Michael hobbled to the briefing table on his crutches. The briefing was about to begin.

It had only been two days since she had left on vacation, her destination unknown. Only two days since he had spoken to her in the hallway. He felt she had been gone from him forever.

He missed her terribly. More than before, if that was possible. Nikita.

He eased himself into the chair. His leg throbbed where Jurgen's bullet had entered, saving his life. As much as his leg hurt him, his emotional wounds went much deeper and would take longer to heal.

Operations clicked on the screen, showing a few buidings huddled together in a scene of ice and snow. Large drifts of snow were piled up against the windows. There was a scattering of tall pines on a hill behind the desolate-looking encampment.

"This is one of our remote listening outposts in the Northwest," explained Operations. "It's manned by specially trained NSA personnel who monitor sattellite and other top-secret communications."

He clicked the screen again and the image of the outpost was replaced by the picture of six men.

"These are the men who man the station. Each team member rotates the duty, each taking turns two months of the year manning the outpost, entirely alone."

"Man," said Walter. "That's what we used to call a hardship tour." He shook his head. "No movies, no bars, nothing to do on Saturday night... and no WOMEN...."

"Exactly," said Operations. "Two of the last men scheduled to replace the current occupant, Ron Jackson, have gone missing. Because of the sensitive nature of their training, and the fact that they have come up with nothing so far through the usual channels, NSA has asked us to look into it."

"Do you suspect Jackson?" Michael asked.

Operations dropped the remote control on the table. "No," he replied. "It's unlikely he would do anything to endanger the men who could relieve him of his "hardships." But it's a possibility."

He gave everyone around the table his trademark piercing look. "We need to contain the situation. Jackson will be naturally wary of strangers..."

"Are you going to send in a woman?" Walter said, leering. "That might disarm him a little."

"Do you want me to assemble a team?" Michael asked.

"No, Michael," came Operations' curt answer. "You'll go alone."

"But he's not recovered yet!" protested Judy, the older blonde operative that had been on the mission where Jurgen was killed.

"I'm aware of that," Operations said coolly. "We'll use it."

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

Michael lay in the deep snow, clutching his leg. Blood seeped slowly through his jeans from the wound on his thigh.

The snow was so cold it almost burned him all along his back where it had seeped under his jacket when he fell.

The walk here without his crutch had been too much for the sutures to hold together.

Michael looked around him, listening intently. There was nothing to hear. There was nothing to see but trees and snow. There was nothing here but him and the pain...

"Birkoff," he gasped into the comm link. "Is he coming yet?"

"On his way now," was Birkoff's reply.

Jackson was due on his daily patrol to check his receivers. Since Jackson had been alone for four months and had been trained as a medic, Section seemed to think a man bleeding in the snow would lower his defences. Michael hoped so. He had read Jackson's file and noted that he was also trained as a weapons expert.

Michael leaned his head back in the snow. He didn't want to, but he couldn't hold his head up any longer. More snow crept into the collar of his jacket, chilling him further, wetting his hair.

He closed his eyes. He lay there, panting, trying not to notice how numb his legs and hands were becoming.

Michael heard the wolf before he saw it. It circled him, attracted by the smell of his blood.

"Merde," he swore.

The wolf came closer, unafraid. Michael saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The rest of the pack had arrived.

Michael propped himself up on his elbow, wishing he had his gun. The snow crept in and bit him between his sleeve and his glove.

The wolf boldly stepped forward, until it loomed over him. Michael could feel the animal's breath. It sniffed Michael's leg, inhaling the scent of his blood.

Excited, the wolf growled in anticipation, saliva dripping from its mouth onto Michael's thigh.

A gunshot cracked through the air, the bullet whizzing over Michael's head. The wolves yelped and were gone as swiftly as they had appeared.

Footsteps crunched toward him in the snow. Michael looked up, blinded by the sun in his eyes and the glare off the snow.

The figure above him wore a ski mask and goggles. Michael couldn't tell much about his rescuer, but one thing was clear-- he had a gun and was aiming it directly at him.

"Don't move," he ordered.

A wave of pain washed over Michael and he groaned and collapsed back into the snow again.

The figure knelt and ran his hands over Michael's jacket, checking for weapons.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.

Michael didn't answer. The pain and the cold were closing in on him. It took all his strength to fight to remain conscious.

