"Merde," swore Michael under his breath as he crouched at the bottom of the embankment along the highway. The daylight was fading and he had become separated from his team in the unexpected ambush of a few hours ago. So far, this mission to find and destroy a Red Cell sub-station had been a complete disaster.

"Team Two, report," Michael spoke softly into his comm -unit. "Ken, Peter, Jeff-- are you there?"

There was still no answer. There had been no response from anyone, even though Michael knew his communication device was working. He had tried repeatedly every few minutes since the attack to raise them.

Reluctantly, he removed the small black device from his ear and placed it in one of his coat pockets. He would have to assume everyone on his team was dead. Michael was on his own.

It must have been their contact, Resnick, that had betrayed them, thought Michael. The man had given them reliable information many times before. If the price was right, Resnick seemed able to provide them any intel they needed.

This time Red Cell must have gotten to him first, either with offers of more money than Section had promised, or with greater threats if he didn't co-operate.

Either way, it didn't matter now. Resnick had led the Section operatives to an old abandoned farmhouse that was supposed to be the headquarters for a particularly viscious terrorist contingent of Red Cell. The plan was for Michael's team to take them by surprise and destroy them.

Instead, it was Section that was surprised.

Michael had not yet deployed his men; the two teams of three men each were still gathered in the nearby woods when the gunfire started. But Michael's uneasiness had begun long before that. Things had just gone too smoothly up until then.

Usually he had no trouble controlling his nerves before a mission, but this time, for some reason, Michael had had difficulty stifling his increasing edgyness as the time to take down Red Cell approached. Now frissons of alarm jangled up and down his nerve-endings, all his senses even more on alert than normal.

It started suddenly, and was just as suddenly over. Snipers appeared from three different directions from behind the trees around them. Jansen, the operative closest to Michael, had spasmodically jerked in a macabre dance and fallen across the hood of the Section vehicle, bullet holes gushing blood all across his back.

In seconds, Michael had taken out Jansen's killer with gunfire of his own, but not before two more members of his team also fell beside him.

Rolling swiftly under their car, Michael provided cover for the remaining three men. He emerged on the other side of the vehicle and gave the order for them to abort.

Bullets whizzing over their heads, the operatives retreated into the woods. His men all knew the plan. They would separate and spread out, meeting back at the secondary rendezvous point in half an hour.

Michael ran swiftly, sure-footed in spite of the congested saplings in his path and the rain-slick leaves underneath them on the forest floor.

His physical co-ordination may have been what saved him. He had made better headway against these obstacles than his team-mates. Michael was several yards ahead of the others when the grenade went off.

The deafening blast was behind him and to his right. Michael staggered, but mangaged not to fall. He kept running. He turned once to look back, but was unable to see anything because of the smoke. Grimly, he continued on to the rendezvous point.

He had waited there an hour. None of his team showed. there was also no appearance by the back-up team. Michael had had to assume that they, too, had been ambushed.

Now, tired, cold, and disheveled, but uninjured, Michael knew he must find a way back to Section on his own and report this complete failure.

Michael settled himself into the shallow indentation in the cold ground of the embankment. From its shelter he would be hidden from sight from anyone on the road above. He pulled his coat more tightly around him and crossed his arms across his chest. Shivering slightly, he noticed with disgust that it had begun to snow.

He knew sooner or later a car would come along that he could steal. Watching the road above him intently, Michael tried not to think about his cold and misery. He also tried not to think of how warm and comforted he had once been on a night long ago in Nikita's arms.

Failing to do either, Michael waited.

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

It was almost completely dark when Michael heard the car approaching. He pulled his mask down over his face so that none of the fading light would reflect off his skin or hair and betray his presence to the occupants of the vehicle above.

He pulled out his gun from where it was holstered on his thigh and shifted his position to see better. He braced his feet against the ground, now slippery with snow, readying himself to leap from his cover and overtake the car.

As if he had ordered it, the car pulled over on the shoulder of the road, and stopped just above him.

Surprised and cautious, Michael raised up to get a better view.

A large dark sedan, of an obviously expensive and recent model, sat parked with its engine idling just a few feet from him. Michael was puzzled as to why they had stopped at this particular spot. He wondered if somehow they had been tracking his location.

He waited tensely, his grip tightening on his weapon. Both front doors of the car opened and two men emerged, one from either side of the car.

Michael got a glimpse of the passenger, a tall man in a camel coat. There was a red scarf tied intricately at his throat. A gold pin glittered in the center of the scarf.

Michael recognized the trademark immediately. Red Cell. The men, just a few feet from him, were from Red Cell. The man in the scarf was probably the leader of the group that had just killed his whole team.

"Dump him here. I don't want him to bleed any more on the upholstery," ordered the passenger in an arrogant voice. He sounded almost bored.

His driver nodded and opened the back door of the car, effectively cutting off Michael's line of fire to the Red Cell leader.

A few seconds later, Micheal heard the subordinate grunt as he tossed something heavy over the embankment.

