Introduction

The following is a crossover between LFN and the series, "Profiler" (if you are not familiar with this series, see below for an introduction). It starts a few days after the events of "Third Person" end. If you're familiar with "Profiler," this story takes place after the episode, "Victims of Victims."

This story is *definitely* MA-14. It contains strong language, sexual discussions, and violence and its results. There is a serial killer, here, and--although I have done my very best to make the discussion of the victims as ungraphic as possible--we are dealing with some fairly twisted murders, and the results aren't very pretty. I'll try to include extra warnings on the parts which go heavily into the details of the case. I've tried to work more by allusion and reaction than graphic description, and the main focus of the story will be the characters of both series--not the crimes, but I felt it necessary to give you this warning.

I need to add, as well, that I'm not an expert on serial killers, medicine, or the Vietnam War--all of which will come into play to a certain extent here. Don't bother nitpicking; I'm not claiming any of these parts are even vaguely accurate. In fact, I'm not suggesting that any of the following is realistic; it's just a story. Please just ignore the reality level, and go with it. :)

There will be spoilers here for "Third Person," "Approaching Zero," and "Missing." I'll mention if others come up, as we go along. The story will also include my personal speculation on the characters, etc.

No infringement of any sort to the copyright holders of either of these shows is intended. Since I'm not on the discussion list, as well, please send comments to: gilbertklfn@cs.com.

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INTRODUCTION TO "PROFILER" (Skip if you know this already):

Dr. Samantha Waters is a psychologist who works as a profiler for the FBI; she is currently working with a branch of this organization known as the Violent Crimes Task Force (or VCTF), based in Atlanta. They hunt serial killers. Sam's profiling is helped by the fact that she gets flashes, or mental images, of the crime when she's thinking about it very hard or is at a crime scene. She's one of the best at her job.

Sam has been plagued for several years, however, by a serial killer known only as "Jack of All Trades" (because he changes his m.o. with every murder). Jack has killed her husband--as well as the only boyfriend she has had since her husband's death--along with several dozen others, most of whom had some vague connection to Sam. She's stalked by him constantly. Jack has also taken on a female assistant recently, who they are now referring to as "Jill."

Sam lives on the top floor of a converted firehouse with her 7-year- old daughter, Chloe, and her friend--since at least her college days, Angel. There are always FBI agents stationed outside the house, and only the three of them are able to access the upstairs. The house also has cameras installed throughout, although they are usually inactive;

it's only when Jack is very close or active that they're turned on and monitored.

Sam's boss, and very old friend, is Bailey Malone, an ex-Special Forces soldier and Vietnam veteran, who has been with the bureau for many years. He can be a very authoritative and professional man, but he is also very protective and supportive of his co-workers and subordinates; he's gone out on a limb for them many times, and they've frequently returned the favor. He seems to have deeper feelings for Sam (which she might return at some level), as well, but he never acts on or pushes them.

There are other people at the VCTF, too, like Grace, John, and George, but you'll hopefully pick up anything you need to know about them--or other aspects of the show, as we go along. I hope this will make things a bit clearer.

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

PROFILES

The evening was going wonderfully, and it was still early yet. It was the closest thing to a real date they had had. Before now, Nikita and Jurgen had seen the lake, gone to the park, and had a couple of lunches together; it was only early evening, admittedly, but, this time, it was dinner.

He smiled at her. "Now, wasn't this better than joining the sightseers viewing the city from the tower?"

Nikita gave a playfully hurt look. "You didn't like my plan?"

"In thick fog with an ice storm approaching? No." He was still smiling slightly.

Nikita gave up her pretenses and smiled down at the table. "Now, about dessert . . .," she began, as her cellphone rang. . . . Damn. Sometimes, Michael had radar. She sighed and pulled it out of her purse. She knew there was no need to apologize for the interruption; Jurgen knew the meaning of any calls as well as she did. "Hello?" she answered.

"Josephine," the familiar voice intoned.

"Like anyone else is going to be answering the damn thing," she thought.

"Yes," she responded verbally.

"Jurgen's with you." It seemed more a statement than a question.

Nikita stopped herself before she asked him why he thought that was any of his business. Then, she paused for a minute; was Michael just using her codename to get her away from Jurgen again? If so, there was going to be a serious discussion between them soon about the dangers of crying "wolf." "Yes," she admitted finally, not very pleasantly.

"20 minutes. Both of you." Then, the phone call was over.

Nikita sighed and looked up at Jurgen. He got the message. "Can we get the check?" he asked the closest waiter.

Back at Section, Michael was the first one at the conference table. He was brooding quietly. He hated how much time Nikita was spending with Jurgen, hated the manipulation he knew Section was setting her up for.

It wasn't that she was being rude to him or even particularly distant; it was just that she wasn't *there* as much as she used to be. She didn't hang around Section when it wasn't required; she would even leave without saying goodbye. Although she was polite when he initiated a conversation, she didn't try to start any of her own.

He hadn't realized until recently how much he missed her attentiveness. When their relationship had been bad or difficult before, he had at least felt her presence more--sometimes oppressively. Now, he was starting to feel emptier--colder, like the heat of life had been removed, and he was being left to freeze to death.

Madeline came into the area to find Michael sitting statuelike at the table. His blank stare held worlds of meaning to her, though; Nikita was pulling away from him. It was taking all of his self-control just to keep going.

Michael looked up at her, eyes revealing nothing. Madeline smiled at him in her very un-reassuring way. He looked back at the table. This would be a good test for him, she decided. He had to be able to control his desire for Nikita. She took her seat at the table.

A flickering of several deep emotions passed through Michael's eyes, when he saw Nikita and Jurgen enter. Nikita was dressed for an evening out--not extravagantly but quite charmingly, her long hair falling around her face in the natural style which most caught at his heart. She smiled at him briefly, and he held her gaze for a second before looking forward again. It was too painful to watch her.

Michael had seated himself at the middle of the table, two chairs on either side. Nikita took one on the end farthest from Madeline; Jurgen held out her chair for her and then sat between her and Michael.

Michael caught this action from the corner of his eye and had to close his eyes very briefly. The fact that Jurgen could get away with even such small attentions to her in Section stirred up all of his feelings of jealousy again.

A minute later, Birkoff arrived, followed shortly thereafter by Operations, who punched up an image on the holoscreen. "This was David Steiner a few days ago," he said, as the image of a business-like man in his forties appeared. He punched up another picture. "This was how he was found at 1630 today."

Nikita almost choked and had to turn her eyes away quickly. She wasn't used to briefings including gruesome pictures. She could feel Operations staring at her. She took a deep breath as unobtrusively as she could and looked back at the screen.

Michael's eyes probed the image. "It looks ritualistic," he noted of the wounds shown in the picture. "Why are we interested?"

"Steiner is the third person found slain in this fashion in the past week and a half," Operations answered. "They all had quiet and high-ranking advisorial positions in the U.S. government. Steiner was a defense contractor used by the agency to help plan their surgical strikes." The image changed again. "Ross Andrews had been a consultant to two Presidents." Yet another image appeared. "And Phillip Lynway was a 15-year agency veteran who advised the Pentagon."

Operations turned off the holoscreen. "Needless to say, the agency isn't pleased by this recent turn of events. They want it taken care of."

"The slayings could be ritualistic, serial, or they could be a clever cover for terrorist activity," Madeline filled them in. "Whatever they are, we need to stop them, before the media is allowed to catch hold of the story."

Nikita looked a little confused; this wasn't their usual sort of mission. "So, what do we do? Are there any suspects?"

"Not yet," Operations answered. "We're going to need to work this investigatively. You three will go to the latest scene and gather as much intel. as it's possible to get; Birkoff will link what you get back to Madeline. Work every angle, but do it quietly. There will be other agencies on site; . . . you'll have to work around them. Gather what you can from them but give them *nothing* in return. Do *not* collaborate. Nikita," he looked at her, "you'll see Madeline now, and then meet Michael and Jurgen in the van in 15 minutes. Any questions?"

Everyone was silent, and the briefing disbursed.

Nikita followed Madeline to her new office; it was the first time she had seen it. She turned around to look it over. "A bit starker," she judged to herself. "She must have given up on the gothic dungeon approach. . . . I wonder what brought on the change." Madeline was watching her, though, so she smiled and took a seat. "What did you want to see me about?"

Madeline was smiling inwardly. Nikita had obviously been doing more than just sizing up her interior decorating choices, and it reconfirmed to her how perfect she was for this mission.

"Since I won't be on site with you," she informed Nikita, "I'll need you to be my eyes and ears. If I'm going to profile this person or group efficiently, I'll need to go on more than pictures."

"Why me?" Nikita asked. "Surely Michael can fill in the details for you just as well."

"We've chosen you," Madeline replied, not answering her question. "Be thorough. Jurgen and Michael will be gathering intel. from witnesses and officials; I need you to concentrate on the scene."

"Wonderful. An evening with the brutally slain," Nikita thought.

"I'm not really sure what I'm looking for," Nikita argued aloud.

"*Everything*," Madeline stressed calmly. "Anything you see could have a huge significance. Look at the position of the body; the size, depth, and angle of wounds; the weapons involved . . . anything unusual or even potentially relevant at the crime scene. It's all important."

Nikita nodded. "I'll do my best, Madeline, but wouldn't it be better to go yourself? I mean, I'll be as thorough as I can be, but this isn't something I have any experience with."

Madeline gave her a reassuring smile and nodded. "You'll be fine. Just be sure to relay all the details to me. . . . Now, go meet the van."

With that, the conference was obviously over. Nikita sighed slightly and nodded, then rose and left to join the team.

Madeline smiled to herself, once Nikita left, and looked down at her desk. The young operative was shaping up very well; all she needed was experience.

Madeline knew that Nikita hadn't been a prisoner during her months away; Michael couldn't hide his thoughts from her that well. Operations hadn't a clue, of course, but he didn't need to know. He let his personal feelings about Nikita interfere with his judgment.

It was obvious to Madeline that Nikita was just what Section needed; aside from her skills as an operative, she had deeper talents they had yet to fully train or utilize. Section needed its psychologists--its profilers, and Nikita was going to make an excellent one . . . one day. Madeline smiled and started some paperwork until she was needed by the team.

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

See Introduction for full warnings, etc. This part will contain a certain amount of discussion of the state of the victim's body, so be prepared. Like I've said, I've tried to keep this to a minimum, but some of it's important to the case.

For the members of the Violent Crimes Task Force, it was a typical day--a typical crime scene . . . until the three unidentified investigators started trampling all over it. They had only been at Steiner's hotel room a few minutes, when the strange trio arrived and started acting like they owned the place.

