Inside the crowded restaurant it was warm, bright, and noisy, but for Camilla Owens, who sat alone in a booth in the back, it might as well have been a dark cave she was in, as dark and as cold as her thoughts.

She shivered, and gulped down another sip of her coffee. God, she thought. Sometimes I really hate my job. Especially today, when the news is all bad.

She closed her eyes and thought back to the past few months. It had all started when she had gotten that plum assignment from her newspaper to cover the inaugural ball of the new premier, Jovan Mijovich, in a war-torn middle european country. At the time, she had been thrilled to cover such an important and happy event. It was a journalist's dream.

Too bad the evening hadn't ended as happily as it began.

Camilla shuddered again, and pulled her sweater more tightly around her, as she thought of Maria Brunner, and the story she had told them- of being raped, tortured, blinded, and left for dead by Mijovich.

Maria's father, out for justice for what Mijovich had done to his family, had held them all at gunpoint- Camilla, the other reporters present at the ball, Premier Mijovich himself and the Premier's lady-companion. This last hostage was an incredibly poised blonde, who somehow talked their kidnappers into surrendering, and letting them and Mijovich go free. Nikita, her name was.

"Bitch..." Camilla swore under her breath, thinking of Nikita now.

So cool, so convincing, so earnest, with her big innocent blue eyes and her false sincerity. It turned Camilla's stomach to think of her, knowing what she knew now.

Camilla, haunted by Maria's story, couldn't let it rest. She had dug deeper in the months since then, and what she had found out disgusted her.

She knew now that everything Nikita had said about Mijovich was a lie. And everything that Brunner had said about him was true. Maria's father had been right about Mijovich. He was a butcher, and a rapist, and a murderer.

And Nikita had defended him. Had saved his miserable, worthless life. But Mijovich wouldn't be enjoying the freedom Nikita had won him for long.

Camilla smiled to herself grimly and finished her coffee, then tossed a bill on the table and got up to leave. Before the week was out, everyone in the world would know just what kind of man Mijovich really was. Camilla would break the story, and then it would be over. That little rat-faced pig of a man would get what was coming to him.

Mijovich would no longer be in power, ruling over the people he had deceived into thinking he wasn't the viscious torturer and killer of women that he denied being. Camilla was going to enjoy bringing him down.

Lost in her own dark thoughts, Camilla did not notice the auburn-haired man in black that followed her out of the restaurant. She was almost to her car when he slipped up behind her.

Before she could turn around, he had pressed something hard and cold against her ribs. "Come with me, please," he said politely, in a soft, French-accented voice. Camilla gasped and then turned her head to meet her assailant's glittering green eyes. What she saw in them made her give up any idea of running, fighting, or trying to escape.

"Okay," she acquiesced with a trembling sigh, staring with fear into the cold, handsome mask of his face. "Whatever you want..."

He smiled at her, the corners of his mouth just barely turning up, as if he was unaccustomed to mirth.

"Good," he replied, pleased with her response. "This way."

Shuddering again, Camilla staggered along in front of him, her knees shaking, and obediently got into the large, black vehicle that had pulled up beside them.

Unseen and unnoticed by anyone that could help her, the doors of the van clanged ominously closed behind Michael and his prey and dissappeared silently into the night.

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

"Who are you?" the prisoner demanded, swiveling her head to look at first one captor, then the other, when the black hood came off. The first she recognized as the soft-voiced man from the parking lot. The other was a stunningly beautiful, elegant brunette, who seemed as surreally polite as her companion.

"I apologize for interrupting your evening, Miss Owens," the woman began with a smile. "But we needed to have a little talk with you."

Camilla looked around the stark white room and then down at the hard metal chair she found herself cuffed to, and couldn't resist a sarcastic reply.

"No problem," she quipped. "I was sort of bored, anyway..." She smiled brightly but falsely at Michael. "Nothing like being kidnapped by a handsome stranger to liven up a dull night..."

Michael looked at the dark-haired young reporter, admiring her courage. "We don't plan on hurting you," he assured her softly, not returning her smile. "....Unless you don't co-operate," he added.

His words did nothing to calm her. Camilla began shivering again. "Co-operate HOW?" She shouted in alarm, panting rapidly. "Who ARE you? What the hell do you want?"

"We want you to tell us everything you know about Jovan Mijovich," said the brunette, her voice no longer polite but icy and hard-edged. "All of it, and don't leave anything out."