Something almost as white and gleaming as the dusting of snow on the ground tumbled down the slippery embankment and came to rest less than two feet away from the hollow where Michael lay hidden.

Michael blinked in shock. Despite the poor light, he recognized that the bundle dumped as refuse from the car was the body of a young boy, perhaps ten or twelve years of age. He was naked, his skin pale except in several places where ugly bruises darkened it. A red cloth was knotted and tied, twisted obscenely tight around the child's throat. Blood stained his mouth and trailed in long rivulets down the boy's slender legs.

Michael felt sick. He realized this child had been raped and strangled, used and then tossed out as so much garbage.

Without thinking, Michael reached out to touch the small face just inches from his own, his fingers automatically searching for a pulse in the boy's neck. To his surprise, he felt the artery pulse faintly under his fingertips.

The boy was still alive, barely. He wasn't breathing.

Michael jerked his gaze back up to the men above him. They were getting back into the car. With one hand around his weapon and the ebbing life signs of the dying child under the other, Michael had to make a decision.

He could kill two men, or he could save one young life. He had scant seconds to do either, and even less time to decide.

Michael stared into the angelically peaceful face of the motionless boy. The child's pale blond hair, soft and baby-fine, gleamed in the faint moonlight.

The car doors were slamming closed above him as he holstered his gun and used both hands to tug loose the cloth used as a garotte around the boy's neck. Michael pulled it free and bent his head toward the boy's bruised and bloodied lips.

Michael was already breathing the first breath of life giving air into the small, cold body before the car above him had pulled away.

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

In the darkness, Michael labored over the boy, establishing a rhythm of saving breaths and pauses between them. During the latter, he listened intently, waiting to hear the child take a breath on his own.

Sometimes in the pauses Michael would whisper encouragement, telling the boy to hang on, to breathe. Breathe, please. Mostly Michael was silent, surprised to find himself praying for the boy not to die.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but after what seemed to Michael to be a very long time, the child coughed and gasped, his small lungs sucking in the sweet, cold air on their own.

Michael, tired but gratified, sat back on his heels, gasping in great gulps of air himself. After a moment, he leaned forward and felt the boy's pulse again. This time it beat strong and steadily under Michael's hand.

The boy opened pale blue eyes and looked at his rescuer. There was pain and confusion in his gaze, as well as fear. He attempted to speak, but the condition of his bruised throat prevented any sound from coming out.

"Shhh, it's O.K.," Michael soothed, meeting the child's gaze. "I won't hurt you."

Michael stripped off his coat and quickly wrapped the child in its warmth. He lifted the small burden off the ground and cradled him against his chest. The snow continued to drift down on them, and Michael knew if the boy was to have a chance at surviving, they would have to find shelter soon.

Besides a small whimper, the boy made no protest, lying limply in Michael's arms. The child was too weak to fight, even if he wanted to.

Hesitating, Michael considered the best direction to go from here. In his mind's eye, Michael recalled a map of the area that he had studied before the mission. He remembered that there was a small cave not far from the highway. It would have to serve until he could get them to better quarters in the light of morning.

Settling the boy closer and more securely against him, Michael turned and climbed swiftly further down the embankment into the night.

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

Looking back on it later, Michael realized everything would have gone down differently if it hadn't been for the cold. It had proved to be almost a crueler enemy than Red Cell.

The cave was thankfully dry and provided adequate shelter from the wind and snow. Michael entered, carrying the young boy, carefully putting him down with his back supported against the far wall. He unclipped the flashlight from his belt and turned it on, using it to get a better look at the cave. This did not take long, the cave being small and devoid of any contents but some rocks and dust on the floor.

Then he turned the light toward his small charge.

The child was more alert, his eyes following closely all of Michael's movements. He shrank back, making a terrified gutteral sound in his throat when Michael approached and pulled open the coat to assess the damage.

"Easy, it's all right now, little one. Shhh...."

Michael spoke soothingly, not attempting to touch the bruises and injuries with anything other than the light of the flashlight. The child trembled and made a feeble effort to back away from him, still whimpering.

Michael sighed, deciding it was better not to terrify the child further just then with a physical examination. He replaced the coat around the boy, fastening it securely, but not before he had seen how blue the boy's skin was. He had to find a way to get the child warm.

Sitting back on his haunches for a moment, Michael considered his options. His back-pack, which had contained some very useful gear like a small bedroll, was back at the Section vehicle. Besides his coat, Michael's only garments were his usual mission gear of pants, turtleneck, and bullet-proof vest.

It wasn't entirely wise or safe, but Michael knew building a fire was his only option.

He left the flashlight with the boy, telling him he would return soon, and left the cave in search of firewood. This did not take long. Michael found everything he needed within a small radius of the cave entrance.

A short time later, the small fire was blazing, spreading its welcome warmth and light through the cave. That task done to his satisfaction, Michael returned to crouch near the boy, retrieving the flask of water from his coat pocket.