Nikita came in to see an attractive blonde woman in her late twenties or early thirties closely examining the body. She didn't seem to be doing anything with it medically, though, just looking at it studiously. The two men with her seemed to be letting her take the lead, deferring to her knowledge. "Must be nice," Nikita thought.

"Bailey, look at these cuts. . .," she was saying, when Nikita entered. She stopped, though, and looked up at Nikita and her companions questioningly.

Bailey straightened up from the position he was taking near the woman. "Can I help you?" His tone suggested that it was a polite way of saying, "What the hell do you want?"

Michael met the older man's gaze steadily. "No," he replied simply. He cocked his head at Jurgen to tell him to go question any witnesses; Jurgen left the room to join the police and the crowd.

Bailey took in the two remaining newcomers. They were young and attractive, the sort of people who could either stand out or blend in with a crowd, depending on their mood. Even with the confident authority they wore, they could seem normal enough to many people--including, probably, Sam and John--but Bailey wasn't fooled. "Who do you work for?" he asked suspiciously.

"That's not important," Michael replied.

"I think it is," Bailey asserted. "This is our crime scene. . . . You can leave."

Michael smiled slightly, unpleasantly. "You can stay, if you like, but nothing here is `yours.'" He looked at Nikita and cut his eyes toward the body to tell her to get to work. "Who are you?" he asked Bailey.

Bailey sized up this man--the dark, slightly casual clothes he managed to turn into a uniform; the completely blank face; the dead eyes, eyes which could watch a thousand holocausts he had caused and forget every one with a justification. Black ops.--he had to be. Bailey shook his head slightly. "I should've figured they would be all over this," he thought.

Bailey took his badge out to flash it. There was no use hiding their identities. "Bailey Malone, Violent Crimes Task Force." He pointed behind him to the man standing near the wall. "John Grant." He turned to his other side to point at the woman near the bed. "Dr. Samantha Waters." He turned back to Michael. "Now, you tell whoever holds your leash that we can handle this. . . . Give us your number, and we may even call you when we're done."

Michael smiled. The man was going to lose this battle, of course, but his confidence wasn't just bravado.

Nikita, meanwhile, was by the bed, beginning to send her observations back to Madeline, Operations, and Birkoff. She was tapping the information she found into a p.d.a., to keep the non-Section people from gaining any of it. She suddenly heard a gruff voice in her ear, though "Nikita, give me a visual on Malone," Operations ordered. Nikita turned back to focus the small camera in her glasses on the older man.

"My God," both Nikita and Michael heard Operations breathe. Nikita looked over at Michael to see what he made of it, but he was locked in a staring contest with Bailey.

A second later (once Operations had moved out of the central area of Section and back to his office), Michael's cellphone rang. "Yes," he answered.

"Give the phone to Malone, after you get my instructions," Operations ordered. "When he's done with the call, bring him in; he'll come willingly. Don't harm him; don't answer his questions, and make sure he's unaware of our location. Leave his companions, Nikita, and Jurgen on site. Understood?"

"Yes," Michael replied. He handed the phone to Bailey. "It's for you."

Sam had watched the whole scene with rising tension. She was used to the VCTF having its authority questioned by local police, but this was different. The fear flashed through her mind momentarily that this might be Jack and Jill, that they might have caught up with her. . . . They had a third person with them, though, and Bailey seemed to understand what was going on--even if he obviously wasn't pleased with it, so she calmed down somewhat.

Bailey took the phone and answered it, still staring at Michael. The next words he heard were in Vietnamese <"Skies clear."> He almost stopped breathing, although he still appeared calm. They were the Viet Cong code words he and his unit had used to trick the ambushers into the open--when they knew they were there; it was a time in his life he would rather forget. He looked at Michael to assure himself that his friends would be safe, then he turned back to Sam. "I'm going to take this call in the hallway. I'll be back in a minute."

Sam nodded, confused but trusting him.

Nikita had noticed something in the ruffle of the bed. She knelt down to pick it up, while Sam, John, and Bailey were distracted. She put it in her pocket to analyze later.

Once Bailey was in the hall, he picked up the phone again. "Who is this?"

"You don't remember your old commander?" Operations purred. "You're getting forgetful in your old age."

"Wolfe," Bailey sighed. "I thought they killed you."

"You once said that snakes like me were hard to kill," Ops. responded.

"It appears I was right," Bailey nodded. "What do you want?"

"A visit," Operations replied. "Go with Michael. Leave your colleagues. He'll bring you here."

"I'm assuming `Michael' is the one who's had his soul and conscience removed?" Bailey questioned.

"We're very proud of him," Operations beamed slightly.

"I'm sure," Bailey assented. "Why should I take up this invitation?"

"How long do you think it would take for Michael to take out your friends?" Ops. queried.

"If you hurt her . . . either of them . . .," Bailey began seriously.

"Loyality always was your weak spot," Operations taunted. "Come quietly, and they'll be no need for your outrage. They'll be safe when you return."

Bailey remembered more than he wanted to about Wolfe. He didn't like him, and he didn't trust him. He was certain that, whatever shadow organization he was part of now, they could easily get away with killing two FBI agents. . . . He could see no choice but to agree. He sighed slightly. "Very well."

"I'll see you soon." Operations hung up.

Bailey turned off the cellphone and shook his head. He went back into the room and returned the phone to Michael. He looked at Sam. "I need to go somewhere for a while. Gather what information you can. I'll be back." He exchanged a significant look with her and then gave a brief look at John, which said, "Watch after her."

Michael noted the looks. There was a deeper connection between Malone and the woman; he logged the fact mentally, in case it turned out to be useful. He gave Nikita a brief look and left.

Sam noticed the look between the strange man and woman. Whoever these people were, there was some relationship between them. Given the utter steely coldness of the man who left with Bailey, however, she was confounded as to what it might be. She looked back at John, who seemed confused and shook his head slightly.

Madeline spoke into Nikita's link "What was the woman's name again?"

"Sorry," Nikita said, "you were Dr. Samantha . . ."

"Uh, Waters," Sam supplied, looking back at her.

At Section, Birkoff tapped the name into his computer.

"And you are?" Sam asked.

"Nikita," she answered.

Sam nodded. "Unusual name. What is it? French? Russian?"

Birkoff's computer pulled up a file, and he read out the essentials. "Waters, Samantha. Graduated top of her class from Wake Forest. Has worked off and on for the FBI for about 10 years. . ." He looked up at Madeline. "She's a profiler."

"Nikita, avoid her questions," Madeline instructed. "Don't let her get a read on you. . . Turn her attention back to the mission. . . . Get what you can out of her."

"Doesn't matter," Nikita responded to Sam's question. "I thought you were saying something about these marks, when we came in." She turned back to the body.

Sam tried to size the woman up. She was quite different from her now- departed partner; she had more . . . light to her. She suspected, though, that she could be no less dangerous.

It was that danger which had made her think briefly that the woman might be Jill in a disguise. Her partner certainly seemed capable of being a serial killer; in fact, Sam had rarely seen eyes that devoid of soul outside of murderers and institutionalized psychotics. The fact that the man had given no explanation of where he was going or why he was leaving, too, suggested that they were receiving instructions somehow, although Sam could see no sign of any transmitters.

"They're interesting cuts--small circles," Nikita prodded her, as she tried to keep her stomach from revolting at the sight; she had seen dead bodies before, of course, but they had rarely been in this sort of shape.

"Get more specific, Nikita," Madeline suggested. "She will have seen more here than you have."

Nikita pointed at one. "They're rather irregularly shaped." She looked more closely. "Made by a scalpel, maybe?"

Sam half-nodded.

"Why wouldn't he have moved, though--fought back?" Nikita asked. "I mean, the wounds are over most of his body."

Sam's professional instincts overtook her better judgment. Also, though, she figured that--if anyone could get this killer--the better off everyone would be. "Drugged, maybe?" She knelt down near the bed and then looked at a side table where a bottle of champagne was opened with a half-empty glass nearby it.

The images came, the flashes a woman's thinly-gloved hand pouring the sparkling beverage, Steiner drinking happily, the woman laughing, Steiner collapsing.

Sam nodded. "She poured him the drink. Then she started."

"So he was unconscious when she made these?" Nikita looked at the body and then back at Sam. "How do you know it was a woman?"

John smiled slightly from behind her. "She just knows."

At Section, Madeline looked at Birkoff, who checked his files. "I don't see any connection between Waters and Steiner--or the other two. . . . Wait a minute. . . . It says here she claims she gets images of crimes in her head. . . . A psychic crimebuster?" He looked up at Madeline skeptically.

Madeline thought for a second, looking off. "What's her accuracy rating?"

Birkoff looked. "98 percent." He sounded shocked.

Madeline nodded. She didn't care how the woman came by her information. If she was that good, they could use her insights.

"You should *see* some of the other things in her file," Birkoff said, amazed.

"Are they relevant at the moment?"

"Well, no," Birkoff admitted.

Madeline smiled. "Make up a dossier. I'll read it later." She paused. "Make up ones on John Grant and Bailey Malone, too. Could be useful."

Birkoff looked happy.

Madeline looked back at their visual. "Nikita, get closer to the knife."

Nikita complied. "So you think she stabbed him first or tortured him?" She looked at the delicately-wrought knife in the man's heart. It was silver with a caduceus on top, holding a red gem of some sort. Only its very hilt was visible.

Sam looked more closely at it. "It's a letter opener," she looked amusedly confused.

"That didn't make the other wounds," Nikita asserted.

Sam shook her head. "Definitely not."

"That's the symbol of the medical profession, isn't it?" Nikita pointed at the design on the knife.

Sam nodded. "Only without the red stone--that's new." The images came again the knife plunged into Steiner's heart, the cuts made carefully, flashing teeth.

Sam looked thoughtful. "She stabbed him and then made the cuts." She shrugged and stood up. "I guess she'd have to or the cuts would have bled more."

"Why do it in that order?" Nikita wondered. "I mean, they seem like they're meant as a form of torture. Why do them once he's dead?"

Sam's mind was on other things, though. Teeth. She hadn't seen any bite marks. She pulled down the sheet which covered Steiner's lower half and grimaced.

Nikita had to strongly fight the urge to be sick; John looked and then turned away quickly.

"I'd say it's sexual," Sam deduced, as Nikita's glasses sent an image of what was left of the man's sexual organs back to Madeline and Birkoff.

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

Bailey Malone woke up with a terrible headache. It was a kind he recognized, though; he had been drugged.

He lifted his head from a table to look at his surroundings. He was sitting at a long table in a sterile building . . . industrial . . . military.

"Glad to see you're awake," he heard behind him.

Bailey held his head for a minute to put things back in perspective. "Do you treat all your guests this way?"

