Nikita stormed out of the hotel in front of Michael, and he lengthened his strides to keep up. “Nikita, wait ...”

“Shut up, Michael.” She went through the revolving door, a whirl of energy and white-hot fury; Michael got in behind her and didn’t even have to push the door. He nimbly stepped out onto the sidewalk and reached out to grab her arm.

“Let go of me,” she said, voice low and dangerous.

“Nikita, calm down --”

She shook off his hand. “Don’t tell me to calm down. You’re not the one that was pawed over all night long by a man old enough to be your father. Take your hands off me this minute.” Arms crossed tightly across her chest, she turned away from him, her back ram-rod straight with anger.

Michael sighed and handed the valet ticket to the bellhop. There were several groups waiting for cars, too, and Michael prepared himself for a long wait with a furious woman. He ignored her -- she was over-reacting, as usual -- and studied the street.

The hotel was in a better part of town, but just barely. Across the busy intersection, in front of a McDonalds, an uneven line of women loitered, skirts short and tops nearly non-existent. A low, black car pulled up to the curb; two women leaned in the window, discussing a transaction. Currency was passed between one of the women and the occupant of the car. The rejected woman tossed her long hair, a little defiantly: I don’t need you or your money, she seemed to say, and Michael smiled faintly. She turned toward the hotel, and in the glare of the yellow M and the blinking marquis lights of the movie theater next door, her face looked ....

Familiar. Michael blinked and focused on her face, taking in her height, her stance, her shape. Even the scowl marring her features was familiar, somehow.

“Michael?” An identical scowling face turned toward him, and Michael blinked again.

“Yes?”

“You coming, or not?” She was sitting in their car, impatiently waiting for him to cross to the drivers’ side and take her back to their own hotel. “Hurry it up.”

As he slid into the car, he heard Nikita muttering, “Some husband you are ... letting me get pushed into walls ... tomorrow I’ll have a bruise as big as New York City on my ...”

He slammed the car door a little harder than necessary, and forcing his voice to remain calm, he asked, “Are you finished?”

After a few seconds, in which he could actually hear Nikita grind her teeth, she finally said, “Yes.”

Michael pulled out of the porte cochere, and as he glanced at oncoming traffic, his eyes slid past the McDonalds, but the girl was gone.

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

The bath was steamy and close, and Nikita took the end of her towel to wipe the fog from the mirror. She slowly turned around, examining her back; the red whelp on her shoulder would be bruised tomorrow, and her upper arm was already turning dark, the result of an evening with an overzealous unmannered mark. Madeleine would not be pleased, she thought; she’d have to camouflage her bruises under clothes and the dress Madeleine chose for tomorrow night’s mission was characteristically revealing. Maybe I can drape a scarf around me somehow, Nikita thought. She sighed and, hoping to fade the bruises quickly, rubbed a generous amount of thick creamy lotion on her injuries. She winced a little -- Roscoe grabbed her arm and slammed her against a wall -- she wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d cracked a rib, but other than the bruises, she was all in one piece.

Nikita washed her teeth and shook out her neatly folded nightgown, popping it over her head. The bathroom door wasn’t fully shut; through the crack she could hear the murmur of CNN. She yawned and reached for the dental floss.

I don’t feel right, she thought, a little crossly. Something’s ... wrong. It’s probably the work out Roscoe gave me, she decided. She was sore from her head to her toes, which had been cruelly cramped into high heeled pumps.

Nikita pulled out a length of floss and began running it through her teeth. A dull pain nagged her forehead; she finished with her teeth and turned the faucet on as hot as it would go, soaking a washcloth and gingerly wringing it out, trying not to burn her hands. She slapped it on her head, tilting her face upwards so it wouldn’t fall off, and fumbled in her make up bag for some pain medication. Aleve, she thought, how appropriate. She twisted off the top and recklessly shook out two of the small powder-blue pills, swallowing them quickly.

The cloth on her head was beginning to cool. She refreshed it, then, chin still elevated, she made her way to the bed.

“Headache?” Michael asked.

Nikita bit back a sharp answer, and he lowered the sound on the television. She settled in beside him.

“Did you take some aspirin?”

Nikita murmured an agreement, and Michael turned off the television and his bedside light. “Tomorrow will be busy,” he reminded her. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” she responded, glancing at the clock. Eleven o’clock. In thirty minutes, the medicine would start to work. I’m probably just tired, she thought, yawning. The washcloth was no longer hot; sleepily, she took the clammy material and dropped it on the nightstand. Michael sighed and turned over, back to her, and Nikita’s eyes slowly drifted closed.

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

Something’s wrong. Something isn’t .... there’s something wrong ...

Groggily, Nikita struggled toward consciousness. Her stomach twisted and cramped, pain shooting through her abdomen, pain so strong she came awake with a snap and a groan.

She curled up in a ball, clutching her stomach. Facing Michael’s back, she automatically tried to block the pain.

Breathe, Nikita, she ordered herself firmly, and her breathing pattern became deeper as the pain intensified. Her abdomen cramped again; she thought of a huge disembodied fist squeezing her insides, and then, just as it began, the pain receded.

Coated with cold sweat, Nikita slowly uncurled herself. A glance at the hotel-provided clock showed it was 4 o’clock. Almost dawn. She shakily swung her legs over the side of the bed, and being careful to not wake Michael, she quietly went to the bathroom, shutting the door before turning on the light.