He held the flask to the boy's mouth and helped him drink. The child drank eagerly, but with difficulty because of his bruised throat. Carefully, almost tenderly, Michael assisted the boy until he had managed to swallow a little of the water and pushed it away, indicating he had had enough.

"Better?" Michael asked, smiling.

The boy nodded. He seemed no longer afraid of Michael, but he still shivered inside the coat. Michael knew the child was shaking now not from terror, but from the cold.

Swiftly, Michael removed his boots and the thick, warm socks he wore underneath them. Now barefoot, he pulled the socks onto the child's ice-cold feet and legs.

The vest and turtleneck came off next. Michael pulled the coat down from the child's shoulders and quickly dressed the boy in the thick turtleneck sweater. Rearranging the coat again around the child, Michael lifted him and settled on the cave floor with his bare back against the wall, the boy resting on top of him.

They sat like that in front of the fire, the child wrapped in Michael's clothes and Michael's arms, resting on his warm body instead of the cold stone floor.

In a short time, the boy's quivering stopped and Michael felt the small body on top of his relax and go limp as the child fell into an exhausted sleep.

Michael, also exhausted, allowed his eyelids to close and his own body to relax. His thoughts drifted to Nikita, as they often did at night when he was alone. Usually his thoughts of her and his guilt and his regrets tortured him and kept him from sleeping, but tonight her image brought only comfort.

Michael knew he would see her again soon, when this wretched nightmare of a mission was over. The image of her smiling at him was the last thing on his mind before he, too, slipped into an exhausted sleep.

Not far away, at a short distance below their cave, a man in a red scarf noticed the flickering light from the fire as it glowed faintly against the blackness of the wooded hillside.

"Up there," he said to his men, pointing to the light. He pulled his gun out of his camel coat and they followed him in deadly silence toward the cave where Michael and the boy slept.

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

Michael came swiftly awake even before the Red Cell team entered the cave, but it was already too late.

By the time he had managed to extricate himself from his position underneath the sleeping child and stand up, Michael found himself encircled by three men with their weapons drawn and pointing at him.

He shoved the groggy child behind him and took a protective stance between him and the men, trying to shield the child with his body.

The men wore identical camouflage gear and red scarves. They also wore identical angry expressions. The man nearest Michael was almost trembling with rage, his gun shaking slightly in his hand.

Michael slowly held up his hands. He knew better than to try to pull his weapon, which still lay holstered on his right thigh.

"F**king bastard!" yelled the enraged Red Cell soldier. With his free hand he grabbed Michael roughly by the arm and spun him so that Michael found his face pressed hard against the cold stone of the cave wall.

The man twisted Michael's arm behind his back and held the barrel of the gun to Michael's temple. Michael heard the click of the weapon as the man cocked it, ready to fire.

His comrade's hand on his arm stopped him. "No, Otto," he said sympathetically. "We can't kill him yet. The boss wants to do that himself, remember?"

Otto sighed raggedly and nodded, lowering his gun, but not loosening his grip on Michael's arm. His friend relieved Michael of his weapon.

The third man approached the child, who seemed to be confused, but not afraid of the soldiers. Michael tensed as the man knelt in front of the boy and placed his hand on his shoulder.

"We'll take you home now, Lucas, all right?" the soldier said in a low voice, his expression grim as he eyed the boy's battered face.

The boy nodded. "Daddy?" he croaked out in a question.

"Yes, we'll take you to your Daddy," the soldier promised solemnly. He gave Michael a glance full of hatred and loathing.

"I'll take Lucas. You take this piece of Section slime to the truck," he ordered the others. He walked the child to the cave entrance and out into the night.

Otto and his friend tightened their grip on Michael's arms, pulling him roughly toward the doorway.

Michael struggled in their grasp, trying to get to the boy. He had been unable to understand all of the soft exchange of words between the child and the soldier. And the man's grip on the child's shoulder as he led the boy out of the cave had alarmed him.

"Leave him alone," Michael hissed, fighting to pull free of his captors. "Don't touch him!"

Otto lost control and struck Michael across the face with the thick handle end of his gun. Michael slumped, unconscious, between them.

The men let Michael fall, hard, against the stone floor. Otto kicked him in the ribs.

Otto smiled in satisfaction. "There," he said. "We'll show you what we do to people like you."

He wiped his hand on his pants leg as if he felt soiled by having touched Michael. He spat deliberately on Michael's still body, then wiped his mouth.

"People who rape children," Otto finished in disgust.

"C'mon, let's go," said the other soldier. Between them, they dragged Michael outside, his bare feet making trails in the snow all the way to the truck.

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

The interrogation went on and on. They kept torturing him, and he kept passing out, only be to awakened to endure more torture. No one asked him any questions.

Michael felt like he had been strapped to the chair in the plain wood-panelled room for a week, but he knew it must have been only hours. No one could live under this kind of abuse for that long, he figured.