Camilla's upper lip curled in disgust and she lifted her chin defiantly. "Who?" she said, feigning ignorance. "I don't know anyone by that name.."

Madeleine stepped forward swiftly and slapped her hard across the face. Camilla's head snapped back and her vision faded to black for a moment. When she could see straight again, she glared into Madeleine's brown eyes, the defiant look back on her face.

"OK, so I know who he is. And I am doing a story on him," Camilla conceded reluctantly. "But I can't tell you any more than that." She shook her head emphatically. "I'm a journalist," Camilla stated flatly. "I can't reveal my sources." Michael stepped closer to the captive in the chair. His hands were folded together in front of him, and his stance was not overtly threatening, but his very nearness made her quiver in fear.

"We're not interested in your sources," Michael told her in the calm, polite voice of before. He leaned forward until his face was inches from hers, his hands resting on the arms of her chair. "Just tell us what you know about him."

Camilla gasped, finding the soft voice and polite veneer over the steely determination incredibly more menacing than outright violence or anger would have been.

"All right, I'll tell you," The prisoner said, doing her best to stare back unflinchingly into the green eyes. "Jovan Mijovich is a rapist and killer. He gets some kind of sick power trip from torturing and maiming his victims. And the younger and more helpless they are, the more he likes it."

Michael let out a sigh and stood up, taking a step back from the prisoner. He turned to Madeleine, giving her a nod.

"So," he said in a level tone, "she knows about Vacul and Maria Brunner."

Madeleine returned his look, then addressed Camilla. "Regrettable as it was, the destruction of the village and its people was only one incident, a long time ago.Things have changed.

Mijovich is now the only voice of reason and stability in the region. Revealing his past... weaknesses would only bring more pain and instability to a war-weary people."

She lowered her voice to an intense, threatening whisper. "You must see that exposing him now is not in their best interests," she warned, "..or yours."

Madeleine's words only served to anger the journalist more. Uncowed, she shook her head in disgust at her two captors. "I can't believe you claim to care about the people of his country, and yet you are willing to let this go on..." she said in an outraged tone.

Michael tilted his head to the side and regarded her thoughtfully. "It's in the past," he said softly. "It's over. Maria is fine now...."

Camilla's temper flared. "This isn't about the past, or about Maria!" she shouted, dark eyes flashing. "Vacul is old news. I'm talking about what Mijovich is doing NOW, today...."

Madeleine raised an eyebrow in surprise. Her lips tightened in a grim line and she stepped closer to Camilla. "Go on," she encouraged her. "Just what is it that you think Mijovich is doing today?"

The journalist looked up at her, her voice just as grim as Madeleine's expression. "I don't THINK, I KNOW. I have proof..." Camilla swallowed hard and went on. "Mijovich hasn't stopped. What he did in Vacul, what he did to Maria- it's still going on. Mijovich has women brought in to the palace, and he plays with them. Rapes them. Scars them.

Sometimes he kills them, sometimes he lets them go..." Tears filled the reporter's dark eyes and fell down her cheeks. "I know. I've talked to some of the survivors..."

She took a deep breath and faced her captors defiantly again. "These women, his victims-- they're my sources. I can't tell you who they are, but I can tell you they DO exist. Their pain is real."

She met Madeleine's eyes and stared at her hard. "You can't tell me you think he should be allowed to get away with it," she challenged. "You can't tell me I should just pretend it isn't happening and remain silent?"

Madeleine held her gaze for a long moment, the air thick with tension. The silent battle of wills went on, but in the end, it was Madeleine who had all the power, and held the upper hand.

"That's exactly what I'm telling you, Miss Owens," the older woman finally replied, voice cool and unemotional. "We will release you now, and you will forget that you ever investigated this story. You will forget that you ever found out anything at all... unflattering about Premier Mijovich, is that clear?"

Camilla closed her eyes, then riveted her gaze on Madeleine again. "And if I can't forget about it?" she asked defiantly. "What happens then?"

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

When Michael returned to his office after the interrogation of Camilla Owens was complete, Nikita was waiting for him.

When he opened the door he saw her, sitting in his chair at the desk, arms crossed across her chest, eyes blazing in indignation, angrier than he'd ever seen her.

He had barely gotten past the threshold when she let him have it. "How could you do this, Michael?" she demanded. She shook her head, voice full of disgust. "This is truly despicable, even for you..."