"Most of our guests don't leave," Operations assured him, as he walked into his line of sight.

Bailey lowered his hands back to the table. "They must love your hospitality."

"How long has it been?" Operations wondered.

"Can the old war buddies garbage," Bailey said. He was still groggy, and he was in no mood for fake small talk. "You didn't bring me here for a reunion."

"What *did* I bring you here for?" Operations sat down a few chairs away from him.

Bailey turned and looked into Operations' snake-like eyes. "Forget the games. I didn't like them when you were my c.o.; I'm not playing them now. Either go ahead and kill me, or let's get started talking about . . . whatever it is we're here to talk about."

Operations smiled. "Alright. Take your people off this case."

"No. . . . Is that all?" Bailey waved his hand.

Operations' stare hardened. "You are in the secret base of an organization which does not officially exist."

"What else is new?" Bailey asked, blase'.

"You could disappear, and no one would ever know what happened," Operations pressed.

"If you wanted me dead, you'd have done it by now," Bailey asserted. "Besides, my death wouldn't remove the VCTF from this case."

Operations leaned back in his chair and nodded. "You've got some good people working for you. Two women high up with children--one a new mother. It would be . . . unfortunate if those children were . . . abandoned." He stressed the last word oddly.

Bailey laughed and shrugged. "Where would that get you? I'm sure your `employees' here have killed enough to get few jollies from shooting women. . . . Not much of a treat for them anymore."

Operations laughed and paused for a second. "You're an ungrateful son-of-a-bitch, I'll give you that. You remember that time in Da Nang . . ."

Bailey snorted slightly and shook his head. "Don't pull out the old war stories. I saved your life more times than you did mine." He was quiet for a second. "So, you've tried ordering, threatening, and obligation. What's next, bribery? We pull off this case, I get a weekend in Bermuda?"

"What do you want?" Operations asked.

Bailey leaned forward. "I want to be left out of your little spook games. I want your people to leave me and mine the hell alone. . . . You want this case solved--stay out of my way."

"You know that's not going to happen," Operations replied.

Bailey knew, unfortunately, that that much was true. "Then you work with us, but *we* take the lead."

"*If* we work together, . . . *you* work for *us*," Operations asserted slowly.

"No deal," Bailey shook his head. He wasn't putting his people under the command of this bunch.

Just then, Operations looked over Bailey's shoulder. Bailey turned to see a beautiful, auburn-haired woman standing with quiet authority in the conference room door. Her eyes were dead, though, much like the man's who brought him in. He started to wonder if this group ran along bloodlines. The woman exchanged a look with Wolfe and then smiled at Bailey. He nodded back at her; she was *at least* as dangerous as the rest of them.

"I'll be back in a minute," Wolfe said and left with the woman.

"What have you found?" Operations asked, once he was out of Bailey's earshot.

"It doesn't look like terrorist activity; there's more of a pathology at work," Madeline informed him.

"So, it is a serial killer," Operations tried to confirm.

"It appears that way," Madeline nodded slightly.

"What's your recommendation?" Operations pressed.

"I've looked over the files of the VCTF. They have an almost 100% clearance record," Madeline went on. "They're thorough and accurate and have a world-class profiler."

"You think we should turn it over to them?" he asked warily.

She shook her head. "No. We'll need to be close, when the killer's found; they're best at analyzing and tracking this sort of target. Our skill is neutralization. Let's work with them till we find this person; then, we'll take it from there."

Operations nodded. "Do they know about the first two cases?"

"Not as far as we can assess," she affirmed, then looked at him deeply. "Can we trust Malone?"

"His problem has always been that he was too prone to trustworthiness," he assured her. "I don't think he'll be a problem."

Madeline nodded and left.

Bailey watched Operations, as he returned. "Have you decided how to kill me yet?"

"We decided to hold a pool," he replied. "The person who guesses the closest to your actual death wins."

Bailey half-laughed and looked down at the desk. "I see you're working for a woman now. The last time I saw you, you said they were only good for . . ."

"She's a colleague," Operations cut him off.

"How times have changed," Bailey said, not believing him capable of it. "So," he sat up and looked at him, "what's the plan?"

"It looks like we're pooling resources temporarily," Operations informed him. "We'll use your people and ours to find the killer."

"And when we find him?" Bailey inquired.

"We'll figure that out when we get there," Operations responded, knowing full well what was going to happen.

Bailey nodded, understanding that this wasn't an argument he could win now. "Okay, take me back to my people; we'll leave for Atlanta and get started immediately."

Operations shook his head. "You haven't been outside in a while; that chopper you came in can't get you home tonight. We'll put you in a hotel, for the time being."

"No," Bailey replied.

Operations was slightly surprised.

Bailey sighed. He didn't want to tell Wolfe what he was about to; he didn't want him to have that much information about them. He knew, though, that he undoubtedly had it already. "Samantha Waters--our profiler--has been stalked for the last several years by a serial killer we know only as `Jack-of-all-Trades.' He's killed her husband, her boyfriend--more recently, and several dozen others. Even something simple like staying in a hotel could put her at risk. I can't allow it."

"You care about her." Operations smiled.

"She's a valuable asset," Bailey responded, quite sure those were the only terms Wolfe would understand.

Operations nodded. "We can bring her in here."

Bailey looked around and laughed. "I think she'd be better off with Jack."

Operations thought for a minute. "She can stay with one of our female operatives--Nikita."

"Can I meet this epitome of truth and beauty?" Bailey smiled sarcastically.

"You already have," Operations informed him.

Bailey pondered. "The woman at the crime scene?"

Operations nodded.

She was one of them, certainly, Bailey decided, but she wasn't as soulless as Michael; she still had life in her eyes. "How can I know to trust her?"

Operations snorted. "She would be the *least* likely of anyone here to hurt your . . . colleague." It wasn't a compliment.

Bailey pondered it; if Wolfe disliked her morality that much, it spoke well for her. "As long as Sam agrees . . . very well. We'll fly back to Atlanta tomorrow to start things."

Operations nodded. "I don't have to tell you that you need to keep the entire existence of this organization, its people, and this building secret."

"I have no recollection of what you're talking about," Bailey assured him.

"Good." Operations pushed a button. "You'll understand if you're not conscious for the return journey to the hotel?"

Bailey grimaced slightly. "Just the part of the trip I was looking most forward to."

A few seconds later, Michael appeared with a Section syringe.

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

"You want me to do what?" Nikita asked quietly, when Michael had returned Bailey to his friends and had just informed her of her impending guest.

"It isn't up for discussion," he replied.

"Why can't she just stay in the hotel?" Nikita pressed. Her voice was low--to keep it from travelling across the room to Sam, but her discomfort was obvious.

"There are too many variables there," he explained. "It would be too easy for this man--or the woman who works with him--to get to her."

Nikita looked back at Sam at the same moment she had chosen to look at Nikita. They gave each other rather tense smiles and turned back to their original conversations. "Michael, my apartment isn't something you'd bring a guest into at the moment. It's still half-covered in plaster." She interpreted his blank stare as confusion and shrugged slightly. "I've been redecorating."

"She's not asking you to be the perfect host. You just need to protect her for one night."

Nikita looked back at Sam, unsure.

"Is there a problem with her?" he asked.

She looked back at him. "No." She shrugged. "I mean, we're not spitting on each other or anything," she said, looking back at Sam. "I just don't know her."

"`Kita," Michael said softly. She turned back to him. "You'll manage." The look in his eyes was a reassuring one, but he had also just ended the discussion.

Sam, across the room, had been having a similar conversation with Bailey. "It's the best we can do for tonight, Sam," he assured her. "Is there any particular reason it shouldn't happen?"

Sam refocused on Bailey, her attention drawn back from her study of Nikita. "No, not particularly. . . . It's just . . ." She looked at Nikita again and then back at her friend. "Bailey, I don't get all this."

"Sam," he focused deeply on her, "for your sake, for mine, for Chloe's . . . for all of your friends' and coworkers' . . . don't try to. There are some things you're safer not knowing." She seemed about to object. "You know I wouldn't tell you that if it weren't true."

Sam sighed and nodded quickly.

John seemed about to object, as well. Bailey focused on him. "What I told her goes double for you. Don't go information commando on me. Leave it *alone*." He looked deeply at him.

John gave a disgusted look, which was the closest to agreement Bailey was going to get. He looked back at Sam. "I'll find a way to come by later and check up."

She nodded, slightly mollified. "Okay."

Just before the team split up, Jurgen whispered to Nikita, "Are you okay with this?"

"I guess I've got to be," she replied.

"Do you want me to come by later and see if everything's okay?" he offered.

She smiled at him. "I'd appreciate that."

Close behind them, Michael's voice--sounding slightly rough--caught her off guard "Let's go." His face was immobile. Only his eyes showed a flickering of the pain the overheard conversation had given him.

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

An hour or so later, Samantha woke up on a blanket on the floor of Nikita's apartment. She looked startled. Nikita put a hand on her shoulder and rubbed it gently. "It's okay. Everything's alright." Her voice was soft.

Reality started to fall back into place for Sam. She had a hand on her head. "Where am I?"

"My apartment," Nikita informed her. "Here," she removed her hand from Sam's shoulder to hand her a cup, "have some tea. It'll help get rid of the headache."

Sam took the drink, tried it, and made a slight face.

"Want some sugar?" Nikita offered.

"Mm, please," Sam replied, handing her the cup.

Nikita added it from some packets she had nearby and returned the cup to her. "I didn't know how you'd like it." She watched her drink. "I'm sorry about our having to knock you out; it's just . . ."

"I'm not allowed to know where you live," Sam finished.

"No . . . Sorry." She half-smiled.

Sam saw the honesty in Nikita's eyes and nodded. "It's not a very amusing way to live." She knew the feeling.

Nikita's eyes showed a great deal of pain before she rose and walked toward her kitchen. "Would you like some more?"

"Um, yes . . . it's very good," Sam replied.

Nikita returned with the pot to find her evaluating the room. She sat on the floor a few feet from her. "I'm redecorating," she explained of the chaotic state of the place. She had finally won her battle with her wall and had cleaned up somewhat, but there was still a layer of plaster dust over things, lying over several remaining plastic cloths.

"So I see." Sam continued to take in the room.

Nikita watched her. "So, how do I profile?"

Sam was pulled out of her thoughts. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking."

"I'm sure," Nikita smiled. "Not to be rude, but if you're going to be making a judgment of my character, I'd like to know what it is."

Sam looked at her for a minute and then nodded. "Fair enough." She stood up slowly and looked around her. "I'd say you're in transition now."

Nikita smiled again. "Easy guess."