Michael didn't remember the trip here. All he knew was that he had awoken here, groggy, his head aching. His vision was blurred, but not bad enough that he couldn't recognize Otto and his friends. They continued where they had left off at the cave.

He had managed to remain silent and stoic until they began burning him with their cigarettes. He remembered screaming then, before he passed out from the pain.

This last time he awoke they had chosen just to hit him with their fists. Michael was almost grateful.

Otto had grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head painfully back, his other hand raised to strike again, when a quiet authoritarian voice spoke from the doorway.

"Let him go. Now."

Otto released him and Michael slumped, half-conscious, in the chair, his head lolling to one side. He didn't see that the man giving orders had on a camel coat and a red scarf adorned with a gold pin in its center.

"What are you doing?" said the Red Cell leader, his voice tense but under tight control.

"Uh.. uh.. interrogating the prisoner, Sir," answered Otto, nervously.

What they had been doing was standard procedure with prisoners, but this man was not any ordinary prisoner.

The leader moved forward into the room until he was standing quietly in front of Michael's chair, regarding him thoughtfully.

Michael was still barefoot, and the smooth, shirtless expanse of his muscled chest was marred by ugly bruises and bleeding cuts, as well as the burns. His face was hardly better. One cheek was swollen and purple, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

Michael's eyes were totally closed now, his body limp. He had passed out again.

Otto became more nervous as the leader let several minutes pass without speaking.

At last, when the three men stood, almost twitching with tension, the man in the coat asked another quiet question.

"What were your orders, Soldier?" he said softly. "What did I ask you to do?"

"You.. you .... said to bring him in," stammered Otto.

The leader let another uncomfortable silence go by. "And what else did I ask you to do?" His voice, though still level and calm, held a steely undertone of anger.

Otto quivered, then straightened his shoulders and looked directly into the other man's eyes. "You said you wanted to question him yourself, Sir," he answered.

"That's quite correct," the man in the coat replied, smiling.

Otto relaxed slightly and smiled back. He was sure his boss understood how a man could get overzealous about his duties when it came to the unspeakable abuse of one of their own. Veangeance was, after all, a major motivating factor in all of Red Cell's activities.

Both men were still smiling when the superior officer took a gun out of the breast pocket of his camel coat and shot Otto at point blank range in the heart.

The two soldiers stood stunned, both staring at their lifeless comrade crumpled on the floor.

"I have another order for you," said the Red Cell leader calmly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "Do you think this time you can manage to follow my instructions to the letter?"

One of the men gulped and nodded, unable to speak. "Yessir," the other croaked out.

"Good," said the man pleasantly, almost as if he were making small talk at a social function. If Michael had been awake, he might have been reminded a little of Madeleine.

He continued in the same cool, controlled, almost friendly, tone.

"Take the prisoner to the Infirmary. Tell the doctors to treat his wounds. Give him the best of care, you understand?"

Again the men nodded.

The leader's smile returned. "I can't question a dead or unconscious man, can I?"

"No sir," the men chorused.

The officer strode to the doorway and looked back at Otto's corpse. "And don't forget to clean up that mess," he said in parting.

The leader again gave Michael one last thoughtful look before turning to leave the room.

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

This time when Michael awoke he found himself strapped not to a hard chair but to a hospital bed. He opened his eyes just enough to see a glimpse of bright lights against white walls, then he closed them again against the painful glare.

He groaned. Was he in MedLab? How did he get here?

He took a deep breath that snagged in his lungs, uncompleted because of the sudden pain that stabbed his side. Michael was familiar with the feeling, realizing he must have several cracked or broken ribs.

He tried opening his eyes again. For a fleeting moment, hope filled him that maybe he was indeed in MedLab and Nikita would be there, smiling at him and standing by his bedside.

He lifted his head and his eyes met not Nikita's tender gaze but the angry scowl of a Red Cell guard. Michael recognized him as one of Otto's companions from the cave.

The man was determined to not meet the same fate as Otto, and had watched carefully over the prisoner's treatment, keeping an eye on the activities of all the medical personnel who had hovered over the unconscious Michael in the last twelve hours.

The soldier resented the idea of Michael receiving any kind of treatment at all besides a bullet in the brain. That's what child molesters deserved, he thought. That or something worse.

The guard's skin crawled as he remembered how the boy looked in the cave, his face bruised, his neck marked in angry red. Most disgusting of all was how the child had been laying across Michael, held there against the Section operative's almost naked body.

The guard spat on the floor. "Awake are you, filthy Bastard?" he asked.

Michael scowled in return and leaned his head back again on the pillows. His green eyes glittered half in pain and half in contempt. The feeling of disgust between him and the guard was totally mutual.

"Obviously," said Michael dryly, his head pounding. With some effort he was able to give the guard his best blank stare.

"Good," replied the soldier with a twisted smile. At least he could get some satisfaction in knowing that the prisoner would now be at the tender mercies of his superior officer, who was anxiously waiting to question him.