The other man looked down at him, getting a better look at the spreading red stain on Michael's leg and the way his clothes clung to him, wet through with melted snow.

"Never mind that now. We'll have time for questions later after I get you inside..."

Michael didn't hear him. He had passed out. His captor lifted him from the ground and carried him to the 4-wheeler.

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

Warm. He was warm. He was three years old and at the beach with his mother. He was naked, running in the waves. The water was warm against his legs.

"Ow!" he cried suddenly. "Maman!"

A wave had crashed over him, washing a sharp shell into his thigh...

Michael woke up.

He was lying on a cot in an ugly quansat hut. Two space-heaters were running full blast on either side of him.

He looked down. He was naked except for the sheet pulled over him. One leg was uncovered, where a fresh and professionally done bandage covered his bullet wound.

Michael tried to reach out to touch the injury but he couldn't get his hands to move. He was tied by the wrists to the metal sides of the cot with rope.

"How are you feeling?" said the voice from the snow.

Michael turned his head to see a young man in his late twenties with dark brown hair and eyes standing next to him. He was out of his snow gear and now wore fatigues and a sweater.

Michael noted with relief that he no longer carried the gun. However, with his powerful build and broad shoulders, he looked strong enough to not need a gun to defend himself.

Michael didn't answer him.

"What's your name? I'm Ron. Ron Jackson."

Michael said nothing, giving him the blank stare.

"No name, huh?" Ron crossed his arms across his broad chest. "Let's see, lost in the woods...." He grinned. "You must be Hansel..."

Michael watched him warily, still saying nothing.

"Where's Gretel?" Ron went on. "Is she the one who shot you in the leg, or was it her jealous husband?"

"Her boyfriend, actually," said Michael dryly, thinking of Jurgen.

"Bummer," said Ron sympathetically.

He reached down to adjust the pillow underneath Michael's knee that supported the injured leg.

Michael flinched and pulled against the ropes.

"Take it easy, man! Don't worry." Ron grinned. "You're not my type. I prefer Gretels.."

Ron looked at the ropes apologetically. "Look, man, I don't want to hurt you. In fact, I'm glad to see another human being in this god-forsaken place. But since my co-workers have been dissapearing, I'm a little leery of uninvited company, if you get my drift?"

He leaned over Michael and looked into his green eyes. "Who are you and what are you doing here?"

Michael didn't answer.

Ron straightened and walked over to a footlocker in a drafty corner of the hut. He opened the lid and rummaged through it, collecting a set of clothes for Michael. "Gary's stuff should fit you close enough."

Ron paused, hoping that Gary, one of the men who was missing, was still alive and would one day come back to complain that Ron had gone through his stuff.

He threw the clothes on a nearby chair, and looked back at Michael.

"You know, this really sucks. I get stationed in this wasteland, freezing my ass off for months. No company. I can't bring my wife here..."

He gave a short laugh. "Not that she could stand it here, either. She was born in Miami. She's never seen snow in her life. If it gets below eighty degrees she complains about the cold.."

Ron's voice had become wistful, talking about his wife. But now the exasperation was foremost when he spoke again. "So, I finally get some company up here, and it has to be some non-loquacious, no-talking mother-fucker like you..."

Two tours in the Army before working for NSA had enriched Ron's vocabulary, Michael noted.

Ron ran a hand through his thick hair and sighed. "Look, I won't hurt you, man, but until you start talking, the ropes stay on, got it?"

The blank stare. Again. Then Michael closed his eyes, thinking. When he opened them again, he had come to a decision. Ron could be trusted.

"You can call me Michael," he said.

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

Ron grinned. "So, Michael, what are you doing here?"

"Trying to find out what happened to your co-workers."

"You NSA?" asked Ron.

"Something like that," Michael replied enigmatically.

"Thought so," Ron said, nodding his head. "Look, I've got an idea about where they might be.."

"Yes?"

"Those two were always on the Net, constantly talking to some tree huggers..."

Michael looked confused. "Tree ..... huggers?"

"Yeah, you know, Green Peace types. Environmental activists. There was even a group of them hanging around here on my last duty tour in this hell-hole. "

Ron's grin had faded to a look of concern. "I hope to God they decided to go AWOL to save the whales and they're not dead..."

