the American Airlines gate and popped the trunk; Nikita hopped out of the car, gave John a quick hug and pecked his cheek. “Be careful, John,” she said, giving his shoulder a pat. “I’ve become quite fond of you; I’d hate it if something happened.”

The two men froze, their eyes locking. “What?” Nikita said. “Did I say something wrong? I will miss you, John. I hope we see you again soon.”

“I told you,” John said to Michael. “You’re so damn stubborn, you never listen to me. Take care, Michael. Get that gun looked at.”

Michael nodded, but the only thing he said was, “Don’t forget: coffee.”

“Right,” John agreed. He shouldered his bag and kissed Nikita on the cheek. “Take care of him, Duchess. You know how he is. And remember, there’s no place like home, no matter where it is.”

They watched him enter the airport, then, before people noticed their bedraggled appearance, Michael and Nikita got back in the car.

They were quiet on the drive back. When they were almost to St. Asaph, Michael asked, “When did you start carrying a knife?”

“I always do,” Nikita answered, eyes half closed.

“Since when?”

“Since I was about 9 years old. It’s handy. Actually, I prefer a knife. It’s quieter.”

Unable to argue that reasoning, Michael pressed the remote, pulled the car into the garage and stopped the engine. Though he already knew the answer, he got out of the car, went around to Nikita’s side and opened the door. “Hungry?”

“Mmm ... is there any Thai left?”

“I think so.” Chatting idly, they went into the house and shut the door.

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

Once again, Nikita had struggled into her nightgown by herself. Just because Michael was being a little more friendly toward her didn’t mean he was that friendly. Oh, well, she thought, trying to not be disappointed, at least we still work well together. If he hadn’t kept Paul talking, I’d never have been able to get my knife up in time. She felt a quick pang of regret -- perhaps if she’d done something differently, Michael would still love her, but for the life of her, she couldn’t think what that would be.

Still too keyed up to sleep, Nikita didn’t feel like going back downstairs to watch TV. She tried reading, but couldn’t concentrate. She frowned at her feet -- her toenail polish was starting to chip, so, since she couldn’t think of anything else constructive to do, she found some acetone and a cotton ball and started to remove it.

She was very glad Paul was dead. It made her nervous, looking around for someone to kill her. Especially since she was only working with one arm. Five more weeks, she thought, and the cast comes off.

She wiggled the toes on her left foot, and started on the right. But as she scrubbed at her right big toe, something peculiar happened.

The polish was thick. Usually she put on two coats, but this took forever to remove. She put more acetone on the cotton, holding it in place, giving it a little rub now and then; finally, she got down to nail.

Something small and flexible and silver winked up at her.

Frowning, Nikita peeled off the disk. It was tiny -- no bigger than a communicator. It looked like a hologram.

Movements brisk and furious, Nikita washed her hand and, attempting to regain her temper, her feet. The silver disk glimmered on the bathroom cabinet, and, still furious, she stomped downstairs, the disk stuck on her index finger.

“Michael.”

He turned away from CNN, eyebrows shooting up. Nikita blushed; she’d been so angry she’d forgotten she was in her nightgown, and not just any nightgown, but THE nightgown. “Yes?”

“I had a dream last week. Before the mission. About you.”

She waited, but he didn’t say anything, and her blood boiled. “I dreamt that you were painting my toenails. Pink.”

Michael’s eyes automatically fixed on her feet, now devoid of paint. “And guess what I found when I was removing the polish?” Nikita held out the disk. “What is it? A tracking device?”

“Yes.”

“So that’s how you knew where I was when my arm was broken?”

“Yes.”

Nikita saw red, but gritted her teeth. “Why?”

“I wanted to find you if you got lost,” Michael said, and he rose from the couch.

“I’m not a mitten or sock,” Nikita growled. “I don’t get lost.” She threw the disk at Michael; it fluttered to the floor.

“Nikita, I didn’t know what was going to happen on this mission. At the time, it seemed like the wisest --”

“You could have told me!” She yelled, absolutely livid. “A million times, you could have said something. ‘Oh, by the way, I tagged you when you were asleep, hope you don’t mind’ -- anything, Michael!”

“I had to know where you were, if something happened --”

“‘You had to know, you had to know,’” she mimicked, furious. “What about me?” One angry finger poked her chest, and her eyes flooded with tears. “Do you know how many times I checked your mission status? And when I couldn’t find you, I had to look on the mortality reports. Every day, Michael, I checked them every day ... because you didn’t contact me, not once!” She hid her face behind her arms, sobbing; Michael reached out for her, but she swung back, her cast thwacking his chest. “Don’t touch me. Just -- don’t --”

Rubbing his chest, a stunned Michael watched Nikita run up the stairs, nearly tripping on her gown. He heard the door of her room slam, and he heard a loud thump. Then nothing, except crying.