The soldier walked to the door. "I'll go tell Major Kirsch you're ready to speak to him." Still smiling, he turned on his heel and left.

When the guard was gone, Michael made an effort to struggle against the bonds on his wrists and ankles, testing the restraints.

It was useless. The only thing it accomplished was to send shooting pains through his side again. Michael grunted and collapsed back on the bed, trying to get his breath back.

Resigned, Michael turned his head to the side and lay quietly, preparing himself for the interrogation to come.

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

The time Michael had for quiet preparation was short. Less than twenty minutes after the guard had left, he returned, an expression of smug satisfaction on his face. The soldier strutted insolently up to Michael's bedside and loomed over his prisoner, giving a small laugh that conveyed both triumph and threat.

The guard's eyes locked with Michael's in unspoken challenge. Michael could tell the man was anxious to resume 'interrogating' him again.

Michael shifted uneasily in the bed, pulling against the restraints, a cold lump of fear knotting in his stomach. But his fear exploded and expanded, leaping past all bounds when he looked past the guard to see the man standing in the doorway.

He was tall and muscular, with pale blonde hair and even paler blue eyes, but these were not the features that held Michael's attention riveted.

The man was dressed in a camel coat, and there was a red scarf knotted around his neck, with a gleaming gold pin in its center, indicating his rank.

Michael bit his lip, stifling the curses he wanted so urgently to utter. With every muscle tensed, he glared at his captor in contempt.

The officer, unperturbed, let his gaze flicker quickly over the man in the bed, then shift to the guard.

"Get out," he ordered in a quiet voice. "Stand guard on the door. See that I'm not disturbed."

The soldier huffed in obvious disappointment, but moved to the exit. "Yessir," he said.

The officer stopped him with a look. "We are not to be disturbed for ANY reason. Is that clear?"

"Yessir."

When the door had closed behind the guard, the blonde man took a few steps closer to Michael.

"My name is Major Kirsch," he said levely, his voice still quiet and controlled.

"In the next few hours we will become well acquainted. You will tell me everything about your activities of the last two days. Everything. In detail. You understand?"

Michael lifted his chin but said nothing.

After a moment the major spoke again with calm determination. "Believe me, you WILL tell me what I need to know. Neither of us will leave here until you do."

Major Kirsch moved closer and stood at the side of the hospital bed, a solemn expression in his eyes. Michael was surprised to also read in the blue depths desperation and something else... Was it torment? he wondered.

"So you don't wish to speak," said his captor in answer to Michael's continued silence. "Very well. I can find out what I want to know in other ways."

He leaned forward suddenly and pulled the sheet back, dragging it down past Michael's waist and thighs until it rested just below his knees. Michael lay there naked, exposed to the other man's gaze.

Michael inhaled sharply and struggled uselessly against the restraints. God, no, he pleaded silently. He didn't want to imagine what this callous predator would do to him, knowing what atrocities he was capable of inflicting on a child.

Sweat broke out on Michael's forehead and his breath came in shallow gasps. He stared helplessly at his captor, awaiting the assault.

None came. Kirsch touched him only with his gaze, his eyes searching carefully up and down Michael's lean sculpted form.

Kirsch examined Michael's whole body closely, paying particular attention to the burn marks and injuries that showed up vividly dark against the smooth, pale skin.

It seemed to Michael that his captor's intense scrutiny was more clinical than lustful. He allowed his fear to ebb just a little.

Finally, Kirsch finished with his examination and flicked the sheet back over his captive. He met Michael's green eyes.

The look of torment was back. The Red Cell leader's voice was anguished, almost pleading.

"Tell me. Tell me what you did with the boy...."

Michael was at first stunned, then enraged. This monster, Kirsch, did not want to know about the Section mission against Red Cell. He just wanted to hear details about an innocent child's suffering.

Unmindful of the pain it caused him, Michael sat up as far as he could and spat at his captor. He began cursing him in several languages.

"You pervert, you sick bastard..." Michael shouted.

Kirsch reacted without anger, merely regarding Michael thoughtfully. He reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a small leather case.

Michael struggled more when the officer opened it, revealing a needle and syringe inside. "No..." Michael gasped.

"I'm sorry," said his captor, as he gripped Michael's arm and plunged the needle into it, injecting the drug into him.

"No..." Michael tossed his head, fighting it, but the drug took effect quickly. Soon his eyes closed, and his head lay still on the pillow, his body limp and relaxed.

"Now," said the Major, leaning close to Michael's ear. "You will tell me everything, yes?"

Michael's eyes opened. They were bright but unfocused. Slowly, he nodded his head.

"Yes.." he answered obediently.

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

Major Kirsch wet his lips and then exhaled a deep sigh. At last, he thought, he was getting close to hearing what he needed. He almost trembled in his eagerness. But he knew it wouldn't do to lose control now.

He took another deep breath and forced himself to start slowly.

"What is your name?" he asked.