"Do you know where this group is now?" asked Michael.

"That's what's so damn frustrating," Ron said, exhaling a long breath. "I could track them right now myself with the equipment I got right here..." He paused. "If I had the security codes."

Michael's eyebrow lifted. "What would you do with the security codes?"

"Remember Desert Storm?" Ron asked. "We could see a pimple on Saddam's ... uh ... nose with our satellite equipment. Here at this substation I just monitor the intel coming in. I don't control where the satellites look. But if I could use the satellites, maybe I could find them...."

He looked at Michael pleadingly. "Michael, please, will you let me help look for them?"

"I think I could arrange that," said Michael, smiling. He tilted his head, and tested the comm unit.

"Birkoff, are you there?" There was no answer.

He looked back at Ron. "I must have lost my comm unit in the snow. If you would let me use your computer?"

"Sure, man!" Ron said happily. He came toward the cot to untie Michael's hands.

He was just leaning over him when the door was suddenly kicked open, crashing back against the wall.

A masked figure all in black stormed in. In seconds, before he had a chance to move, Ron found himself with a gun barrel pointed at his forehead.

"Don't touch him!" the intruder yelled. "Get away from him, NOW!"

Ron gulped and raised his hands. He backed up slowly, taking a step away from the cot.

The figure grabbed him by the front of his sweater and spun him around, throwing him up against the wall. Then Ron's arm was twisted behind his back and the gun was pressed against his temple.

Michael struggled against the ropes and yelled at Ron's assailant.

"Nikita! NO!" he said.

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

"Nikita! No!" Michael yelled. "It's Jackson..."

"Michael, what did he do to you?" Nikita cried.

"Nothing," Michael said calmly. "He saved my life. Let him go."

Nikita gave Ron a final shove and lowered the gun, releasing him. Ron sank down in a nearby chair, trying to get his breath back.

Nikita pulled off her mask, blonde hair spilling down on her shoulders. Michael looked at her longingly. She had never seemed more beautiful to him than she did in this moment.

Nikita's eyes devoured him, taking in the sight of his bare torso and the finely muscled thigh that the bandages did little to conceal. His hair was wild and tousled around his face and his green eyes glittered as they looked at her. He was beautiful.

"I thought I'd lost you!" she cried.

She dropped to the side of his bed and kissed him, hard and hungrily. They were both breathless when she broke the kiss.

Tears of distress stood in her eyes. "There was no signal. We lost your comm link...."

Michael looked at her tenderly. "How did you know where to find me? I thought you were on vacation..."

"A little bird told me that you were missing on a mission and I came back for you..."

A little Judy Bird, Michael guessed.

She leaned forward to kiss him again.

Ron grinned. "Gretel, I presume?" he said to Michael.

"Yes," said Michael smiling.

He looked back at Nikita. He couldn't take his eyes off her. "Nikita," he said, "Tell Birkoff to come here with the mobile com and work with Jackson to find the men."

She nodded. "You got that, Birkoff?" she said into her comm link.

After listening for a moment, she reported, "He's on his way."

She got up from the bed, composing herself at the sound of Birkoff's giggles in her ear. He was enjoying listening.

She looked at Ron. "Sorry I was so rough."

"No problem," he said. "Can I talk to you a second?" Ron jerked his head toward the corner, indicating she should join him.

She went over to stand next to him. Ron had a serious expression on his face, his brown eyes sincere.

"I'm so glad you're here, Nikita. I've been worried about him.." He looked at Michael, then back at Nikita, lowering his voice.

"When I brought him here, he was delirious, out of his head. He kept calling for you..."

"Oh!" she said, startled.

Ron went on in a confidential tone. "I had to tie him down. He was thrashing around so much, I thought he would pull the wound open again. He was raving, saying things..."

"What kind of things?" she asked, her eyes big.

"It was all about you. About how he wished you could forgive him, how he was lost without you. Mostly he kept moaning and saying "Nikita, I love you" and Nikita, don't leave me" over and over..."

Ron figured he wasn't lying, exactly. Michael had mumbled a little while he was unconscious. It was all in French, a language Ron had never studied. Who knows what merde meant, anyway? When you were trying to help out a fellow love-starved and lonely guy, it didn't hurt to exaggerate a little, Ron thought.