She blinked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was disheveled and damp, sticking to her face and neck, and her skin was pale. Nikita turned on the faucet and splashed her face with warm water, but as she groped for a towel, another small tremor went through her. It wasn’t as strong as the last cramp, but she already felt nauseous, and she braced herself against the sink. Her stomach contracted, and groaning, she clutched the cool porcelain.

Another wave shook her. Dizzy now, Nikita reached for the wall, sliding down the cool white tiles till she sat with her knees up and her head down, the small of her back pressed against the cold surface. Breathe, breathe, she thought furiously, but breathing through the pain wasn’t helping; in fact, it made her even more light-headed, and her stomach tightened again.

Nikita groaned and shifted -- her body already heated the tiles under her back, and though she felt chilled and ill, the cold seemed to help. She moved over between cramps, trying to find a cool spot on the wall.

About an hour later, Michael found Nikita huddled on the bathroom floor. She lay curled up on her side, arms loose around her knees, hair splayed out around her head. Her face was as gray as the marble floor underneath her, and as he bent down to pick her up, he noticed pink blotches on her nightgown.

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

For the second time in ten minutes, Michael checked his watch. It was a little before nine in the morning; they’d arrived at the hospital at half-past six.

Had Michael followed procedure, he would have contacted Section as soon as it was apparent that Nikita couldn’t perform. They would have sent a replacement, whom he would have coached for the next 12 hours. Michael and the replacement would have made the meet with Roscoe’s partner and that would be that.

Normally, Michael was all for following procedure. It made things simpler in the long run. But in this case, he was loath to put Nikita at yet another disadvantage -- though it wasn’t her fault she was ill, it would work against her, and she couldn’t afford another black mark against her name so soon after her last disagreement with Operations. She’d been unusually crabby the past few months. It didn’t take much for her to lose her temper lately, and while she’d confined her tantrums to Michael and Birkhoff at first, now all of Section knew about her short fuse. No, it was safer to not notify headquarters.

Besides, Michael knew Nikita’s medical history -- or as much of it as he needed to know. Her current symptoms pointed to some type of female problem, which more than anything irritated Michael. As her mentor, he was authorized to know everything about Nikita; but like most men, he believed certain things were best kept private. He knew her cycle and that the first few days were tiring, but that was about as much as he really wanted to know.

“Mr. Samuelle?”

Michael gave his undivided attention to the man standing in front of him. Older, balding, soft-spoken, Dr. Preston was not only the physician on call, but also well-respected in the medical community. Having nothing better to do, Michael had spent his two hours productively researching Dr. Preston. It was more self-defense than anything else: living in Section made one wary of all strangers. For all Michael knew, Nikita could have been poisoned the night before and Preston hired to take her out.

“Yes?” Michael asked politely.

“Why don’t we come in here and talk?” Dr. Preston opened the door leading into a small waiting room with a bank of windows along one side. Michael followed him apprehensively. “Coffee?”

“Thanks,” Michael said, and watched the doctor feed a some quarters into a coffee machine; foam cups dropped down and tepid-looking coffee squirted into them.

“It’s not Starbucks, but it’s better than nothing,” Preston smiled. He nodded toward a molded plastic chair and Michael sat down next to him. “You were right to bring Mrs. Samuelle in,” he said calmly. “I understand she’s had some problems of this nature in the past ...?”

Yes? No? Taking a guess, Michael simply nodded.

“Fibroids are tricky things, especially when one is as large as Mrs. Samuelle’s. Some of the smaller ones have burst, but the largest one really needs to be removed. I’m recommending a D and C; we can do it as day surgery if you’d like ... recovery time is really minimal ...”

Recovery time? Day surgery? Feeling suddenly out of his league, Michael asked, “When?”

“The sooner the better. According to the sonagram, she has a large one on the right side that could pose a problem.”

Day surgery ... would she be able to perform tonight? He needed someone to distract Roscoe. Michael wished now that he’d followed protocol. Even if she would have suffered in the long run, he could have completed the mission. Now even that was looking uncertain. “I’d like to see her, please.”

“Of course. I’m sure she’ll want to talk to you, also. Many women have a irrational emotional response to a D and C ... she says she’s never had one, which, considering her medical history, surprises me ...”

“Do you know why --”

“She said her doctor changed her birth control several months ago, and that she’s felt ‘out of sorts’ since then. It’s a common side effect of the brand she’s using. I’ve run a few tests and think she’s just got too much estrogen; we’ll clean her out and get her started on something that’s more agreeable to her.” Dr. Preston led Michael out of the room and down the hall, describing the procedure in a calm and rational manner.

The doctor opened Nikita’s door, gave her a cheerful smile, and left them alone. Michael had often seen Nikita in Med Lab, with it’s stark white walls and state-of-the-art equipment, but he’d never seen her in a regular hospital and somehow she looked even more pathetic than she did when she was in Med Lab. Maybe it was the old-man-pajama patterned hospital gown, or maybe it was the white sheet with ‘University Medical Center’ stenciled in black across it. Her face was set in a stubborn frown, and he wondered exactly what medical tests they’d given her. Whatever they were, she didn’t look happy.

“How do you feel?”

“Stupid. Sleepy.”