Sam smiled down at her and continued. "That used to be a wall?" she pointed toward the bedroom. Nikita nodded. "Seems symbolic. You're trying to tear down the walls in your life--get your private space, and life, more in harmony with your public one." She started to walk around. "You've got a plan for what you're doing, but I'm not sure it's really a conscious one; you seem to be more just moving toward what feels comfortable." She moved closer to what was once a wall and looked down at some of the scrap plaster on the floor; she knelt down to touch it.

The flashes came Nikita--naked--shooting an armed intruder; Nikita, half-insane, shooting at nothing; Nikita with a gun pointed toward her head--ready to pull the trigger, followed by an image of her being held close, tenderly, by the man Sam had only recently learned was called Michael; the apartment deserted, being stripped of its personal belongings, being left derelict.

Sam shook her head slightly and stood up. She didn't understand all of the images, but the emotions behind them were obvious. "There's a lot of pain here . . . probably more pain than pleasure." She turned back toward Nikita, although she was still looking at the apartment. "You're trying to change that, trying to change some old patterns." She looked at Nikita. "It's almost as though you didn't choose to live in this place, in this life, at all--as though it was chosen for you, and you're just making the best of it you can."

Nikita was, unsuccessfully, trying to keep the shock out of her eyes. Madeline had been right; Sam did see more than she could. She had had no idea that she was giving away so much of herself in her living quarters; it frightened her a little. "Interesting guess," she murmured, not hiding her surprise very well.

Both of them jumped at the knock on the door. Nikita got up and pointed at Sam to tell her to stay where she was. Then, she grabbed her gun, walked cautiously to the door, and looked through the peephole. Her body relaxed slightly, and she opened the door.

Bailey entered, followed closely by Michael. Nikita gave Michael a questioning look, as Bailey went over to Sam. "How are you doing?" he asked her.

"Okay," she replied. "The drugs are starting to wear off. . . . How did you manage to walk in here without being blindfolded or something?" She looked back over at Michael.

Bailey almost spoke, then paused. "It's a long story." He looked back at Nikita and Michael. "Could you give us a minute? . . . I'll look after her."

Nikita looked to Michael, who evaluated them, then nodded slightly. He went back to the door and opened it for Nikita, following close behind.

"So, how's it really going?" Bailey asked, once the door had closed behind the operatives.

"It's alright," she reconfirmed. "I'm not going to say it's like visiting old friends, but--given what my reunions have been like lately--I'm probably better off."

He smiled slightly. "No murders yet."

"Fortunately, no," she smiled back.

"Do you think you're going to be comfortable enough here for the night?" he pressed, concerned.

"I think so." She was looking at the door. "Bailey, about these people . . ." She looked back at him.

"Sam," he said warningly.

"I just don't get the feeling that this is a choice they've made," she finished.

"Sam, whether they've trained for this their entire lives or are specially-bred clones from Mars, it doesn't matter," he reemphasized. "Leave it alone. . . . Please."

Sam looked at him and sighed. She was coming to like Nikita somewhat, and she was sure there was more going on. She trusted Bailey, though; if he said to leave it alone, he had a good reason.

Out in the hallway, Nikita cornered Michael. "You just showed him where I lived?"

"Operations' orders," he replied. She continued staring at him, and he relented slightly. "He's not a threat," he assured her, more gently. "There's too much riding on his keeping quiet. He's not going to risk her safety."

Nikita got the point of just who Sam was being kept safe from and was made no happier by it. She hated these games.

Michael picked up on her frustration and was about to say something, when Bailey opened the door. "I'm guessing you're my ride back to the hotel," he ventured.

Michael half-smiled.

Bailey looked at Nikita. "Take care of her."

She nodded. Michael gave her a final look and then left with Bailey.

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

About an hour later, Nikita had started to make supper, letting Sam help in the small jobs. They had tried various topics of conversation and had given up on all of them, for one reason or another.

Nikita was stirring a pot of sauce, while Sam was tearing up lettuce leaves for a salad. "Can I ask you a question?" Nikita started.

"Um . . . alright," Sam replied, a bit worried by her tone.

"How long has this guy been stalking you?"

"About six years," Sam had turned to look for tomatoes in the refrigerator, avoiding eye contact.

"And you've never seen him in that time?"

Sam paused. "He's gotten close several times, but he's always been in disguise." She sighed and began chopping tomatoes. "I did shoot him recently."

"And he survived?" Nikita looked at her.

"I don't know, actually. We haven't heard anything from him in a while, but . . .," she trailed off.

"But?" Nikita prompted.

"I don't think he'll die that easily," Sam looked up briefly and gave her a wan smile before going back to chopping.

"No one else has seen him?" Nikita asked.

"That lived?" Sam looked up. "No. . . . Except for a couple of children," she looked at her work again, "and he was still in disguise. . . . Why?"

"I don't know. It just seems like . . ."

"Like we should have caught him by now?" Sam supplied, looking at her.

"Yeah," Nikita returned the look. "Look, I don't mean you aren't doing your job or anything. . ."

"I know," Sam translated. "You're just feeling our frustration at being unable to stop him."

Nikita nodded.

The two women looked at each other. Sam saw Nikita's feelings; the other woman was trying to connect with her--to understand. She was also, though, part of some group Sam suspected wasn't bound by any of the same legal or moral codes as the VCTF. She had probably never pursued someone unsuccessfully, much less been hounded by them.

Nikita wished she could help this woman. She liked her; she didn't deserve the life she had gotten.

Another knock on Nikita's door broke the women's reverie. Nikita pointed beside the refrigerator; Sam stepped into the area, and Nikita approached the door cautiously--gun in hand, only to open it a second later. "It's okay," she called.

Sam looked out to see the other man Nikita had been with at the crime scene. He looked far more casual, though, and his controlled look was gone. He smiled at her.

"How's it going?" he asked Nikita.

"Fine," she smiled. She looked back at Sam. "Have you two really met?"

"No," Sam shook her head.

"Jurgen," he walked over and extended a hand to her, which she shook. He then sniffed at the air and walked back closer to Nikita. "Smells good."

Nikita looked back at Sam; she shrugged, so Nikita turned back to Jurgen. "You can join us, if she approves."

Jurgen looked at her. Sam smiled and threw him a loaf of French bread. "Only if you help. How are you at garlic bread?"

"Magnificent," he smiled.

A few hours later, after what was a surprisingly convivial dinner for three people who barely knew each other in an apartment without a table, Jurgen was about to leave. Right before he did, though, he reminded Nikita, "I need your link back. Walter wants it."

Nikita nodded and went to dig in the pocket of her coat. She pulled out the link and gave it to him, accidentally dislodging a few other items in the process.

He said his goodbyes to Sam and gave Nikita a lingering look before leaving.

Sam looked at her, after he left. "Interesting social life you've got here."

Nikita looked back at her. "What do you mean?"

"I'm not trying to be nosy," she replied. "It's just that you and Jurgen seem to have a relationship going, but you also seem to have a connection to Michael."

"They're just colleagues," Nikita shrugged.

Sam let the topic drop, but--remembering the mental flash she had gotten of Michael holding his "colleague"--she really doubted it.

When Nikita wandered to the bathroom a few minutes later, Sam noticed the items which had dropped from her new friend's coat pocket. She went over to put them back in.

When she picked up a small book of matches, however, she got a flash of the hotel room--this evening's crime scene. When Nikita walked back in the room, Sam was still looking at it. "Where did you get this?"

Nikita came over to have a look. "Get what?" Her face almost gave her away, when she saw it, but she covered quickly and shrugged. "I just picked it up at some bar I was at. Why?" She looked confused.

"This wasn't from the scene today?" Sam pressed.

Nikita brazened it out. "No."

Sam smiled, memorized the name on the matchbook, and slipped it back in Nikita's pocket. "I must have been confused."

Nikita smiled back at her.

Sam liked this woman, but it had grown more and more obvious throughout the day that her life was not her own. Given how small the wires she and her colleague had worn were, there could be any number of such devices in the apartment. Sam looked around. She wondered if Nikita even knew if they were there.

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

The next day, when Sam and her colleagues had returned to Atlanta and were meeting in the VCTF conference room, she told them about her find. "I don't think they're telling us everything."

"That's not surprising," Bailey affirmed. "George, can you run the name Sam found on the . . ."

"I'm halfway there," their resident computer guru answered.

"Have you been able to make out anything else about the case?" Bailey asked Sam.

"I don't know," she replied. "The cuts--the circles on his body aren't of a consistent size or depth." She leaned her head to one side briefly, as she spoke. "They aren't really even the same shapes, other than being fairly circular . . ., and there's no evident pattern among them."

"Yeah, I tried running the size and locations of the wounds reported to us in the autopsy, and I couldn't find a pattern, either," George agreed, still looking at his computer. "Of course, we could trust it more if we had actually done the autopsy ourselves."

"I don't like it anymore than you do, George," Bailey told him, "but we're stuck with the situation."

"Anyway, Grace will be on maternity leave for another few weeks," John threw in, "so maybe there's some small upside."

"We do have other medical examiners on the payroll," Bailey pointed out.

"Yes, but . . . they're not Grace," Sam smiled.

"True," Bailey smiled slightly. "We can't change the situation, for now, though, so we'll have to do what we can with our present information."

"Got it!" George called out. "The Executive Suite is a bar." He punched up some images on their vidscreen. "It looks like they got busted by the cops a few months ago for prostitution, but--now here's something interesting--a day later, the chief of police issued a public apology, and all charges were dropped. The records of everyone implicated have been sealed."

"Sounds like some pretty powerful influence being exerted there," John deduced.

"Can you break through the seals?" Bailey asked.

"You mean, can the names just appear to me without my doing anything illegal?" George responded, typing furiously, staring intently at his screen.

"I didn't hear that." Bailey looked away.

"It's kind of a convenient clue, don't you think?" Sam offered.

"You think Nikita planted it for you to find?" Bailey suggested.

"No, I'm pretty certain it was at the scene," she was looking at the vidscreen. "I mean," she looked back toward them, "do you think the killer could have planted it?"

"To throw us off track?" Bailey questioned.

Sam shook her head and looked back at the screen. "I don't know."

"Who-o-a-a-a," George let out. "Get a load of this." He punched up some names and faces onto the screen. "The list of men at the club at the time of the bust reads like *Who's Who* . . . and the women," he punched up more pictures, "most of them have serious pedigrees, prep school educations . . . a few minor Ivy League degrees. . . . These aren't your regular streetwalkers."

"So much for `daddy's little girl,'" John opined.

"That's it," Sam said. She looked back at them. "This is what the killer was trying to direct us toward."