It was working.

"Oh, Michael," Nikita sighed, looking back at him, her heart melting further.

Ron looked at Michael, too. He said nothing, but his expression communicated a clear message. This is your big chance, Michael. Don't screw it up.

Ron turned back to Nikita, laying it on thick. "Go easy on him," he whispered. "He almost died today..."

Nikita sobbed. Michael had been in danger, in pain, suffering. He had almost died with words of love for her on his lips....

Ron looked back at Michael and winked.

Michael nodded imperceptibly.

Nikita was looking at Michael, the longing even more plain on her face. She moved toward him, intent on comforting him and kissing everything better.

Before she could reach him, the door was opened again.

It was Birkoff.

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

Birkoff entered the room, confused by the scene in front of him. He looked first at Michael, tied up and practically naked, then at Nikita, and finally at Ron. Then back to Michael.

"Michael?" he said.

"Birkoff, access the security codes and use the satellites to track the missing men. Work with Jackson, understood?"

"Yeah, got it," said Birkoff. He placed his portable laptop on a table and started to unzip it from its case.

"We can work better from Building D. It's just across the pathway..." Ron interjected smoothly.

Michael and Nikita's expressions brightened.

"Sure," agreed Birkoff. "You coming, Nikita? Michael?"

"Michael shouldn't be moved just yet," Ron said quickly. "What do you think, Nikita?"

"He's right. Michael needs to rest." She gave him another longing look. "I'll stay with him until you can complete the search," Nikita volunteered.

Birkoff bit his lip to keep from saying something sarcastic. Yeah, what a sacrifice! he thought. "This could take a while, you know. Several hours, maybe all day..."

Michael and Nikita both smiled. "We'll be fine," she said brightly.

"Ready, Jackson?" Birkoff said as he went to the door.

"Yeah, just a minute.." Ron got his coat and then pulled a cardboard box out from under the desk.

"Here," he said. "This is a care package my wife sent me. You take it...."

He placed it near the cot. "It's got cookies, crackers, cheese, peanut butter, let me see.." He rummaged in the box, continuing his inventory. "..champagne, whipped cream..."

"Thanks, Ron," said Nikita. She surprised him by kissing him on the cheek.

"Bye, Gretel... uh...Nikita," he said grinning.

He turned to the man on the cot. "Bye, Michael. Nice TALKING with you.." He smiled sweetly.

Michael nodded at him, getting his unspoken message.

"Let's go, Birkoff," said Ron.

The door closed behind them, and Michael and Nikita were finally alone.

They exchanged scorching looks. Michael strained against the ropes. "Nikita, would you untie me, please?" he said, his voice low and full of promise.

Nikita sat on the cot next to him and leaned forward to kiss him again. Michael lifted his head up and returned the kiss, exploring her mouth hungrily and then, not satisfied, he started to nibble his way down her throat..

Nikita laid her hand carefully on his injured leg just above the bandage, ascertaining for herself that he was indeed naked under the sheet.

Michael moaned. Nikita laughed and pulled back from him, out of range of his kisses.

Michael strained up as far as he could against the restricting ropes, unable to reach her.

"Nikita, please, untie me.." he said again, breathless.

"No, not yet," she said teasingly. "Maybe I like it better this way.."

Her eyes roved over him and then she bent her head to return his caresses. This time, it was HIS throat that was kissed.

Michael closed his eyes. From his neck she began trailing her kisses downward, biting and nibbling her way across his broad chest. She continued her exploration, licking the tautly muscled abdomen from one side to the other, the trail going ever lower...

Michael's breaths came in short gasps. He lifted his head up and looked at her pleadingly. He tried again unsuccessfully to pull free of the ropes.

"Nikita, please.." he begged, desperate.

Showing no mercy, she ignored his request and continued kissing and licking past his navel until she reached the top of the sheet, which covered him to just below his waist.

"Do I have your attention?" she asked.

Michael's smoldering green eyes met hers. "You always did..." he answered.

"I need to know something..." She said, her hand moving under the sheet to caress the top of his thigh.

"Anything," Michael gasped. "I'll tell you anything you want to know..."

She was a little surprised at his sweet and total capitulation. If only she had known he would be this easy to interrogate, she would have done it sooner..