“Cold?” Med Lab rooms were individually regulated, so patients never were too hot or too cold, but here all the rooms were the same temperature and he thought Nikita looked chilled.

“A little.”

Michael found an extra flannel blanket in the pressboard wardrobe. He unfolded it and spread it over Nikita, then took her hand, trying to warm it up. “Are you going to have a problem with this?”

“Which part?” Nikita asked, blue eyes beginning to fog a bit. She had an IV hooked up to her, and Michael assumed some type of sedative was leaching its way into her body. She probably wouldn’t even remember this conversation, but even so, he was reluctant to introduce the topic.

“Nikita, you know they want to do some day surgery on you,” he said carefully, focusing not on her face, but on her fingers twined through his.

“Yeah, I know.”

Michael glanced at her face and quickly looked away again. She looked angry and a little scared. “Would you like to tell me what you think?”

“Not especially.”

“Nikita --”

“Michael, it’s completely unnecessary. I’ve always had cysts; my mother had them, and probably her mother did too. It’s no big deal. It just hurts a little, then they burst and everything’s fine. This doctor just wants to make some money off me, that’s all --”

“Nikita, he said the sonagram showed a mass of three inches in diameter --”

“Yeah, so they want to give me an abortion --”

“It isn’t like that --”

“You wouldn’t know,” Nikita said stubbornly. “I want another doctor. Get me a woman, Michael -- someone with small hands, who doesn’t want to cut people up for no reason --”

“There’s not going to be any cutting -- it’s a simple procedure --”

“If it’s so simple, you get it done. Besides, if I get this done today, I won’t be able to perform tonight. They can give me drugs --”

“They aren’t giving you any drugs,” Michael snapped, releasing her hand. “And tonight is my concern, not yours.” His eyes went cold and in a steely voice he said, “You will get this done. You will stay in the hospital this afternoon until they release you with a clean bill of health. And you will be the model patient. The last thing we need is for you to be remarkable in some way. Remember who you are.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘Remember who you are supposed to be?’” Nikita said spitefully. The medicine was taking effect; she struggled against the lassitude that was creeping through her body. “Michael, please,” she begged, clumsily reaching for his hand again. “Please don’t let them ... just take me back to the hotel ... please ... I promise I’ll be all right ...”

“No, Nikita.” His voice was gentle but firm.

In a last burst of energy, Nikita shot him a drop-dead look. “I hate you. I really, really hate you.” Then, finally giving up, her eyes slid closed and her hand dropped from his.

Michael sighed, and though he knew he needed to start thinking about the meet later on, he found himself tracing the blue vein that wrapped around Nikita’s middle finger. Her hand reflexively curled around his finger, and, stooping, he kissed her forehead, then her temple, then, finally her lips. “Love you,” he whispered, keeping his face near hers for a heartbeat. Then he rose and in his usual unhurried stride, walked from the room.

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

Michael left the hospital and began cruising the city.

Roscoe was a necessary irritation. Acting as the front man, he was the key to Shannon, a man Section had been tracking for months. According to intel, Shannon was recently hired to perform a hit that would be detrimental to Section. Therefore, Michael was to take him out, not only delaying the hit but also sending a message to Shannon’s employer.

The trouble was, Shannon was hard to get to. Retiring by nature, he kept his people very close and never went anywhere without Roscoe, his faithful and attentive body guard. Roscoe’s one weakness was pretty women, and last night, Michael was satisfied that Nikita could keep him otherwise occupied while Michael made the kill.

Michael turned right and went straight for four blocks, then made a left. Unlike most medical facilities, this was located in the better part of town. Although unfamiliar with the area, Michael knew what he needed, and though he seemed to be aimlessly wandering, he eventually ended up on the wrong side of town, not too far from the hotel where they’d met Roscoe the night before.

No matter how many cities he went to, they were all basically the same: there was a nice part of town, there was a bad part of town, and he knew exactly which people belonged in which part.

He slowed the car and started looking. Old warehouses loomed over the street, most only two or three floors high. In the mid-morning sun, old rainwater glinted like oil. The gutters were filled with bleached candy bar wrappers, bits of newspaper, paper cups, cellophane, the dregs of civilization left from the last rain storm. A storm drain was clotted with dead twigs and trash. Advertisements for Pepsi-Cola and Pabst decorated the sides of the buildings, the paint now faded and flaking. The automobiles parked along the sides of the street were all old and most were damaged: a window out there, a tire punctured here, a drunken bumper resting partially on the sidewalk.

Near the middle of the block was a diner with no name. Two newspaper vending machines were chained together outside. Michael pulled up to the curb and got out.

The diner was worse on the outside than it was on the inside. The lino was cracked and the counter, which ran across the length of the room, was stained with perfect coffee-cup circles. The clientele was sparse and male. About six customers lined the counter; another four or five were in booths along the other wall. Michael slid onto a stool. “Coffee, please,” he said to the waitress.

Her eyebrows elevated. “You lost?”

“Not necessarily.”

She sat a cup of coffee down in front of him with a snap. “Anything else?”

Michael pretended to think. “Toast?”

She sized him up and nodded slowly. “You got it.”