"She's leaving clues to guide us to her?" John asked.

"No," Sam disagreed, "she's trying to point something out."

"Bailey," George got his attention, "Steiner was on the list at that bust, and . . . this is odd--two other men at that bust have also died within the last two weeks."

"How old were they?" Bailey responded.

"Young--forties, early fifties," George replied. He looked up at Bailey. "That's sort of a high percentage for a few weeks for the two hundred or so people who were at that club, isn't it?"

"Is the cause of death listed?" Sam asked.

"`Natural causes,'" George read, "but no details . . . no autopsies listed."

"Someone's in cover-up mode," Bailey stated. "We're going to that club. . . . We'll meet at the chopper in 20 minutes. . . . Then, I know someone I'm going to have a long talk with." He looked around the table. The meeting was over.

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

The Executive Suite seemed less like a bar than an old-fashioned men's club. Only, in this one, elegantly dressed, cultured women were also highly in evidence; Nikita--with some help from Madeline's wardrobe choices--fit right in.

It wasn't what she had expected, somehow. Their intel. suggested that this was more a brothel--or at least a meeting place--than a private club. Nikita had--fortunately--had little experience of such places, but she remembered the strip clubs and streetwalkers from her pre-Section days; this place was *very* different.

She had yet to hear anyone openly solicited. Most of the conversations were about art, history, a smattering of politics--always politely discussed. It was proving difficult to get into any of the conversations, though; all of the couples seemed to have been introduced by a third party.

Nikita repressed a sigh and stood near a wall, surveying the room, trying to form a plan of attack. Another woman came up to stand close to her. "First time here?" she inquired.

Nikita smiled and sized her up subtly before speaking. "Am I so obvious?"

The woman smiled gently back. "I'm afraid so. Otherwise, you would have found a partner by now." She held out her hand. "Natalie."

Nikita shook it politely. "Nicole." She had normalized her name, according to Madeline's instructions.

Natalie retrieved her hand. "Where were you educated?"

Nikita dropped the names of the schools she had been instructed to.

Natalie smiled again and told her her own. "Why didn't you go to school in Australia?" she asked, noting her accent.

Nikita tried not to sigh. A good half of Section had tried to Americanize her accent with no success; they had finally given up. Fortunately, most of their targets found it exotic. "My parents used to say they were only fit for future shepherds."

"Would you like some advice?" Natalie questioned.

"I believe I need it," Nikita responded.

Natalie looked at her rather sadly, very seriously. "Get out while you can."

"Why?" Nikita seemed confused.

Natalie sighed. "Let me guess. A friend of a friend introduced you to a man--rich, well-connected. After the second date, he suggested that he could help with your rent, if you let him spend the night. Your last ski trip, shopping extravagance . . . whatever had left you a bit lacking on your bills. You said `yes.' After a few months, he got bored, but you'd come to rely on that extra income to keep living as you'd like. . . . He suggested you come here."

Nikita looked shocked . . . and a little hurt. "How did you know?"

"How do you think any of us got here?" her new friend answered. She leaned a bit closer to her. "It's not too late for you. You can leave, and you'll only have a few months' stupidity to regret."

"But I've got . . ." Nikita began.

"An overdraft, a new car payment," Natalie nodded, waving her hand to suggest that the list went on. "That's what we all said. . . . It's not the same, though." She focused more deeply on Nikita. "The rules are different in here."

"What do you mean?" Nikita wondered.

"The man you were with--he might have paid the bills, but you still had some power to decide--some control, right?" Natalie pressed.

"I guess," Nikita nodded.

Natalie shook her head and looked out at the men in the room. "This is their world. They make the choices." She looked back at Nikita. "There is no *protection* here."

Nikita looked at her with dawning realization.

"You don't get the `favors' we do for giving them something they could get on the streets for much cheaper," Natalie explained. "The encounters here happen without barriers or shields, or you won't find yourself let in again."

"Why are you telling me all this?" Nikita questioned.

"Because I wish someone had reasoned with me when I first walked in that door." She seemed about to move away. "Trust me; save yourself the future medical bills, and turn around now." She left.

Nikita blinked and turned her head slightly. "Did you get all that?" she whispered, barely moving her lips.

"Yes," Michael responded over her link.

"Was that what we wanted?" she asked, unsure.

"Possibly," he answered. "Stay a while and see what else you can find."

Nikita looked around. She didn't really know where to begin, until she saw a lone man sitting at the bar. He was younger than most of the crowd. Nikita went over and stood behind him before sliding into a nearby chair. "Come here often?"

John Grant looked up, slightly startled, then gave a small smile. "You're the first woman who's talked to me all night."

"I'm not surprised," Nikita returned. "You look more the junior executive type."

John looked slightly annoyed.

"How long have they been there?" Michael asked over the link.

"How long has the VCTF been here?" she relayed to John.

"About two hours," he replied. "So far, Bailey's had all the luck."

Nikita followed his gaze over to where the older man stood, seemingly engrossed in a conversation with three women. She smiled slightly.

"Bring them in, Nikita," she heard Michael say in her ear.

Nikita tried to mask the slight fear in her eyes and turned her head away from John. "In?" she asked softly.

"To the van," Michael clarified. "Operations wants to talk to them."

Nikita sighed and then quietly rounded up Bailey and John as instructed, bringing along Sam, as well, who had been monitoring them from a back room.

A few minutes later, Nikita, Michael, Jurgen, Birkoff, and the VCTF members were videoconferencing with Operations and Madeline. "How did you find out about the bar?" Ops. asked accusingly.

"That's hardly the point," Bailey countered. "Why did you hide it from us?"

"We're better equipped to handle this sort of thing," Operations argued.

"How often do you do undercover work?"

"There was no other way to handle this," Bailey stated.

Operations looked at Bailey closely. "How did you find out about this case to begin with?"

Bailey shook his head. "A friend of an acquaintance of a friend knew Steiner." He looked a little tired. "It really doesn't matter. We're here now."

"None of this answers the original question," Madeline broke in. "How did you find out about the club?"

"With no help from you," Bailey answered bluntly, trying to bring an end to the line of questioning.

Sam sighed. They obviously weren't going to be able to go on if they didn't answer this. "The matchbook was in Nikita's pocket."

Nikita knew how tenuous her position in Section still was; she couldn't afford to be seen as a security risk. She faked surprise, hoping Sam would understand and follow along. "How did you find it? When?"

The question confused Sam for a second before she realized that this organization was probably as dangerous to its own members as it could be to outsiders. "I looked through them, when you left the room at one point." She shrugged. "I wanted to see if you had any i.d. I was still trying to figure out who you really were. . . . You didn't have any, though."

John knew this wasn't the story he had heard earlier and almost spoke up.

Bailey silenced him with a look, which--fortunately--both Operations and Madeline missed. Michael caught it, however, and silently registered the fact that Nikita had already developed enough trust among the VCTF to have them protect her. . . . It only made him realize again, briefly, what an extraordinary woman she was. His eyes traced the contours of her face lovingly for a second before he looked back with concealed trepidation at his bosses, waiting to see their reaction.

Madeline wasn't sure she believed the explanation, but she let it go. If it weren't true, then Nikita's connection with these people could only help their investigation . . . and the honing of the young operative's skills. She brought the questioning back to the club. "Do you think the killer was in there?"

"I doubt it," Sam answered. "Where did you find the matchbook?" she asked Nikita.

"By the bed."

Sam nodded. "I think the killer planted it. . . . She wanted us to find this club."

"You don't think she wants to be caught?" Madeline inquired.

"No," Sam shook her head. "I think she wants *them* to be. . . . There was a police raid of that club a few months ago; my guess is, she was the one who informed on them."

Madeline nodded. "That seems to fit the pathology."

"Before we help establish any more links, I'm redefining the ground rules," Bailey cut in. "Either we get the full cooperation you promised, or we take back this case entirely."

"You know that's not going to happen," Ops. asserted.

"It will if you expect us to help any further," Bailey insisted.

Maddy and Ops. looked at each other. Sam was good, and her help could mean the success of the mission. A silent agreement reached, they looked at the group again. "We'll forward the full autopsy to you tomorrow."

"No," Bailey disagreed, "you'll forward all *three* autopsies to us--in full. You'll tell us if there is any further activity. And, you will give us any other relevant details *tonight*."

"How did you know about the other two?" Operations asked.

"The law of averages," Bailey replied. "We checked the records of the men at the bust," he added when he saw they weren't going to let it go. "Now, unless you want to waste more time playing twenty questions, you'll get that information to us and let us work."

Ops. and Maddy looked at each other again and then back at the group. "Not alone," Operations insisted. "You'll take Michael, Jurgen, Nikita, and Birkoff with you to help."

Bailey exchanged a look with Sam and then returned his attention to them. "Done. But, if we don't receive the information by later tonight, I'm personally going to run them out of Atlanta."

Operations smiled unpleasantly, and their agreement was sealed.

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

Once in Atlanta, the group had agreed to let George and Birkoff start sifting through their information, deciding to meet again the next morning--or whenever a new lead opened up. Jurgen and Michael found rooms in a hotel near the VCTF building. Sam, however, after debating the question all the way back in the helicopter, had decided to invite Nikita to stay with her. She liked the woman; also, she thought that--given what she had seen of the unnamed organization Nikita worked for, she could use a night spent with people who could at least vaguely pass as normal.

Nikita wanted to accept the invitation. She wasn't free to just take off with Sam, though; she needed Michael's approval--as mission leader. She felt a bit like a kid pleading with her father to let her have a sleepover with her friend; it was a rather ridiculous scenario.

Michael was unsure. He wanted Nikita close by--not because he had any fear she would run away but simply because it calmed him somehow knowing exactly where she was at all times. Also, he wasn't certain what Section would think of the arrangement.

In the end, however, he agreed. He told himself that his decision was motivated by logic--that Nikita might be able to learn more from Sam this way. Really, though, it had more to do with his fear of having Nikita and Jurgen sleeping in the same hotel. Even that was too close for his tastes.

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

Sam led her guest into the firehouse. Nikita was entirely unsure what to think. There was a large metal sculpture--rather formless--where the firetrucks would have once been; it looked like it was only inside by default. "You sculpt?"

"Uh, no, actually, that belongs to my housemate, Angel. She's the artist," Sam clarified.

Nikita had already noticed the guards outside; she now took in the surveillance cameras, which seemed to be off. "Is all this because of Jack?"

Sam nodded, as she used her palm print to call the elevator. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention that once we get upstairs, though."

Nikita seemed a bit confused but nodded.

When the elevator reached the second floor, a sleepy little voice reached their ears "Mom?"

"What on earth are you doing up?" Sam asked, as she went over to hug her young daughter.