Michael struggled within himself. He felt a delicious lassitude, a relaxed euphoria, that he knew was a component of the drug. It had taken down all his barriers, removed his anger, his control, and his will.

Still, he fought it.

There was a small part of him that struggled inside to exert his will, to regain control. But that part seemed far away, unreachable.

Helplessly, that part now stood aside and he heard himself saying, "....M .... Mi-... Michael.. My name is Michael..."

What was left of his will seemed to shrink in despair. Michael realized he would tell this enemy everything. He couldn't help himself. Michael moaned and shifted his head on the pillow.

"Very good. Very good, Michael." Kirsch soothed his agitated prisoner.

He leaned closer and asked a harder question. "Michael, you work for Section One. Is that correct?"

"Uhhh...." Michael struggled again. His will was screaming inside.

"Go on. You're doing fine. You can tell me...." the Major pressed.

"S.. Section One, yes...." he gasped out.

He was horrified, but helpless. Michael knew when the drug wore off he would hate himself for his betrayal and his weakness. He moaned again.

Kirsch felt his pulse quicken at this triumph. He had gotten past the most powerful barriers of his captive. Now the truth that he so desperately needed to hear should flow easily from Michael's lips.

"Excellent, Michael. That was excellent." Kirsch took a moment to compose himself before he asked the next question.

"Do you remember the boy who was with you, Michael?" he asked softly.

Michael had been trying to focus on his captor's face, but now gave up the effort and lay quiet, his eyes closed. "Yes..." he answered.

Kirsch wet his lips again. "We'll discuss the boy, then," he said. "I want you to tell me about him."

Kirsch paused, realizing his voice was shaking. He cleared his throat and continued his questioning. "How did you find him?"

Michael, his will to fight gone, answered easily, completely, and literally.

".. raped.... strangled.... bleeding...."

Kirsch's hands clenched into fists at his sides. His blonde head bent forward, tears stinging his eyes. Fighting for control, he took a few deep, ragged breaths.

But, like Michael, control was something he no longer had.

Quickly, he bent and gripped his unresisting prisoner roughly by the shoulders, shaking him. Michael made no effort to fight.

"LOOK AT ME!" the Major shouted in his face. Michael obediently opened his eyes.

Kirsch looked into their green depths, searching. "Tell me," he demanded. "Tell me everything you did to him..."

His voice broke and a tormented sob was wrenched from him. With tears flowing down his face, Kirsch asked again for the truth from Michael.

"Tell me what you did to my son..." he said.

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

Major Kirsch sat slumped in the chair next to the hospital bed, his head in his hands. The room was quiet now. His prisoner lay motionless on the bed, his head turned to one side, his eyes closed.

Kirsch lifted his head and looked thoughtfully at Michael. He had been speaking for the last half hour. His words had come haltingly at first, but as his captor continued prompting him and guiding him with an ocasional question, the story flowed easily.

He heard how Michael had sheltered the boy, protected him. How he had pulled him back from the abyss of death. The Red Cell officer realized that his son's life had been saved by this man, his enemy.

Michael had told his story matter-of-factly, without drama. But his listener had not failed to hear the underlying emotions in what he reported. Anxiety for the child. Tenderness. Rage and disgust for the perpetrator.

That was still the Major's question now. Who had done this?

When his men had found Michael and Lucas together, it had seemed plain what had happened. Now he knew that Michael was not his child's abuser but his rescuer.

Someone else had stolen his cherished boy from the play yard. Someone else had used him, broken him, and discarded him, leaving him for dead.

Kirsch sighed and rose from his chair. He walked to the bed and looked down on his prisoner. Lines of exhaustion etched Michael's face underneath the bruises. He had fallen into a deep sleep almost as soon as the questions had stopped.

Kirsch knew he had pushed his captive to almost the limit of his endurance. But that could not be helped.

The officer steeled himself. He would have to push Michael further.

Kirsch put his hand on Michael's arm and called his name.

Michael came awake with a start. He felt incredibly tired, and he was acutely and uncomfortably aware of all his injuries. His ribs throbbed with every breath. But the eyes that looked into the Major's face were clear and focused.

The drug had worn off, and Michael remembered everything.

This time he did not flinch away when his captor bent over him and began to release him from the restraints. When that was done, Kirsch helped Michael to sit up.

Michael stifled a groan and leaned back, closing his eyes. When he opened them again, it was to see Kirsch holding out a cup of water to him.

Michael drank greedily, some of the water spilling down on his chest.

Kirsch took the empty cup from him. "Better?" he said.

"Yes," Michael replied. The men exchanged a look of understanding.

"Thank you," Kirsch said simply.

Michael nodded. "How is he?" he asked.

Kirsch smiled. "He's out of the hospital now. The doctors say he will recover completely. He..." The officer's voice caught in his throat.

"Lucas had trouble speaking, but when I asked him if he wanted to tell me anything about.. about.."

"Yes?" said Michael softly.