While the waitress browned his toast, Michael took a look around, studying the other men in the joint. That one was too old. That one too confused. Too young. Too shaky. One by one, he eliminated most of the people in the restaurant till he was left with two. One had clear eyes and snakeskin boots; the other, like the rest of the customers, had red-rimmed eyes and grimy fingernails. Still, dirty nails didn’t mean anything, Michael reasoned. Things aren’t necessarily what they seem.

“Here you go.” The waitress served his toast on a brown plate. It was perfectly done, and she pushed a plastic bear filled with honey toward him. He hesitated a moment, then, turning the bear upside down, squeezed honey on his toast. “So, you’re new,” she said. “What happened to Hastings?”

Hastings? Michael considered. “Taking a vacation,” he decided, licking his fingers.

“Uh-huh.” She didn’t sound like she believed him.

Michael finished up the first slice of toast, then started on the second. Though she didn’t offer any information, the waitress didn’t leave either, and just as he was taking his last bite, the man with the dirty fingernails came up to the counter, a wad of bills in his hand.

“I’m ready,” the man announced, and the waitress tallied his bill.

“Four bucks, Lindy.”

Lindy laboriously counted out four one dollar bills, then turned his attention to Michael. “I don’t care what Hastings said about me,” he said in a threatening tone, “I run a clean business.”

The waitress snorted, and Lindy shot her a look. “A clean business,” he said firmly. “And there ain’t nothing you can do to an honest businessmen. It’s a dating service. I swear it on my mother’s grave. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Without blinking, Michael pulled a photo from his jacket. “Seen her?” he asked, and Lindy studied the picture.

“Not one of mine,” he said, relief coloring his voice. “Looks familiar.”

Michael took out a felt-tip pen and colored Nikita’s pale hair dark. “What about now?”

Lindy squinted, then held the picture away from him. “She works over on Thirteenth. Dunno for who.”

Michael nodded, and as he got up to leave, the other man -- the one with the snakeskin boots -- approached. Without a word, he took the picture, studied it, and with a sidelong glance to Lindy, said, “You want a hooker, go to a pimp. You want quality, come to Remo.”

“Why?” Michael asked.

“Cause our girls are clean. Guaranteed. Lindy, here -- he sends ‘em to the doc-in-a-box every year for physicals -- our girls are disease-free.”

“Or my money back?” Michael asked, fascinated.

“Double,” said Remo, obviously pleased with his plug.

“Double your money, too,” Lindy snorted. “There ain’t a thing in the world wrong with my girls --”

“Not if you want clap --”

“Gentlemen,” Michael held up his hand, and the bickering stopped. “I’m sure each establishment has pros and cons. The fact is, I need this girl. Not just any girl.”

“What’s so special about her?” Remo asked, suspiciously.

“Let’s just say ... she could be bad for a man’s business.”

“In what way?” asked Remo, and Michael saw his Adam’s apple move nervously in his throat.

“Her last employer isn’t going to be going on any dates,” Michael answered, wiping his hands fastidiously on his napkin.

“What’d she do?” Remo was definitely nervous now, but Michael kept his poker face.

Very slowly, Michael’s eyes traveled down Remo’s body, coming to rest below his belt buckle. Michael raised his eyes and simply said, “She’s very good with a knife.”

Remo went white, and Michael noted with satisfaction that Remo’s hand automatically moved into a protective position. He swallowed again. “No shit?”

“No shit,” Michael confirmed, the profanity sounding odd to his own ears. When in Rome, he reminded himself, and he calmly waited.

Remo took another look at Nikita’s picture. “This was taken awhile ago?”

It was recent, but Michael nodded. “A few years.”

Remo chewed on his lip, darting a glance at Michael. Apparently reassured, he said, “Name’s Colette. That’s what she says, anyway.”

“Address?” Michael flipped open a small black-bound book, pen poised over the page.

“She lives over on the river streets. Danube, number 1145, apartment 12. She had a call last night, she should be there.”

“Thank you,” Michael said formally, clapping the book shut.

“Hey, you’re going to remember this ... right?” Remo suddenly thought to ask about payment, and Michael smiled.

“Absolutely.”

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

1145 Danube was not quite a slum. The neighborhood was shabby and run down, but considering that Michael just spent the better part of an hour in Crack City Central, Danube looked pretty good. Apartment 12 was upstairs and at the end; a window unit air conditioner rattled rhythmically, hiding the sound of Michael breaking in.

The apartment was dark. He waited for his eyes to adjust. There was a faint smell of marijuana and cat in the air, mixed with dishwater. Instead of curtains, black material was tacked to the windows, shutting out all possible light. Michael brought out his pen light, carefully walking across the minute kitchen into the main room.

It was a studio apartment with three rooms: kitchen, bath, living area. Clothes littered every surface, including the ceiling fan, which wasn’t moving. An ironing board was set up near the door; Michael skirted it carefully, careful of the iron cord and the sleeping cat on top of it.

A woman was sacked out on the couch. Long tangled hair spilled across the flowered sofa material; a bruised arm ending in black fingernails trailed on the ground. Quietly, Michael crept up to her, studying her body.

It was hard to tell with her prone, but she looked like she was tall enough. Of course, the hair was the wrong color, but that could be changed. Very gently, he rolled her over to look at her face.