"I fell asleep on the couch waiting for you. . . . It isn't a school night," the child argued gently, when she saw her mother's tender but disapproving look. "Who's this?"

"Oh," Sam turned toward her guest. "This is Nikita. She'll be staying with us tonight. Nikita, this is Chloe--my daughter."

"You have a pretty name," Chloe observed.

"So do you," Nikita smiled.

"You made it back finally," another voice joined them. She saw Nikita. "Uh, hi. I'm Angel."

"Nikita," she replied, as she turned to see the attractive woman approaching them.

"We have a houseguest for the night, if you don't mind," Sam looked up at her old friend.

"Nope, not at all," Angel shrugged, "but I'm afraid you're stuck with the couch."

"That's not a problem," Nikita confirmed.

Just then, a large german shepherd came around the corner of the room, let out a "woof" at Sam, and then went to sniff at the new arrival. Finding her acceptable, he propped his paws on her hip and presented his head to be scratched.

"That's Denzel," Angel informed her. "You might have to fight him for possession of the couch." She came over to pull the dog down off their guest. "Off!" she started to say.

Nikita stopped her gently and scratched the dog's head. "It's alright, really. I like animals. . . . I can't have them at my apartment," she said rather sadly.

"I'm glad . . . that you don't mind." Angel looked at her pet. "Denzel, you have no sense of propriety."

Meanwhile, Chloe had whispered something to Sam, who had asked her softly, "Are you sure?" Chloe had nodded. Sam smiled back at her.

Chloe looked up at their guest. "Nikita," she got her attention. "If you want, I'll sleep in my mom's bed with her, and you can have my bed."

"It might be a bit short for you, but it probably is more comfortable than the couch," Sam threw in.

"I don't want to force you out of your room," Nikita said.

"I don't mind," Chloe insisted.

Nikita looked at her and realized that, politeness aside, Chloe was looking for an excuse to sleep close to her mother. The scene tugged at Nikita's heart a bit. Her own mother had never allowed her that close. From the day she was born, if not before, Nikita had been treated as an annoyance--a stupid mistake, which her mother would be only too happy to be rid of. No wonder she didn't come to her Section-staged funeral.

Nikita forced away the thoughts till later. Sam was a caring person and--given her child's reaction to her--obviously a much-beloved mother. Nikita couldn't deny Chloe the chance to feel the sort of love which had always been denied to herself. "Alright. Thank you."

About a half hour later, when everyone had been squared away for the night, Nikita lay in Chloe's bed diagonally to keep from hanging off it too much. She shook her head. Sam's life was full of pain and fear, like her own, yet it seemed idyllic, somehow, compared to Section.

Sam had real love in her life--love she could trust, as far as Nikita could tell. Her child adored her; Bailey protected her like she was a precious gift. Nikita had none of this; Section allowed her no opportunity for children, and she was never able to trust any professed loyalty or protection shown to her. There was always some manipulation at work.

Both she and Sam, as well, were watched and monitored, both manipulated, both had had everything of meaning stolen from them. Sam's tormenter, though, was not, could not be called a friend by anyone's judgment but his own, and she did have people who truly loved her to offset the pain. For Nikita, though, all of the pain inflicted upon her was caused by the people who were the closest she had to friends.

While Jack had been a terrifying and painful part of Sam's life for many years, furthermore, she had some hope of an eventual end to her suffering--of being able to find and stop him. Nikita, however, had no similar hope. Section wasn't one person and his assistant, as efficient as they were; it was an omnipresent world threat. There was no foreseeable hope of ending such a far-ranging, multifarious organization.

Nikita and Sam's lives, however, were most alike in their lack of romantic bonds. All of Sam's had been murdered, leaving her afraid for the safety of anyone she might be tempted to get close to. Nikita's hadn't been physically killed, but the threat of death hung over them, and their viability as partners had been destroyed. Gray had been threatened with cancellation if she continued to be with him. Michael, too, claimed that it was his fear of Section's reprisals which kept him from being closer to her. Jurgen was the only one who didn't belong in this category, but she couldn't trust her instincts with him because of Michael's--possibly false--revelations about her retrainer's past.

Nikita sighed, still thinking; Section was much like a serial killer, really, she decided. Both used skewed logic as justification for their crimes. Both could kill vast numbers of people without qualm. . . . Both had their own pathologies.

There was one part of Sam's life Nikita envied, though her child. There had been times, as stupid as she felt when they occurred, that she had wondered what it would be like to have a child with Michael, to be able to be a normal family--away from Section. Then, however, reality would reassert itself; she *was* in Section, and Michael was Michael. She would never want a child of hers to see that blank, forbidding face; she didn't want to pass on her pains to another generation.

In truth, the reason she was most enjoying staying with Sam--along with the offer of real if, no doubt, temporary friendship and the vicarious experiences of motherhood and pet ownership--was the fact that it kept Michael at a distance. Even being in the same hotel with him was too close; it brought back too many memories.

Nikita sighed again. She had the feeling it wasn't just the short bed which would keep her awake tonight.

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

Nikita's half hour of sleep was interrupted early the next morning by a small hand shaking her arm. "Nikita?"

Fortunately, her surroundings came back to her before her defensive instincts kicked in. She opened her eyes. "Hi, Chloe."

"Mom got a phone call a few minutes ago saying you had to go to work. D'you want some breakfast?" the girl asked.

Nikita smiled at her. "Okay. I'll be in in a minute."

"Did you tell her?" Sam was still in her bathrobe, when her daughter came into the kitchen.

"Uh huh. She's coming," she replied, pulling herself onto a chair.

"Okay," Sam smiled, as she prepared the child's meal. "Go get dressed. Grace is coming by a little later to introduce you to her new baby."

"Okay," Chloe agreed, hopping back down off the chair and walking toward her room just as Nikita emerged.

"Good morning," Sam smiled.

"Morning," Nikita replied. "Chloe said we got a call. Have they found anything?"

"Well, they cross-referenced the autopsies." Sam was half-engrossed in frying. "I think it's more of a let's-try-to-put-this-case-together meeting," she smiled up at her. "Want some eggs?"

"No thanks," Nikita said, in a tone which suggested she just didn't want to overwork her new friend.

"It's no trouble," Sam assured her.

Nikita thought. "Why don't you let me finish? You go get dressed."

Sam smiled and nodded. "Alright. I think I've finished mine and Chloe's, but--if you wouldn't mind--Angel usually likes hers scrambled, with a little cheese in them." She paused, not wanting to put her guest out. "Why don't you just let me do it?"

Nikita gently pulled the pan from her hands. "Go. I can handle a few eggs."

Sam smiled and left to change.

Left alone in Sam's kitchen, Nikita looked around, as she cooked. The place was a fortress, but it was bright--homey. There was love in it. She shook her head. How Sam managed to have even a vaguely normal life in her situation was beyond her. "I guess she's allowed to *have* friends," Nikita murmured to herself.

"What?" Angel asked, coming into the room.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing," Nikita smiled. "I'm just talking to myself. . . . Eggs?"

One--very friendly, if rushed--breakfast later, Nikita and Sam were just arriving at the first floor of the firehouse in the elevator, getting ready to meet Michael, who had come by to get them--his obsessive need to keep an eye on Nikita having surfaced again. Sam hadn't been pleased when Bailey told her of the arrangement. He had promised, though, that the blank-faced stranger wasn't asking to be let into her house, and she had realized there was no avoiding it.

As they came off the elevator, one of the FBI watchers was just letting in Grace. Michael stood--like a slightly malevolent statue--near a wall of the garage. Grace spotted Sam and came up to kiss her cheek.

"How's our little boy doing today?" Sam asked, looking down at the baby in Grace's arms.

"Fussy," Grace responded. "I don't think he likes travelling much yet, which is too bad, because he's doing enough of it."

Nikita smiled at the child, now finally sleeping; her heart melted. Grace looked at her.

"Oh, Grace, this is Nikita; Nikita--Grace," Sam supplied. "We're working on a case together."

"Are you with the FBI?" Grace asked.

Nikita's eyes were torn from the baby's face to its mother. "Um, no."

"She's an outside specialist," Sam stepped in.

Nikita continued to watch the child.

"Would you like to hold him?" Grace asked, noting her look and deciding, since Sam seemed to trust this woman, she could too.

"Yes, please," Nikita replied. Grace handed the baby over gently.

Nikita cradled the child, stroking back the blanket from his face. He was so tiny--so beautiful. She had always wanted this. Of course, she didn't think it was something she was ready for now, and it was an impossibility, anyway, in Section. For a few minutes, though, she could live vicariously.

Michael had seen all this and now stood watching Nikita, a hundred-yard stare on his face. This was almost a calculated torment, although he was certain Nikita didn't mean it as one. Every wish and desire about the woman--and the life he wanted with her--were rising in him--choking him. His eyes were getting red. To be able to have a normal, dull existence with her, to raise children with her which bore her image--the thoughts were overpowering him. He felt like he was being physically attacked by emotion, and he wasn't sure he could stand the onslaught. He closed his eyes tightly and turned his back on the scene. "`Kita," he demanded hoarsely.

Nikita sighed and reluctantly returned the baby to Grace. "Thank you." She walked away to join Michael.

Grace looked back at the dark figure and then back at Sam. "You wanna explain that?"

"Not really," Sam replied and led Grace over to the elevator to let her upstairs.

Michael had pulled himself together somewhat by the time Nikita reached him, but his eyes were still a bit misty. He looked at her.

Nikita misunderstood Michael's reaction. Her mind, instead, went back to his son--the son Section had killed. She put her hand on his arm, sympathizing.

Michael couldn't take the contact. He looked at the ground. "We need to go." Then, he pulled away.

Nikita sighed, taking his distance as another example of his inability to let her close to him, to open up--especially about his past. She wondered, too--misinterpreting Michael's feelings--if she would always be second best to Simone. It wasn't that she wanted to replace Michael's late wife in his heart; she just wanted to be allowed into it. She had no real way of knowing that she had taken over the majority of it some time ago. She sighed again--feeling a bit helpless and isolated--and then walked with Sam to the car.

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

George and Birkoff waited impatiently for the others to arrive. They had, admittedly, been extremely wary of each other when they first met, both convinced that the other wouldn't know a mouse from a hard drive. An hour later, though, Birkoff had realized--grudgingly--that George wasn't as linear as he looked, and George had admitted--to himself--that Birkoff wasn't some pathetic high schooler. By two hours after they met, Birkoff had seen a fair amount of proof that the VCTF's computer specialist could not only make connections which weren't there; he was a master of it. George, likewise, had had to admit that Birkoff could jump firewalls with the best of them. By the time the others came, they were like old friends who had been locked in a pleasant rivalry for years. They would rather have tried telling Madeline bald-faced lies than admit it, though.