He gave her the blank stare for a moment, then carefuly closed the door behind him and stepped forward into the room. "What are you talking about?" he asked placidly. "I don't know to what you are referring.." he told her in all sincerity.

His calmness seemed to infuriate her more, and she scowled at him and leaned forward in the chair, angrily twisting the monitor screen of his computer around so he could see the image displayed there.

"I'm REFERRING to THIS," she said in a scathing tone. "How could you do this, Michael?"

Michael lowered his eyes from her angry face to look at the screen. It showed the white room, and the metal chair, with its current occupant- the reporter, Camilla Owens.

Now it was Michael who was angry, at this invasion of privacy in his office, and at Nikita's intrusion into his private domain, and what was supposed to be his covert surveillance of Section's prisoners.

The only sign that betrayed his ire, however, was a slight flicker of angry light in his eyes. "What were you doing on my computer?" he asked tensely.

Nikita, much to his annoyance, had the nerve to look offended at his question. Her eyes wide and innocent, she explained defensively, "I didn't come in here to spy on you, Michael," she told him. "Birkoff gave me a disk to bring to you; he said you needed to upload it immediately.."

She stood up from the chair and came toward him, perching on the edge of the desk. She tapped the monitor with one finger. "When I came in to put the disk on your desk, THIS was already on the screen..."

She turned challenging blue eyes up to his. "Were you even planning on telling me about Mijovich, Michael?" she asked him in a hurt tone. "That he is still up to his old habits?"

Michael closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very weary. "No, I wasn't going to tell you about him," he answered truthfully.

"Why not?" she yelled angrily, straightening up from the desk. "Why not?"

He opened his eyes to look at her sadly. "Because there is nothing you can do about Mijovich," he said softly, then added in a whisper, "And because I knew knowing about it would only hurt you."

Tears started in her eyes, and she slumped heavily into the office chair beside him in front of the desk.

"I should have stopped him," she said in an angushed whisper. "Instead I saved him, so that he could go on to do what he's doing now...." she sobbed. "Hurting all those women...."

Michael took a step closer, but refrained from touching her. "It's not your fault, Nikita," he said gently. "You had no choice...."

She wiped at her eyes angrily and flinched visibly at his words. "Is that your excuse, Michael?" she threw at him. "That you had no choice?"

"Is that what you're going to say," she challenged, "after you kill Camilla Owens?"

Michael stared at her for a moment, then sighed. "I'm not going to kill Miss Owens," he explained patiently. "She is going to be released in a few hours...."

"As long as she doesn't interfere," he added, "No harm will come to her."

Nikita shook her head in disgust. "And if she does try to interfere?" she demanded. "What then?"

Michael stared into the defiant blue gaze for a minute, but did not answer. He walked with smooth unhurried grace to the door and held it open for her.

"I have work to do, Nikita," he said softly, dismissing her. She nodded, her jaw jutted out mulishly, and jumped up angrily from her chair. She strode toward him, but stopped just short of the door, her face just inches from his.

"That's right, Michael," she hissed out a challenge to him. "Nothing's going to happen to her. Do you hear me?" she demanded. "I'm going to see to it personally!"

His only answer was another blank stare, although his stomach was suddenly knotted with dread. "Goodbye, Nikita," he said softly.

She stared back at him for a moment, then with one last glare, she stomped past him out of the room.

When she had gone, Michael closed the door behind her, and took his seat behind his desk, then contemplated the image of the frightened young journalist on his monitor.

"Merde.." he swore under his breath, feeling conflicted and confused. He addressed the image on the screen. "Camilla, what the hell am I going to do about you?"

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

Shaken, and feeling very wobbly in the knees, Camilla Owens collapsed onto the overstuffed chair in her living room. It was wonderful to be home again, she thought with a sigh, now that the ordeal was over. It was wonderful to be safe. No, she thought. She would never really feel safe again. She put her head in her hands and then the trembling began, and after a few moments, the tears that she had held back until now followed, overwhelming her.

It was still night, just going on two a.m. She had been abducted by the handsome stranger around 7:30 in the evening, so that was not even seven full hours since the whole nightmare had begun. But had it really ended?

Camilla wiped at her eyes and leaned back in the chair, a grim expression settling over her features, just as a sudden calm determination settled over her heart.

She knew now how it must have been for those women. The women Mijovich had used and toyed with.