Kirsch continued. "He told me he fought him. That he scratched him." The major's voice held an apology. "That's why I looked at you...."

"I see," said Michael, understanding now the other man's intense scrutiny of his injuries.

Kirsch leaned toward him again, his voice urgent, almost desperate. "Please, Michael, who did this?"

Michael shook his head, his eyes clouded in confusion. "I thought that YOU did.."

Kirsch's eyes widened in shock. "What do you mean?"

Michael sighed. "It was dark, but I was sure I saw a man in a red scarf..."

"Go on," said Kirsch with deadly calm.

"He had on a camel-colored coat. There was a gold pin in the center of his scarf..."

"What else?" demanded Kirsch. "Would you recognize him if you saw him?"

Michael paused. "I don't know.. Maybe. Maybe not..." He closed his eyes, thinking. He played back the scene in his mind.

Michael sat up abruptly. "I think that I would recognize his voice if I heard it again.."

The other man let out a gasp. "You're sure?"

Michael nodded. "Yes," he said. "Positive."

Michael closed his eyes and rested his head back against the pillow, his weariness again overcoming him. His breathing slowed to a regular rhythm and once again he fell into an exhausted sleep.

Major Kirsch smiled to himself and left his prisoner undisturbed. Eagerly he strode to the door and spoke to the guard outside.

"I have a few tasks for you to do, Soldier," he said.

"Yessir."

When he was done detailing his orders to the guard, Kirsch smiled again. "If you carry this out to my satifaction, I believe there will be a promotion in it for you..."

The subordinate was startled, then grinned. "Yessir! Thank you, Sir!"

He saluted the Major, then turned on his heel, scurrying off to carry out his assignment.

Kirsch smiled after him. He was still smiling when he returned to his office to carry out a few tasks of his own.

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

The Major's plans were put into place quickly. His soldiers scurried through the halls, hastening to carry out his orders.

The nescesary phone call had been made, an invitation extended and accepted. Now the only thing left for Kirsch to do was to wait for his 'guest' to arrive.

Kirsch paced in his office from the window to his desk and then back again. He needed to stay calm, he told himself. For perhaps the twentieth time that morning, he checked the weapon in his shoulder holster. It was loaded and ready.

He heard the sound of a car engine outside the window and looked out. His guest was arriving in a large, dark sedan of a recent and expensive model.

Kirsch bared his teeth, but not in a smile. He grimaced like a wolf caught up in the blood-lust of the hunt. Again, he checked his weapon and waited.

A few minutes later, one of Kirsch's soldiers knocked briskly on the door and swung it open.

"Major Lassiter is here to see you, Sir," he announced.

Kirsch nodded. "Thank you, soldier. Go get the prisoner and bring him here."

The man saluted and left.

Kirsch turned to greet his fellow officer, ushering him into his office.

"Major Kirsch, good to see you again," said the cold-voiced man in the red scarf and camel coat. A gold pin gleamed at his throat.

Kirsch had met Lassiter briefly once before, at a top level meeting of Red Cell officers. Major Lassiter was the only other Red Cell leader of a high enough rank to wear that particular insignia in a three hundred mile radius.

Kirsch smiled at the man whom he was sure had raped his child and left him for dead.

"Come in, please," said Kirsch.

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

Michael woke up, startled, at the sound of the door opening. He had been dreaming of her again. He dreamt that he had been kissing Nikita's sweet, tender mouth and that she was holding him, stroking his face with such gentleness.....

"Get up," ordered a gruff voice from the doorway. It was the soldier who had beaten him the day before.

Michael swung his legs to the side of the bed, sitting up stiffly. His ribs still hurt when he moved suddenly.

Since his interview with Major Kirsch, they had treated him well. He had been given food and some clothes to wear, and, except for one visit from a Red Cell doctor, Michael had been left entirely alone.

"Come on, come on," the soldier urged. "The Major wants to show off his prime prisoner to some visiting brass. Don't keep him waiting.."

Michael slowly stood up and pushed a wayward lock of russet hair out of his eyes. A frisson of apprehension went through him.

He knew Major Kirsch had protected him so far and would try to find a way to help him if he could. Now Michael wondered if the Major had been out-ranked and ordered to hand him over to some higher-ups in Red Cell. There were many in Red Cell that would be eager to break a top Section One operative and get his secrets.

Michael decided he would ask Kirsch to kill him before that happened.

"Let's go," said the guard.

Squaring his shoulders, Michael followed the soldier out of the room and down the hallway to Kirsch's office.

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

The guard pushed Michael roughly into the room and then took a position near the door. He grinned in anticipation. Finally, he thought, this bastard will get what he deserves.

"That will be all, Soldier," Major Kirsch told him. "You're free to join the others."

Dissapointed but obedient, the guard nodded and left.

Michael stood quietly in the center of the room, his eyes downcast. He could feel the intensity of the gaze of the Red Cell officers boring into him.