"So, what have we got?" Bailey asked, as he entered the VCTF's conference room behind the others.

"Not much," George admitted, as his colleagues took their seats. "We ran the autopsies. All three were drugged, stabbed in the heart, and then mutilated."

"Any similarity in the pattern of cuts?" Nikita asked.

"None," Birkoff flashed some pictures on the screen. "The wounds range in size from a half inch to two inches round and seem to be randomly placed over the bodies. There was no discernible pattern on the individual bodies or in the comparison."

"This is interesting, though," George threw in. "The, um . . . other wound you found on Steiner . . . brace yourselves for this picture, guys," he put up the photo of Steiner's mangled genitalia, "wasn't found on the other two."

"There's a picture I was hoping not to see again," John pointed out. "Thank you, George."

No one else seemed particularly happy with the view either, although Michael was continuing to look at it as a test of will--and to avoid showing any weakness.

"Want me to change it?" George asked.

"Please," Sam replied, knowing she was the main one it was being shown for. She looked back at George, as he did so. "Were there any other differences in the wounds?"

"Other than the pattern--no," Birkoff replied.

"No prints in any of the cases, I'm guessing," Bailey threw in.

"No," Birkoff and George agreed.

"We did run the knife you found in his heart, though," George continued. "You were right, Sam; it is a letter opener. We traced the manufacturer and found that it was one of last year's popular medical gift items."

"You suspect someone with medical training?" Michael asked.

"Well, those cuts were made by a scalpel, the best we can tell," Birkoff supplied.

Sam looked at the side-by-side pictures of the three bodies on the screen and shook her head. "There's no precision here. Surgeons learn--have to learn--to be very precise." She looked at Michael briefly. "This is someone who's working from anger." She focused more closely on the pictures. "George, can you close in on the knives in their hearts?" The images changed and Sam looked back at George. "How deep were each of the fatal wounds--comparatively?"

Birkoff answered. "They got deeper each time."

"And the circular cuts?" she pressed.

"Those too," George supplied.

She looked back at the screen. "She's getting angrier. Her rage is building. . . . I think that's what accounts for the new attack on Steiner. . . . She's getting more vicious."

John stared back at George. "She's not speeding up her attacks any, though?"

George shook his head. "Nope. They've been every three days, so far."

"Which means she'll be striking again tonight," Bailey pointed out. He avoided stating the obvious "We need to move on this."

Nikita, meanwhile, while listening, had been looking at the printed copy of one of the autopsies--partly looking for clues, partly trying to avoid staring at the screen's morbid images any longer. She leaned over to Sam, who she was sitting next to, pointing at the document. "Does this mean what I think it does?"

Sam looked at it and then locked eyes with her.

Nikita looked back at George and Birkoff. "Where are those letter openers sold?"

"Mostly specialty catalogs . . . a few hospital gift shops," George looked at his screen.

"Run the hospitals," Sam and Nikita said together.

"Sam, what is it?" Bailey inquired.

"Andrews--victim number two--was H.I.V. positive," Sam informed him.

"Michael, you remember when you were monitoring me--when I was in the bar?" Nikita asked. "The girl who talked to me . . ."

"No protection," he nodded, eyes locked with hers.

"Care to fill us in?" Bailey asked.

Nikita looked at him. "The club--that whole scene there--those men aren't just getting well-educated mistresses; they're getting the guarantee of sex without condoms."

"And if Andrews was H.I.V. positive . . .," Bailey nodded.

"So are some of those women," Sam concluded. "George, go back to the full-body photos." The images changed again.

"There are 208 hospitals which carried the knives," Birkoff found.

"Sam." Nikita was looking at the screen. "The marks--the cuts . . . Can you cross-check those hospitals' AIDS patients in the last few years?" she asked their computer specialists, who looked like Christmas had just arrived.

"She's trying to recreate the marks some AIDS patients get in the later stages," Sam said. "That's why the pattern isn't consistent." She looked more closely at the knives in the pictures. "Does the stone on the letter opener come in any other colors?"

"Um, I think so," George replied, reluctantly leaving Birkoff to continue their search. "Mm-hmm, blue and green."

Nikita picked up Sam's train of thought. "And all of the stones on the openers used were red."

"Yeah," George looked up at her.

Nikita and Sam exchanged a look. "Birkoff, limit the search to AIDS victims suffering from blood-related diseases," Nikita ordered.

Birkoff looked up, a little confused.

"AIDS victims don't die of AIDS," Sam explained. "They die of the diseases their bodies can't fight because of AIDS."

"Right." Birkoff looked like things had just clicked back in for him. It wasn't a subject he really kept up with. He went back to searching.

"You think this woman is taking her revenge out on the men who infected her?" Jurgen asked.

"Maybe," Sam shook her head. "I mean, it fits the details--like the letter opener."

Nikita nodded, completing her thought. "That's why she didn't need them alive to make the cuts. She wasn't torturing them; these men were her message."

"It explains how she was able to gain access to the rooms," John agreed. "It doesn't explain the lack of fingerprints, though."

"She wore gloves," Sam told him. When he gave her a look, she shrugged. "Some men are into that."

George let out a sigh. "The news isn't good."

"Even narrowing it down to AIDS patients who have blood-related diseases, the number's pretty high," Birkoff finished.

"Narrow it down," Sam told him. "Women, white, well-born, well-educated, young."

"Single," Nikita threw in, and Sam nodded.

The ex-hackers worked.

Several minutes later, they came up with something. "Okay," George said, "that made it more manageable. We've got ten."

"The only problem is," Birkoff told them, "eight of them are dead, and the other two," recent pictures of them appeared, "don't look like they're going to be on anyone's dream date list."

Nikita looked away slightly. The pictures held more misery than she was able to face at the moment. She had known AIDS victims on the streets, had watched some of them die; it wasn't something she ever wanted to experience again.

Both Michael and Jurgen noticed her reaction and watched her with some concern. Michael, though, turned back to the pictures, when he realized that Bailey and John had picked up on the operatives' attention to their colleague. Jurgen continued watching her, however, not caring what the men thought, and was rewarded by a small smile from her when she looked up at him. She looked back at Birkoff and George. "Can we trace the dead women's bank records--see if, before they got their diagnoses--they were getting large, unexplained deposits?"

"Sure," Birkoff said.

George looked at Bailey. He knew that he had already broken a few rules with his hacking today, but Birkoff didn't even seem to notice. Bailey shook his head to tell him not to ask.

"Okay, two of them fit that description," Birkoff filled them in. "They were both in the right area of the country, too." He looked up. "What now?"

"The bust at the club several months ago," Nikita remembered the Section briefing prior to their mission at the bar. "Can you trace the name `Natalie' in those records?"

Michael nodded.

"Why?" Sam asked.

"The woman I met there who told me about the club--she tried to warn me away." Nikita shrugged. "She might know more."

"There were eight Natalies there that night," George told her.

"Any pictures?" she prodded.

He smiled and put them on screen.

"Number four." Nikita spotted her immediately.

George handed the information to Bailey. "Let's roll," he said, and everyone except George left to find their would-be informant.

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

Nikita and Sam, after a few hours helicopter ride with the rest of the group, found Natalie at her home. Nikita had talked quietly to Michael, who had agreed to let them handle the questioning, provided Nikita keep her link activated, so he could monitor.

Bailey had had to warn John with a look--again--not to ask questions, when he had seen the equipment. It wasn't what John's time in the FBI and the Atlanta police department had prepared him for.

"Nicole, wasn't it?" Natalie asked, when she found them at her door.

"It's Nikita, actually," she replied.

Sam showed Natalie her badge. "We need to ask you a few questions."

"So, you're not one of us?" the woman pressed.

"No," Nikita tried to smile apologetically.

"Good," Natalie affirmed. She looked back at Sam. "Am I in trouble?"

"No," Sam assured her. "We just need some information."

Natalie nodded and let them in. "Will it help shut them down?" she asked, closing the door and leading them into the living room.

"Who?" Sam inquired.

"*Them*," Natalie emphasized, "that whole little boy's club they've got going. . . . We're just the party favors."

Nikita had been evaluating Natalie's house; it made Madeline's prim office look like a hurricane-struck beachhouse. She refocused on the woman. "Were you forced into it?"

"No, I went willingly," Natalie admitted, sitting down, along with her guests. "Look, I was *stupid*, alright? It doesn't mean I deserve . . ." She caught herself and looked away.

"Deserve what?" Sam asked.

Nikita remembered her previous conversation with this woman and looked at her sympathetically. "You have AIDS, don't you?"

The woman nodded. "I tested positive last month. It hasn't gone beyond that yet, but . . ." She trailed off.

Nikita looked saddened and took the woman's hand. Natalie looked up at her and smiled. "We need to ask you a few questions about some other women in your position."

Natalie nodded.

Sam took out two pictures and showed them to her. "Do you know them?"

Natalie looked at them briefly and then turned her head away and nodded. "Emily and Laura."

"What can you tell us about them?" Sam asked quietly.

"What do you want to know?" Natalie looked back at her angrily. "Our private jokes? Their favorite restaurants? The details of Emily's 16th birthday party?"

Sam looked at her sadly.

Natalie rolled her eyes and sighed, controlling herself again. "Emily and I went to school together." She was focusing on the floor. "Our parents introduced us when we were three. . . . We spent our whole lives together." Her voice got smaller. "She was my best friend."

"And Laura?" Sam pressed softly.

"Laura and I met when I started all this," Natalie explained. "We were brought into the group at the same time." She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head. "We thought it was all so funny, then--getting paid to sleep with these powerful men--getting to control them for a night." She looked back at them. "It was the other way around."

"Did they have any families?" Sam questioned.

"Emily had her mother and a brother--two years older than her," Natalie continued, her eyes unfocusing. "He used to call her `brat,'" she smiled slightly, "right up until she was 20." Her expression saddened again. "She was 22, when she died." She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly before refocusing on Nikita and Sam. "Laura had a father--a general, I think--a real bastard from what I could tell. No mother. One sister, too; she *hated* what Laura and I were doing. We used to laugh at her." She paused, looking off again. "I guess she got the last laugh."

Nikita squeezed the woman's hand gently. "What was Laura's sister's name?"

"Meg. . . short for Margaret, I guess," Natalie replied, still lost in thought.

"Do you remember the names of any of the men Laura was with?" Nikita asked.

Natalie refocused on them and nodded. "I haven't seen several of them around for a while, though."

"That's okay," Nikita assured her, "if you could just make us that list."

Natalie rose and did so, meeting them by the door and giving the names to Nikita.