Michael slowly mounted the stairs and stood before Nikita’s door. He took a deep breath, and knocked, but all he heard was muffled sobs. He took another calming breath and opened the door.

Something flew past his shoulder; he stepped back reflexively, and another shoe came hurling through the air at him. “Leave me alone.”

“No.” He paused; apparently there was no other footwear readily available, and Michael cautiously entered the room. Nikita turned away from him, hiding her face in her arms.

“Go away.”

“All right,” he agreed, “But first I need to tell you why I tagged you.”

Without moving, Nikita said, her voice muffled, “Start talking.”

“I was worried. I didn’t like you being paired with Nelson, and I liked it even less that I was being paired with an unknown CIA agent. We are a team and we shouldn’t be separated.”

“So you just thought you’d tag me without my knowledge and see what happened?” Nikita rolled over, swiping a hand across her eyes.

“I was worried ... that is, I thought perhaps Nelson ...”

“What about Nelson?” Nikita said impatiently.

“You seemed very comfortable with him,” Michael said finally. “I thought maybe you changed your mind.”

Nikita sat up. “You were jealous,” she translated, “But instead of asking me about Nelson, you went off on your own.”

Since Michael couldn’t think of anything else to say, he merely waited. The seconds stretched into minutes, and he shifted uncomfortably. Should he go? Stay? He looked at Nikita, trying to find a clue, but she sat cross-legged on the bed, studying her knees. Finally, she said, “You were gone for two months, Michael. Not a word. Not an e-mail. Nothing. And when I finally see you again, the only thing you can do is yell at me. Then, I find out you tag me without me even knowing it, and you didn’t even plan on telling me. You were probably going to sneak in here some night, take off the tracker and I’d never have known.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” Nikita asked quietly, looking up at him. “Are you sorry for what you did, or sorry you got caught?”

“Yes,” Michael decided. “Yes, I’m sorry I got caught; yes, I’m sorry I did it in the first place; and yes, I’m sorry for being jealous. I don’t know what else you want from me, Nikita.”

“I want you to leave,” she said finally, and, since there seemed nothing else for him to do, Michael turned to go.

He was almost to the door before he stopped. “That knife of yours ... it was very sharp.”

“A dull knife is useless,” she said absently, still studying her knees.

“Might I borrow it?”

“Help yourself. It’s on the dresser.”

“Thank you.”

Michael left, softly closing the door; Nikita sighed heavily and, suddenly so tired she could scarcely see straight, she tucked herself into bed and turned off the light.

She was nearly asleep when it occurred to her to wonder why Michael wanted her knife.

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

Michael sat on the closed toilet, clasping a bag of frozen corn to his upper chest. On the sink in front of him was a bottle of alcohol, the tracker, Nikita’s knife, and a wad of John’s old, clean T-shirts, ripped into bandage-size strips.

Michael removed the bag of corn and poked the area experimentally. He wasn’t a glutton for punishment; when given the option, he preferred relatively painless medical operations. The cold numbed the area, and he swabbed it with alcohol. He stopped the sink, poured half of the alcohol in it and swished the knife through. Then, with the cautiousness of an unprofessional, he gently flayed his skin.

He sopped up the blood, swished the tweezers and the tracker through the alcohol bath, and carefully inserted the tracker. He applied pressure; gradually the bleeding slowed, then stopped, and Michael dried the area enough for bandages to stick to his skin. He wouldn’t need stitches -- a butterfly bandage should do the trick, he thought, quite pleased with himself.

Nikita burst through door. She took everything in at a glance -- the make-shift medical equipment, the alcohol in the sink, the blood -- not a lot of blood, but it trickled down his chest and onto his pants. “What the devil are you doing?”

“Nothing important.”

Nikita shot him a look of pure venom. “You are an impossible man, Michael.” She batted his hands away and took over the bandaging -- a nice gesture, but not terribly efficient. Michael finally held her hand against the bandage while he taped it secure. She sniffed, “You might have told me you were injured at the museum. It was foolish to wait to treat the wound.”

“I wasn’t injured at the museum.”

Nikita’s hand faltered, then fell to her side. “Michael. What did you do?” she asked slowly.

“The tracker works anywhere,” Michael answered, finishing up the taping and not looking at her. “It’s new, Walter just developed it. It can even be implanted.”

Nikita turned white, and pressed her hand to her mouth.

“Come on, I’ll show you how to run the program,” Michael said, and Nikita staggered after him, following him to his room. He sat down on his bed and she stood by him, eyes still wide with shock. He pulled out the laptop, found the file, and showed her how it worked. Sounding almost cheerful (for him at least), Michael said, “If you like, we’ll try it out tomorrow. I’m pretty sure it’s not damaged, but if it is, we’ll get a new one when we get home.”

“Oh, Michael.”

He glanced up; she’d only whispered his name, but there was something in her face that stopped his breath. “What’s wrong?”

“How -- how could you?”