At first glance, they could have been sisters. Same forehead, same nose, same mouth. This woman was older than Nikita. She was prettier, too -- Nikita had a model’s face, a blank canvas that was easily changed to fit the scenario. This woman’s features were finer. Sculpted eyebrows, a delicate nose, high cheekbones ... her hair was light brown and heavy. One arm came up to shield her face from his pen light, and his eyes continued down. She was curvier than Nikita but probably weighed a little less. His assessment halted when she opened her eyes.

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my apartment?”

“We have a mutual friend. Remo.”

“He isn’t my friend. He’s my boss. If you’re looking for some action, either wait till tonight or find someone else. I’m off duty.” She rolled over.

“You’ve been fired.” Pleased, Michael realized her eyes were bright blue. Colette rolled back over.

“By who? Remo?”

“I don’t think he’s expecting you at work tonight,” Michael said. “However, I have a little something you could do.”

“Forget it. I’m not interested in creepy men who break into houses in the middle of the night.”

“It’s nearly noon,” Michael said patiently. “And I’ll make it worth your while.”

Warily, she sat up, arms folded across her chest. “I don’t do oral, I don’t do it in front of other people and you wear a condom.”

Michael blinked. “I’m not looking for someone to have sex with. I need a date for this evening.”

Colette stared at him for a split second, then she shook her head. “Let me get this straight. You talk to Reno, get me fired, break into my apartment and wake me up for a date? You really are sick. What’s wrong with you?”

Well, probably a lot of things, Michael thought. For one thing, it’s noon and that means I only have a eight hours to get your hair dyed, get a dress altered for you and coach you. “Twenty thousand dollars, cash, for two hours work.”

“Twenty thousand,” she repeated, disbelievingly. “Right. No one offers that much money for two hours of service. You planning on killing me?”

“There will be guns,” Michael admitted. “But you’ll stay in the background. Just for show. As distraction. You’re taking the place of someone else.”

“How’d the other girl die?”

“What other girl?”

“The one I’m replacing.”

“She’s not dead,” Michael said. “She’s had a medical emergency completely unrelated to this.”

“Does this have to do with drugs? Because I can’t afford another drug bust. The last one knocked me on my --”

“No drugs,” Michael said. “It’s a business deal.”

“Yeah, that’s what they all say.” She stretched, curling her toes, then said, “Well, big guy, I’m going to have to turn you down. It’s too weird, I’m too tired and you are way too strange for me to be hanging out with you. Find yourself another working girl.”

“Thirty thousand.”

“Not for sale.” She got up from the sofa and walked to the back door, pointedly showing him out.

Michael looked around the apartment. “Pretty woman like you, living in a place like this ... a little money might come in handy. You could get out of the business. I have contacts ...”

“Thanks, but I don’t think I want to get involved with your contacts.”

Michael put on his best suffering man look. “Please.”

“No.” The door was opened wide, the white light from outdoors in stark contrast to the dim interior. It was only by chance that he saw the photo in a cheap metal frame: a little boy, the spitting image of Nikita herself, laughed into the camera. Michael paused, then picked up the picture.

“Cute kid,” he remarked, and Colette froze.

“Thanks,” she said, voice strained.

“You know ...” Michael gently replaced the frame on the table, making sure she saw him caress the child’s face with a finger, “It’s a funny thing, really. People think they can disappear ... but it’s not that easy. You can change your name, change your hair, change your friends. Get into a different line of work, one might say. But there’s always remnants of your past life.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Colette said, but her bravado was false and rang hollow even to her own ears.

“Still,” Michael continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “Some things can’t change. The existence of parents ... grandparents ... children. I wonder how difficult it would be to find him?” Michael looked directly into her eyes this time, and Colette flinched. “Thirty thousand dollars,” he said softly. “And I promise you, I’ll never try. In fact, if you do a good job, I’ll provide a way for you to take care of him.”

Finally finding her voice, Colette said, “Why me?”

“Because I don’t have time to look for anyone else.” Michael pulled out his billfold and counted out thirty one-thousand dollar bills; Colette’s eyes widened in spite of herself. “We’ll go by the bank first if you like. Then we have work to do.”

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

Nikita’s dress would do for Colette. It was a little long, but Colette duct-taped the hem up and Michael agreed it would work for a few hours. He gave her a quick run down on the principals in the scenario and made sure she memorized the names and bare bones facts about each.

“I thought I was supposed to be in the background,” she said suspiciously.

“Not necessarily. We have to plan for contingencies as well. Try this on.” He slipped a huge blue ring on her finger. It was a little loose, but fit well enough.

“Who the hell do you think you are, Richard Gere?” Colette huffed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know, that movie ... ‘Pretty Woman.’”

“I don’t watch movies,” Michael said, still focused on Colette. “Stand taller, please.”

Colette adjusted her posture. “Ever?”

“Seldom,” Michael said. He backed away. “Walk toward me.”

Colette moved forward.

“No,” Michael said, recalling his own training. “Slower. Imagine you are looking at your lover. He’s been unfaithful, but you’re willing to forgive him. He is the only man you love.”

Colette blinked, then moved forward again. This time her gait was languid, her eyes focused on his and her shoulders held at a provocative angle.

“Better,” Michael approved.

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

When Nikita woke it was just before noon. A tray with melting Jell-O and a glass of something carbonated was to her left, and she sat up. Her abdomen rebelled, pain needling through her, and she sank back.