He heard one of them walk behind him, circling him in a close inspection. Michael didn't turn around, keeping his eyes on the floor.

"Well, Major, what do you think of him?" said Kirsch.

He's not that impressive, is he?" sneered Lassiter in his cold voice. "And your men have damaged him a bit."

He gave a haughty laugh. "When I take him back with me, I hope he doesn't bleed too much on the upholstery...."

Michael's face went white. He knew that voice. His head snapped up and he turned to look at the man behind him.

He saw the red scarf and the gold pin. He saw the camel coat, took in the man's height and the shape of his face, the set of his shoulders.

It was him. Michael recognized the child killer.

"You BASTARD!" yelled Michael. He lunged forward, grabbing Lassiter by his lapels and slamming him up against the wall.

Lassiter, unprepared for the assault, put up little resistance as Michael put his hands around his throat and began to choke him.

"Stop," said Major Kirsch, pulling out his gun from his holster.

Michael, enraged, ignored the Major and continued to throttle Lassiter, who was making anguished choking noises in his throat.

Suddenly, Michael felt the hard barrel of Kirsch's gun in his back. "I said stop."

Reluctantly, Michael released his grip on Lassiter's neck and took a step back, breathing raggedly. He threw Kirsch a pleading look.

Kirsch's eyes were tormented, but his voice was steely and resolute. He pointed his gun at Michael again. "Back off," he ordered.

Michael swallowed hard and obeyed, raising his hands and moving several steps backwards.

Lassiter coughed and rubbed his neck. He shook his head and managed to smirk triumphantly at Michael. His smile faded when he turned to look at Kirsch, who was no longer aiming the gun at Michael, but straight at him.

Lassiter gasped. Seeing the expression in Kirsch's eyes, he raised his hands in horror.

Without turning his head, his eyes locked with Lassiter's, Kirsch spoke to his prisoner. "I'm sorry, Michael," he said levely. "He's MINE."

He raised his gun and fired, emptying the entire clip into Lassiter's chest.

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

Kirsch let out a sigh and slumped against his desk, the gun slipping out of his hand and clattering on the floor.

Michael stared at Lassiter's still body for a moment, then looked back at Kirsch.

"Thank you, Michael," his captor said softly.

Michael nodded. They stood quietly in an almost companionable silence for several minutes.

Finally, Kirsch roused himself from his reverie and opened his desk drawer. He took out a small black device and offered it to Michael.

"Here," he said.

It was Michael's comm-unit, the one he had removed from his ear and placed in his coat pocket on the day the mission had so disastrously failed, the day his whole team was killed.

It seemed like a long time ago.

Michael took the device from Kirsch, giving him a puzzled look.

The Major smiled. "It's still functional. You can use it to contact your people once you leave the compound."

Michael looked up, startled. "Leave? I don't understand.."

"It's simple, really," explained Kirsch. "Major Lassiter came to transport you to another substation and was unfortunately.... careless about security. You managed to get his gun from him, kill him, and escape..."

Kirsch walked to the office door and opened it. "Take the corridor to the left and follow it all the way to end. You'll find your Section vehicle parked outside."

Seeing Michael's stunned expression, Kirsch smiled. "Don't worry. I've sent everyone on practice manoeuvers in the field. No one will stop you."

"Go on," he urged when Michael made no move to leave. "Get out of here."

Michael nodded and walked to the door, but when he got there, he stopped and looked back.

Section One operative and Red Cell officer looked at each other, their eyes meeting across the war zone. Unlikely as it seemed, these enemies had called a truce, declared a peace.

Perhaps established a brotherhood.

Kirsch smiled. "Good luck to you, Soldier," he said.

Michael nodded. "The same to you, mon ami."

He turned and walked swiftly down the corridor, escaping his Red Cell prison to return to the prison of Section One.

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

When Michael reached the rendez-vous point, a rescue team from Section was there waiting for him.

Before he had pulled his vehicle to a stop, Nikita came flying out of the van to greet him.

Michael got out of his car stiffly, his ribs still aching. Nikita's face fell when she saw the extent of the bruises on his cheek.

She put her hand on his arm. "I'm sorry I wasn't with you," she said gently.

Michael looked at her tenderly. He had thought of her every day. Dreamed of her. Longed for her. Been comforted by her memory.

She HAD been with him.

"Moi, aussi," he said softly.

His loneliness and his suffering must have shown on his face.

"Come," she said. "Lean on me."

With a supporting arm under his, she helped him to the van.

"That's it," Nikita encouraged. "We'll get you home." She smiled at him. It was the same loving, welcoming smile he had dreamed about.

Reveling in her nearness, her warmth, her caring touch, Michael paused and closed his eyes, sighing.

Nikita looked at him in alarm. "Michael, are you all right?"

He opened his eyes and smiled at her. "Yes," he said. "I'm fine now."

She smiled back, all her tremendous love for him in her eyes.

"Good," she said.

Their arms around each other, they continued homeward to Section One.

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