"Michael, is it true, what Ron said? Did you say those things? Did you mean them?" Her voice caught, and she looked at him, her eyes pleading for him not to lie to her again..

Michael heeded Ron's advice and answered, communicating his deepest feelings. "Oui, je t'adore.... Nikita, I love you.." he said, finally expressing all the emotion that had always been there inside him, but never spoken til now.

His truthfulness was immediately rewarded. Nikita sighed and knelt over him, her face just above his. Gently and slowly, she lowered her body on top of his, taking great care not to put any of her weight on the injured leg. She was just as careful to make sure that when she settled on him, her hips were pressed tightly against his.

God, thought Michael. Please let her untie me NOW...

She tangled her fingers in his hair and kissed him again, making no move to free him from her torments. After the kiss, which inflamed him even more, she laid her head on his shoulder. "Michael, I need to tell you something.."

"Yes?" he gasped.

"Michael, I.... I never loved Jurgen, not really. I kept thinking being with him would help me forget you, but I couldn't." She sighed again, her voice trembling. "I love YOU. I used Jurgen to make you jealous. I wanted to get a response from you, to get you to react..."

Michael's heart was flooded with sweet joy, and his body with sweet fire. "Nikita," he moaned, "I always ....... react to you. I'm....... reacting to you now. Can't you feel my....... reaction?"

He demonstrated the truth of his words by lifting up his hips and pressing them firmly against hers.

"Ohhh, Michael..." Nikita was kissing him again.

When she came up for air, he groaned. "Please, please, untie me, Nikita..."

"Just one more question," she whispered.

"Anything, Nikita please!" he promised desperately.

"Should we open the can of whipped cream now?" she breathed in his ear.

"Yes! Yes! Nikita, please NOW!" he groaned loudly.

Ending his torture, she moved her hands down to his wrists, finally releasing him.

Immediately, his arms came up around her, pulling her down. Holding her even more tightly against him, he kissed her, deeply and thouroughly.

Then Michael used his extensive training and ambidextrous abilities to fufill Nikita's wish. Deftly, he ran one hand up the back of Nikita's shirt, caressing her bare skin. With the other hand, he expertly reached into the care package on the floor by the bed and retrieved the whipped cream....

In spite of the swift removal of Michael's sheet and Nikita's clothes, not to mention the application of the better part of a chilled can of whipped cream to their bare skin, they managed to create enough body heat between them so that the glowing red space heaters were no longer the hottest things in the room......

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

Ron leaned on the railing of the deck at his new outpost. He was still in charge of a satellite tracking site, but this time conditions were considerably improved from his last assignment.

The Carribean dawn painted the sky in pinks and purples, the colors reflecting off the ocean and the wet sand in front of the luxurious beach house.

Ron sipped his orange juice and smiled. Things had turned out well. Between them, he and Birkoff had located his co-workers on the deck of a ship heading out to clean sea birds that were caught in an oil-spill. Go for it guys! Ron thought. The important thing was, they were alive.

It was curious, however. Somehow, the NSA hadn't seemed interested in punishing the men for deserting their post. The government had left them completely alone, free to paint seals and save whales. They were happy being the good kind of terrorist.

Ron smiled. He almost wished he could join them. That kind of thing was O.K. for single guys, though, traveling and all, but he was a married man. He had obligations, husbandly duties...

He turned as the sliding glass door opened and Lorraine came out on the deck.

"I'm cold," she said, rubbing her arms in the 75 degree breeze off the ocean.

"Come here."

He put his arm around her. "Is that better?" he asked.

"Mmmmmmm.." she sighed happily.

"Is that why you married me? For the body heat?" he smiled at her.

"You got it..." She kissed him and they went back in the house, falling on the couch.

Lorraine snuggled against him and asked, "What did you do to get us stationed in this Paradise?"

"Well," said Ron, "it has to do with a very important Intelligence project I helped out on..."

"Oh?" she said, intrigued.

"Yeah," he replied. "It was called Operation Hansel and Gretel."

Her eyes widened. "What was it about?"

"Shhh... I can't tell you. It's top secret.."

He kissed her. "Are you warm enough yet?"

She giggled. "No, not yet.."

As Ron settled in to do his husbandly duties, he sent a grateful thought out to The Powers That Be. Thanks, Michael, he said to himself. Way to go.

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