“Hello!” A carrot-topped man poked his head in the door, and Nikita scowled. “I’m just making my rounds ... they said you were new.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Chaplain.” He came all the way in the room, and Nikita took in his tidy, dark suit, compact figure and cheerful smile. In three quick steps he was at her bedside, hand extended. “Chaplain Morris. How d’you do?”

“Nikita Samuelle.” She ignored his question -- after all, it was a moot point -- and took his hand.

Rather than nod and leave, the chaplain sat down in the extra chair. “The nurses said you’re from out of town. That must be difficult, eh?”

“A little. We travel a lot ...”

“Here on business?”

“My husband is,” Nikita said warily. “He has an important meeting.”

“Oh? Then he’ll be here soon, I guess.” His eyes traveled over her face and zeroed in on her upper arm, still bruised from Roscoe’s enthusiastic grip the night before. Four perfect long bruises in the shape of fingers were tattooed on her skin, and Nikita pulled down the sleeve of her gown.

“The meeting’s tonight,” Nikita said.

A frown of worry creased the chaplain’s forehead. “Then why isn’t he here now?”

“He’s ... busy.”

Chaplain Morris nodded, then seeing her lunch, pushed it toward her. “You may as well eat. Can I get you anything else while I’m here?”

Nikita took her spoon and carefully scooped up some red Jell-O. “I’m supposed to have day surgery. But I don’t know when.”

“I think I heard one of the nurses say later on this afternoon. I can find out exactly if you like.”

“Thanks,” Nikita said, and Chaplain Morris hopped up and swung through the door. He’s like a little elf, she thought, and for the first time since entering the hospital, she felt a bit lighter.

Her stomach tightened, and she paused, spoon half-way to her mouth. Then the tremor subsided and she sighed.

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

By seven o’clock, Michael was a bundle of nerves.

The restaurant was full but not crowded. The pre-theater crowd was getting ready to leave; the supper crowd was just arriving. The moment Michael and Colette arrived, she excused herself; now, waiting for her, Michael had time to worry about everything that could go wrong. Always organized, he counted at least ten separate scenarios, none of them with a successful ending.

Nikita should be here, he thought, still more irritated than anything else. He’d called the hospital before they left for the restaurant and was informed the operation was completed satisfactorily. In fact, she should be awake by now and ready to go home, he thought, glancing at his wrist watch.

“Michael!”

Michael half-rose, extending his hand, first to Roscoe, then to Shannon. “You must be Shannon. Roscoe’s told us a lot about you.” He nodded to two places set at the table and the men slid into place, Shannon on the inside and Roscoe directly across from Michael.

Shannon looked around pointedly. “Us?”

Michael was saved from answering by the server, who passed him a bottle of wine; he examined the label, frowning, then nodded, and politely tipped the bottle toward Shannon.

“Excellent,” Shannon approved, and Michael handed the bottle back to the waiter.

“So,” Roscoe said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“You know who. The lovely Nikita. Where is she?”

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

Alone in the washroom, Colette looked at herself in the mirror.

As a child, her hair had been pale blonde, but now the color looked odd on her. The dress was very low cut and a deep blue, which made her eyes seem even brighter. Michael hired someone to do her makeup, and she didn’t think it looked right. It looked like she didn’t have any on, for one thing. Even her lipstick wasn’t noticeable -- it was a pale pink that scarcely showed up. She couldn’t even touch it up -- when Michael caught her trying to add some color, he’d taken her compact and lipstick away and without a word threw them both out the car window.

Her eyes traveled down her face to her neck. Diamonds lay scattered across her skin, the thin gold chain of the necklace almost invisible. Whenever she moved or breathed, they sparkled madly, making her skin look as soft as peach fuzz.

Colette bit her lip.

Michael said all she had to do was distract the old one while he took care of the other one. Once Michael left the restaurant, Colette would excuse herself and leave the restaurant through the kitchen where a car would be waiting. Michael gave her a floor plan and she knew each entrance and exit; still, she felt a little nervous.

This won’t be any worse than when you got caught at the Ritz with those awful Russians, she told herself firmly. And this time you at least have some money waiting for you.

She also had Michael waiting for her. Colette nervously glanced at her watch; she had four minutes left according to Michael’s calculations.

Michael scared her. Sure, he was handsome and smooth and could be charming when he wanted to be, but so what? She’d met lots of handsome, smooth, charming men who were equally dangerous and -- face it -- creeps. Like her mother always said: It ain’t necessarily so. Michael might be loaded and he might treat her like she was a princess, but she’d bet her last condom that he was bad news.

“It ain’t necessarily so,” she whispered to herself. Look at me, she thought: I’m a hooker, but I’m tricked out like Cinderella. Looks are deceiving.

Her time was up. Colette took a deep breath and, summoning all the positive energy she could, she swept from the ladies’ room.

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

When Colette appeared, even Michael was fooled for a moment. She looked so like Nikita in the dimly lit restaurant that his throat closed up a little, the way it always did when he saw her. Across the table from him, Roscoe’s jaw dropped. Colette smiled warmly in their direction, but instead of coming to the table, she headed for the bar, wiggling her fingers at the men.

“Roscoe,” Michael said quietly, “Would you be so good as to keep Nikita company for a few moments? Shannon and I have some business to discuss.”

“Of course,” Roscoe said faintly, and he stumbled as he rose.