He’d been so proud of himself; now, he realized once again, he’d done the wrong thing. “I -- I thought --”

She pushed the computer out of the way and half-fell on him, good arm curving around his neck, broken arm cradled against his side. She was crying and laughing at the same time, but before he could readily assimilate what was happening, she kissed him -- a big, sloppy kiss, not especially well-planned, but certainly well-meant. Michael was so surprised he fell over backwards, carrying her with him. “I never meant -- I never meant for you to deliberately implant yourself,” she said shakily, swiping at her right eye with her good hand.

“It’s all right.” Michael shifted, and gently wiped her other eye with his thumb; Nikita turned her face into his hand. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

“Because it’s a dumb idea,” Nikita said.

“It’s not dumb,” Michael corrected. “Perhaps a bit extreme, but I think it will be quite effective.”

Nikita’s chin trembled. “Oh, Michael -- I’m sorry --”

“It doesn’t matter --” Avoiding her cast, Michael scooted her up a bit, then gently kissed her. “Don’t be angry.”

“I am. Very. How could you do that to yourself?”

He kissed her again and felt her resolve slip just the tiniest bit. Slowly he drew his hand up the back of her leg and was gratified to hear her catch her breath. Past her leg, past her hip ... up her bare back ...

“Michael --” she exhaled, eyes closed, body relaxed on top of his.

“Don’t be angry,” he advised softly, his breath warm on her cheek. “It’s counter-productive. It wastes a lot of energy.”

“Maybe ... you’re right.” Michael’s hands roved over her body; she gasped again and with her good hand she held on to his chest. “There are other ways to expend energy ...”

“So I understand ...”

Michael’s hands continued their exploration over the silk of Nikita’s gown. She groaned, gave up the fight, and gave him another heart-felt kiss.

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

“I’ve said it before, but this time I mean it: This is the last time we do this. It doesn’t make sense,” Michael decided out loud, and Nikita, who had been drifting between sleep and consciousness, jerked awake.

“W-w-what?” she stammered, reality suddenly crashing in. It was all some kind of sick trick, she thought, numb. The implant, the seduction ... of course, it hadn’t seemed like seduction at the time, but then, that was the thing about seduction. It never seemed contrived while you were in the middle of it; only afterward, when one’s brain began to function normally, did it seem forced.

Nikita pushed away from Michael; he grunted as her hand pressed recently-injured flesh. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, blindly groping for her gown -- on second thought, that gown had brought her nothing but trouble, it was probably a bad luck charm -- and she stood up, naked, angry and, away from Michael’s body, a little cold. “H-h-how could you?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said, sounding confused. “At the time, it seemed like a good idea. But it’s obvious, it was a mistake.”

“A mistake.” Nikita looked around wildly -- where was that knife?

“Well, I guess I thought you could fit more people in, if we had twin beds. And they were in the attic -- I didn’t buy them, they came with the house. Seemed a shame to not use them. I guess I wasn’t thinking I would be the one using the guest room the most. I mean, technically, it is my house.”

“What?”

“But it’s clear,” Michael continued, “They’ll have to go. Even John has trouble with them -- his legs hang off the end, and I think you’d have to agree, they’re much too small for two people. Especially when one of them is you. You need a lot of room.”

“Room,” Nikita repeated, rather stupidly.

“You like to move around,” Michael shrugged. He rose, grabbed the blanket off the bed and politely stood aside for Nikita to proceed him.

Numbly, Nikita walked across the hall, Michael following her. He paused, glancing down the stairway. “Do you think we could get a queen size mattress up the stairs? Or are they too narrow?”

Afterwards, she was never really sure how she got into bed; still cold with surprise, Michael wrapped himself around her, kissing her shoulder, her ear ... “Tomorrow,” he promised sleepily, “We’ll get a bigger bed.”

“Okay,” she agreed hesitantly. “Are you sure?”

“Nikita, it’s the only sensible thing.” Michael pulled her closer. “Besides ... we have almost a week, unless the coup in Muldova goes through. I don’t want to spend a week in a bed that’s too small, do you?”

“No.” Nikita smiled in the dark; the curtains blew inward slightly, and though the breeze was cool, Nikita felt her cheeks heat up. “No, I don’t.”

Maybe John was right, after all -- she and Michael would never live together openly, they’d never have a real home, not in the physical sense, anyway. But if home was a state of mind, then the only place she felt completely at ease was with Michael. Sentimental, but true. Dear me, I’m getting to be as bad as John, Nikita thought, and she couldn’t help giggling.

“What?”

“Nothing. I was thinking about John. Seems funny to not have him here.”

“I’m glad he’s gone.” Michael kissed her neck again, then trailed kisses up to her ear; she shivered involuntarily as his teeth grazed her earlobe. With that trick he had of stealing her thoughts, Michael murmured, “I’d rather be at home alone with you.”

Though her arm protested, Nikita twisted around, gave him a quick, hard kiss, and agreed. “No place like home.”

- end -