"One last question, and then we'll go," Sam said. "If you know you're H.I.V. positive, why are you continuing to go to the club?"

Natalie exploded. "It serves the little bastards right! They're the ones who gave it to me!"

"I know; I know," Sam consoled her, putting a hand on her arm. She looked at Nikita briefly to tell her she could go and then--after a few more consoling words--gave Natalie the number of a local psychologist friend of hers and urged her to make an appointment.

Back in the Section-provided van, Bailey asked, "What do you make of her?"

"She's grieving; she's angry; . . . she's frightened," Sam replied. "They're all understandable under the circumstances."

"Do you think she did it?" Bailey pressed.

"No," Sam stated.

"Why not?" John asked. "She got pretty enraged near the end there."

"True," Sam agreed, "but her anger is unfocused; it's general--aimed at *any* of the men there. . . . These murders are more specific."

"Besides," Nikita threw in, "she's a neat freak. If she had killed them, the cuts would have been more precise."

Sam nodded. "Definitely."

"So, where does that leave us?" Bailey inquired.

"With the sister," Sam said, as Nikita nodded.

Birkoff was already working. "Margaret Vendwald," he checked.

Nikita looked at the list Natalie had given them and let out a breath. "This has got to be her. Three of the four people on the list are our three victims. The only one left is Oliver Lefcic."

Birkoff looked up. "Got her."

"Then, let's move. If she holds to her schedule, she'll strike again tonight," Bailey concluded. "John and I will check her house." He looked at Nikita for a second, evaluatingly, then--seeming to have decided she was safe --continued. "Sam--you and Nikita go to Lefcic's home. Michael, Jurgen, and Birkoff can monitor and give help where needed."

Michael accepted Bailey's orders without comment, knowing that they allowed him the freedom to be wherever he might be needed in order to fulfill Section's orders.

Nikita, while surprised when Michael didn't argue, nodded and followed her instructions.

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

When Nikita and Sam reached Lefcic's house, they checked the cars in the driveway against Birkoff's information. "That's Margaret's," Nikita nodded. "She's here." She looked at Sam and then at the house. "Michael?"

"Got it," the voice in her ear said.

"They're coming," Nikita told Sam. She took a deep breath. "I'll go in."

"No--*we'll* go in," Sam corrected. Nikita seemed about to object, but Sam interrupted. "FBI . . . gun certification . . . remember? Let's go." She got out of the car, which Section had again provided, to go in.

Nikita sighed and followed, then cut in front of her to take the lead. She went around the side of the house and peered in a window. She turned back to Sam, crouching down. "They're in there," she whispered. "They're having drinks."

"Then she's getting ready to move," Sam asserted.

"Nikita, if you can hear me, give me a pulse," Operations ordered in her ear. She did. "Take out the woman. Make sure Lefcic is unharmed. Give me a pulse if you read me."

Nikita heard him; she just didn't like it. It wasn't that she supported Margaret's killing spree, but she could understand the pain--the rage that drove her. And, from what she had seen of these men, she wasn't sure the world was missing much with their loss. She confirmed, though, before she and Sam went to the back door. Nikita broke them in.

"Hold it," Sam ordered the woman, as they entered the room.

"Nikita, if Waters gets in your way, shoot her," Operations ordered.

Nikita almost stopped breathing. "Please, no," she thought.

Margaret was near Lefcic and grabbed him, putting a scalpel to his throat. "You want him to die?"

"I don't want either of you hurt," Sam reasoned, inadvertantly stepping into her new friend's line of fire. Nikita was frozen.

Margaret laughed slightly. "It's too late for that. This bastard destroyed my life when he took Laura from me."

"He didn't do it, Margaret," Sam told her gently. "It was Andrews. He was the one with AIDS."

Lefcic's eyes widened, which--fortunately for him--Margaret couldn't see.

"We don't need her alive, Nikita," Operations pressed. "End it now."

Nikita was still blocked by Sam, but no order from Operations could make her trigger finger follow those instructions. God, it was Sidney Shays all over again; no matter how long she was forced to do this, she just couldn't shoot innocents.

Sam was still trying to talk to Margaret.

"*Now*, Nikita!" Operations ordered.

Two shots hit Margaret at the same time from behind. She fell forward onto Lefcic, the scalpel still in her hand.

"No," Sam breathed and moved to her.

Nikita looked up from the woman's body to see Michael and Jurgen.

"Is it done?" Operations asked.

"Yes," Michael replied.

Lefcic was in shock. "How did she know?" he kept mumbling.

"Know what?" Sam asked, finally looking away from Margaret's body sadly.

"That I had AIDS," he responded.

Sam looked a little shocked. "And you were going to sleep with her?"

He was suddenly confident again. "I *paid* her."

Nikita closed her eyes and then looked at Michael. He just stared at her sadly. She looked back at Lefcic briefly and decided to leave before she found a use for her gun.

When she reached Jurgen, though, he shook his head, obviously disgusted by the night's events, sympathizing with her. Nikita looked at him gratefully; he put his hand on her shoulder and led her out.

Michael watched them go painfully. "Call Housekeeping," he noted softly to his link and then took it off. He looked up at Lefcic. "They'll come get her soon," he told him with far less revulsion than he felt and then turned to leave.

Sam watched all of this and then caught up with Michael slowly. She had finally seen something in his eyes. It was a much deeper emotion than she had thought he would be capable of. When they were near the front door, she noted, "You care about her, don't you?"

He just looked back at her. His impassive mask was back on, but he looked tired.

Sam evaluated him. She wouldn't call him psychologically healthy; she wasn't even sure he was clinically sane. He would certainly need years and years of intensive and sympathetic therapy to even begin to function normally, and she couldn't imagine he would get it. She had seen, though, the tiny spark of humanity he kept hidden deep within himself, and she felt moved to give him what help she could. "You know what you would need to do to win her?"

He examined her. "What?" he then asked, in spite of himself, wanting her insights.

"Learn to laugh," she told him and then went to join the others outside.

Michael closed his eyes briefly. He was losing Nikita, the one flicker of meaning his existence had. . . . How could he laugh when there was no joy?

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

Bailey arrived with John after everything was over. They had met back at a nearby parking lot to avoid drawing a crowd in front of Lefcic's house. Once Sam had told him the details, he found Michael. "I want to speak to your boss. . . . Now," he demanded softly, when Michael seemed about to object.

Michael evaluated him and then nodded, leading him into the van, leaving everyone except the two of them and Birkoff waiting outside. He called Operations, and they then established a videoconference, while Bailey took off his coat and sat down, his body rigid.

"Yes?" Operations asked.

"You had no right to do that," Bailey insisted.

"To take out a danger to our country and its people? Oh, I disagree," Operations argued.

"I don't give a damn what you think," Bailey stated coldly. "She was ours. She would have been convicted."

"What good would that have done?" Ops. asked. "The trial . . . rumors . . . the press . . . it would've been a circus."

"Democracy is unruly," Bailey agreed, "but too many people die your way."

"So you called me to have a philosophical discussion?" Ops. pondered, smiling slightly.

"No," Bailey countered, leaning toward the screen. "I called to tell you that you're a smug, self-righteous, immoral bastard. We're through. . . . The case is closed. The suspect is dead. . . . You've got no further hold over us. So, let us go back to Atlanta, and leave us the hell alone."

"No hold?" Ops. smiled unpleasantly. "I know that your daughter shooting you was no accident, and neither was your lying in court about it. I know your computer specialist is guilty of more than he plea bargained to--including working for a rather well-known mob figure. I know that both you and your profiler have been arrested for murders which you *claim* Jack caused. . . . Do I need to go on?"

Bailey stood up, gripped the edge of the van's desk and leaned in toward Operations' image, staring angrily at him. "Listen, you son-of-a-bitch . . . If you come *close* to any of my people, their families, their friends, or even their family pets, there will be *nowhere* to hide from me. Come at me, and I'll be damn sure that you'll live to regret it." He picked up his coat and prepared to leave. "By the way, when the Viet Cong caught you, we had a party. One more day, and we'd have taken you out ourselves." He looked more closely at him. "You can pick up your organization's car at the airport. Now leave us all the hell alone." He stormed out and slammed the van's door.

Birkoff watched Operations' image nervously. Michael waited, stone-faced, for instructions.

Operations smiled slightly; his warning had obviously hit its mark. "Let him go. He's not a threat; he just enjoys his indignation."

Michael nodded.

"Tell me again why Nikita didn't shoot Vendwald," Operations continued, debriefing him.

"Lefcic was in her line of fire; Vendwald was behind him," Michael told him. "Jurgen and I came in from behind."

"It had nothing to do with Waters being between her and the target?" Operations pressed.

"Waters was to her left, out of her sights," Michael lied.

Operations looked at him evaluatingly for a second and then nodded. "Very well." The videoconference ended.

Inwardly, Michael resumed breathing. He had saved Nikita again, and--as long as she was alive--he had a reason to go on.

Outside, once Bailey was ready to leave, Sam and Nikita said a quick goodbye, knowing it would be their last.

"Take care of yourself," Sam told her.

"You too," Nikita smiled.

"C'mon, Sam," Bailey ordered from the car.

Sam almost left but then turned back and hugged Nikita briefly. Nikita returned the embrace and then smiled back at her, as Sam left.

They had only known each other a couple of days, but they felt they understood one another. They were sisters in pain--related through trauma--both were watched; both had had love stolen from them; both were in lives they had never expected or wanted. There were few others who could fully understand their situation, including the people in their own lives, but--for two days--they had met one other woman who could, and it was a greater relief than either had ever expected.

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

Later, after official debriefings, Madeline found Nikita. "Everything went very well. I'm impressed."

"By what?" she asked.

"By your analysis," Madeline answered. "According to Michael and Jurgen, much of the discovery of Vendwald came from your insights."

Nikita shrugged. "I just did what you asked me to."

Madeline smiled and let her leave. Oh yes, she thought; Nikita was turning out very nicely.

Jurgen caught up to Nikita a few seconds later, as she was on her way out. "Are you okay?"

Nikita smiled, pausing to talk to him. "I think you're the first person to ask me that; everybody else just assumes I am."

"I'm not everybody," Jurgen informed her.

She continued smiling. "I know that."

He looked at the floor. "I was thinking of taking a drive in the country tomorrow." He smiled up at her. "Maybe having a picnic."

"How rural," she grinned. They started walking.

"Would you like to come?" he asked.

"I'd love to," she responded.

Above the two of them, on a catwalk over the hallway, Michael stood listening, wishing he knew how to take Sam's advice, wishing he knew a way to avoid letting go of what was left of his soul.

[The End]

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