Michael watched Roscoe thread his way to the bar; Colette prudently chose a very dark corner for their tryst, and Michael waited until he saw Roscoe greet her. Then he turned to Shannon, smiled politely, and, without a word, put a bullet through his stomach.

Shannon slumped over the table. Michael left a tidy pile of bills on the table and left just as quietly as he’d come in.

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

Colette watched the older man come toward her with a feeling of dread. He had that look about him -- that look that she was all too familiar with. It usually preceded an unpleasant stint of rough sex, and though Michael said he hadn’t hired her for that, Michael wasn’t here right now.

Colette pasted a smile on her face and waited. Roscoe came closer, and she mentally measured the distance to the kitchen.

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

When Nikita woke up the second time, it was nearly dark. She felt heavy from the local -- the last thing she remembered was the doctor telling her to count backwards from one hundred -- and she felt a little queasy.

“How do you feel?”

Hoping to see Michael, Nikita turned her head, but instead of quiet gray-green eyes and Michael’s still form, she saw her friend the elf.

“Chaplain ... Morris, right?”

“That’s right,” he beamed. “You’re all right, then. They had a bit of an emergency down the hall and you couldn’t be left alone, so since there was no one else ...”

“Thank you,” Nikita said, her head clearing. “Isn’t it late, though? What are you still doing here?”

“I work late on Tuesdays. My wife teaches piano lessons in the afternoons; I can’t work with all the racket,” Chaplain Morris said, settling himself more comfortably in Nikita’s chair. “So I work late on Tuesdays and leave early on Fridays. Then every other weekend I’m on call.”

“I see,” Nikita said. She stretched, taking a mental inventory of her body parts.

“Everything okay?”

“I’m a little sore.”

“The doctor should be by soon. Want something to eat?”

“No, I’m fine.”

They waited for the doctor, the chaplain making idle chit chat that, in normal circumstances, would have irritated Nikita. Now she found it almost endearing. It’s the drugs, she decided, smiling at a comment he made. Tomorrow I’ll be my usual crabby self.

The doctor breezed in -- not Dr. Preston, but his partner, Dr. Carruthers. The chaplain prudently went for a coffee, and the doctor, satisfied that Nikita was all right, signed her release papers. “I’m sending copies of all your records to your usual doctor,” he said, “And if he has any questions, tell him to call. I don’t know what he was thinking, putting you on that type of birth control ... you switched brands six months ago?”

“About that,” Nikita said.

“Well, don’t worry. Sometimes it takes awhile to find the right kind. Everyone is different, and sometimes your body chemistry changes ... side effects that didn’t bother you before may bother you now, that kind of thing,” he shrugged. “Your estrogen was just out of whack, and it probably will continue to be for a few weeks. Here’s a list of any complications that might arise,” he said, handing her a photocopied paper. “Just watch for infection and hold off on intercourse for a week or so. Okay?”

“Thanks,” Nikita said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure you will be,” the doctor agreed.

Dr. Carruthers shook her hand and went on the rest of his rounds; in a few minutes, Chaplain Morris reappeared. “So, when will your husband get here?”

Nikita looked at the clock and sighed. Eight o’clock. Right now, Michael was killing Shannon -- without backup. “His business meeting went over. I guess I’ll catch a cab to the hotel ...”

“Oh, no no no, they wouldn’t like that,” the chaplain said quickly. “The nurses ... they want to make sure you know where you’re going and that you get there in one piece. Tell you what: the Imperial is right on my way, I’ll drop you off, make sure you get to your room safely. Your husband should be along soon, right?”

“That sounds like a lot of trouble. I’ll just --”

“It’s no trouble! Let me just call my wife, tell her I’ll be a few minutes late --”

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

According to plan, Michael exited the restaurant at exactly 8:23. He strode down the sidewalk in his usual unhurried gait, doubled around the block, made sure the car for Colette wasn’t still waiting for her, and then took the alley down a few blocks. Michael made a quick phone call to confirm Colette’s position -- she apparently did exactly as instructed, and was on her way to the airport.

Michael caught a taxi and went first to a nightclub, where he ditched the cab, waited ten minutes, and caught another one. He went to the train station, spent a total of 15 minutes ostensibly watching the train schedules, then caught a third cab. This time, satisfied that no one was following him, he went to the hospital.

By now, it was almost ten. He went to the third floor and stopped outside the nurses’ station.

“Nikita Samuelle?” he asked.

“Checked out,” one nurse said, smiling. “About an hour or so ago.”

“Checked out,” Michael repeated, licking his lips.

“I think Chaplain Morris took her home ...”

Someone buzzed in over the intercom and a static-filled voice called a code blue. The nurse jumped up, smiled apologetically at Michael and jogged down the hall, grabbing a crash cart on her way. Since he couldn’t think of anything else to do, Michael detoured by Nikita’s old room.

The bed was stripped and a tray of liquid Jell-O sat by the bed. He opened the pressboard wardrobe, but not even a nightgown greeted him.

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

Except for the bathroom, all the lights were off in the hotel room. Michael shut the door behind him quietly, then slipped on the safety chain and clicked the deadbolt locked. A still form lay in the bed; Michael silently crept forward, gently lifting a curtain of blonde hair, but the face that he saw was not an imitation of the woman he loved. It was the genuine article.

If only .... if only ...

He wondered how Colette was and whether she was almost home free by now. Amazing how much they looked like one another, he thought, smiling slightly. But for a twist of fate, it could have been Nikita on the plane, winging her way to safety instead of Colette.

And Colette’s child --! He’d been the image of Nikita. Had Michael not known better, he would have believed they were mother and child, or at the very least, aunt and nephew. Uncanny.

A spasm of pain flickered across Nikita’s face. Michael reached over and gently stroked Nikita’s cheek with the back of his hand and she relaxed. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead and she woke up. “Where have you been?”

“I might ask you the same question. Who’s Chaplain Morris?”

Nikita rolled onto her back, and Michael sat down on the bed beside her. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Are you telling me that you got in the car with a stranger while you were still under the influence of a local anesthetic?”

“I’m not telling you anything,” Nikita decided, yawning. “I’m too tired to argue.”

“Nikita --”

“Michael, give it up. He was a chaplain, for goodness’ sake.”

“You don’t know that --”

“Sometimes, Michael,” Nikita said, “A chaplain is just a chaplain.” She moved over in bed, and Michael unlaced his shoes. “Now, tell me about Shannon.”

“Dead,” Michael confirmed. He kicked off his boots and stood up, disrobing with his back to her. He pulled out a pair of pajamas and went to the bathroom, leaving the door open so they could talk. She heard the water run briefly, then Michael’s next words were garbled.

“What was that?”

“I said,” he repeated, coming to the door and wiping toothpaste foam on a towel, “You should have waited for me. I was on my way.”

“I know, but I wanted to get out of there. It was yucky and they had nasty food ...”

Michael just looked at her, and, though he didn’t roll his eyes, Nikita grinned faintly at him. “The sheets were scratchy,” she continued, “It was always noisy ...”

Michael turned off the bathroom light and a moment later the mattress dipped as he lay down.

“People come in all the time,” Nikita said, yawning. “Yack, yack, yack, take your temperature, take your blood pressure ...”

Michael’s arms went around her, and he caressed her stomach.

“Ouch! Watch it ...” she said sharply, and his touch lightened instantly.

“Are you okay?”

“I think so,” she said quietly. “I’m sore and crampy but I’m all right.”

He kissed her shoulder, rubbing his chin across her skin, then kissed the back of her neck. Nikita laced her fingers through his and brought his hand up to her face, gave it a kiss and tucked it underneath her chin. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there tonight,” she said.

“So am I. But no one has to know, and the sequence was completed.” Michael sighed and his body began to relax. “Under normal circumstances, I would have stayed with you.”

“I know.” She held her breath, hoping he wouldn’t ask.

“Nikita ...”

“Hmmm?” She curled herself tighter into his arms, and he shifted himself around her.

“Why did Section change your medication?”

She was quiet for a long time, absently rubbing her chin on his hand. “I don’t know, Michael,” she said finally. “The good news is, I don’t have cancer.”

“What?” Michael’s arms tightened around her briefly, and he turned her over so he could look at her face. “What did you say?”

Nikita swallowed and answered. “I thought you knew. They had to do the D and C to see if the mass was cancerous. I pitched a fit and made them analyze it today, instead of waiting a week for the results ...”

“Nikita ...” Michael smoothed a hand over her forehead, and careful to not rest on her, he kissed her. “I didn’t know ...”

“It’s all right,” she said, and she gently pushed him over, once again curling up beside him, his hand tucked in hers. Sleepily, she said, “It’s kind of funny when you think about it. I’ve imagined a dozen unpleasant ways to die, but never once did I think Section’d give me cancer.”

“As soon as we get home, I want you to go to a real doctor,” Michael said, unable to keep his voice steady. “Not a Section one. I’ll get you new identification ... Section won’t find out ...”

“You’re so bossy, Michael,” Nikita sighed.

“Nikita, I mean it ...”

“I’m way ahead of you,” Nikita yawned. “In fact, I asked Dr. Preston to recommend someone.”

“Good.” Michael’s voice was cold and curt, but his embrace was warm and comforting. Gradually, Nikita relaxed, sliding deeper in his arms. Michael absently rubbed his cheek across her head, thinking.

She’ll have to keep out of Med Lab, he decided. It’s too easy to poison her if she’s unconscious or already ill. And I’ll go through her medicine cabinet. Section provided everything from vitamins to over-the-counter and prescribed medication; it would be simple to tamper with the drugs, to feed her chemicals that were dangerous. She’ll keep on accepting Section drugs, but I’ll be damned if she’ll take them, Michael thought stubbornly. We’ll throw out all those crazy teas she has, too, Michael decided in a fit of over-protectiveness. Drugs were drugs, whether they were ancient Chinese remedies or from Eli Lilly.

“Michael?”

“Mmmmm?”

“Do you really think Section gave me those drugs on purpose?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know ... it’s just that sometimes things aren’t really what they seem. Especially in Section.”

“Until we know differently, we have to assume the worst,” Michael said softly.

“Even if it’s not necessarily so?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” she agreed in a small voice. Then she curled closer to him, put his hand lightly on her abdomen and dropped off to sleep.

Michael stayed very still and very quiet, feeling her muscles twinge under his hand. Very softly, he rubbed his thumb over the indention of her belly button, and the contractions gradually stilled.

-end-