She knew now how it felt to be kidnapped and imprisoned. She knew what it felt like to be totally helpless, at someone else's mercy. She knew how it felt to tremble with fear, locked in a room where no one could hear you if you screamed.

She knew what it was like to wait for the next blow, the next slap, wondering when your kidnappers were going to kill you.

Camilla let out a shaky sigh, and then stood, headed upstairs for her bedroom. She had been lucky. Her captors, unlike Mijovich, had not been interested in raping her, or maiming her. They only wanted to scare the living sh*t out of her, and that they had succeeded in doing very well.

But the effect they really wanted to have, to get her to drop her determination to see Mijovich brought to justice, had back-fired. Now that she had had a taste, first-hand, of what it must have been like for his victims, nothing was going to stop her from confronting him with his crimes.

She began tossing clothes in her suitcase, and carefully took her passport out of her top dresser drawer and laid it among her things that she was going to take with on her little trip.

A trip to see Mijovich. She realized now that to just release the information about him in the press was too... unsatisfying. Her fight had now become personal, and that required a personal meeting, a showdown, face to face.

She knew that her kidnapppers, whoever they were, would try to stop her. They had said that they would kill her.

Camilla tossed the last item of clothing in the suitcase and then zipped it shut. It didn't matter, she thought. She was going to stop Mijovich, or die trying. That was all she knew.

With a determined look on her face, no longer trembling, but incredibly serene inside, Camilla hauled her suitcase off the bed and went downstairs and out of the house, heading for her car.

The street was quiet at this early hour, her neighbors asleep, their houses dark. When she unlocked the trunk of her car and tossed her suitcase inside, then slammed it closed, it sounded so loud in Camilla's ears that she was surprised the whole neighborhood did not come awake at the noise.

She looked around uneasily in the darkness, then walked to the driver's side door and opened it. She paused before getting into the car, all the hair on the back of her neck standing up. She could hear no one, could see no one, but somehow, she was sure HE was there, watching her.

She swallowed hard and gathered her courage, cleared her throat, then boldly called out to him.

"Hey! Frenchman!" she said in what she hoped was a flippant tone.

"It's you, isn't it?"

She twirled in a circle, scanning the shadows for him, but saw nothing. The night remained quiet.

"Come on, Green Eyes," she challenged boldly. "I know you're out there...."

"Don't be shy," she yelled after a minute, raising her voice a little louder. "Come out where I can see you!"

There was still no response, but she knew with certainty that she was not alone in the still darkness.

"Hey!" she shouted, becoming frustrated and beginning to be a little afraid. "Frenchman! Green Eyes! Mr. Super Spy! Whoever the hell you are! I want to talk to you, dammit!"

She scanned the darkness again, then almost jumped out of her skin when a figure all in black emerged from the shadows and was suddenly standing just inches in front of her.

"As you wish," said the soft-accented voice politely. "Let's have a little talk."

Camilla gasped, then backed up against the car door as far as she could, startled and terrified into speechlessness. She stood still, panting hard, staring at him, mesmerized.

"What is it you wanted to tell me?" the figure said gently. Camilla closed her eyes as she slumped back against the door, all the air whooshing out of her lungs. It was now or never. She knew what she had to do.

Taking a leap of faith, following her instincts, she faced him, looked him squarely in the eye, and found her voice again.

"This may sound crazy, Frenchman," she confessed in a rush, "But somehow, I got the impression you don't like Mijovich any more than I do..."

"So," she continued in a trembling whisper, "I think I can trust you. You'll probably think I'm insane, Green Eyes, but I have the feeling that if I asked you to help me to stop Mijovich, you wouldn't say no, would you?"

The smallest smile curved the figure's full lips. "You're right," he answered softly. "I wouldn't say no."

Camilla smiled broadly, and then broke into relieved laughter.

"That's great, Mr. Super Sp...." Before she completed the word, she sobered a little and looked seriously into his handsome face.

"Uh, you know, if we're going to be partners on this mission, don't you think I ought to know your name?" she asked.

Her companion smiled once more. "Again, you are right," he answered softly, then went around to the passenger side of the car, and got in. She slid behind the wheel, closed her door, and started the engine.

"You can call me Michael," he said politely. "Let's go."

Camilla laughed again and put the car in gear, pulling away from the curb, and together the two unlikely team members sped on into the night.

They were unaware of the third team-member that tailed behind them in a separate car. Like them, the blonde behind the wheel was smiling.

"Make that Mr. 'Old Softie' Super Spy," Nikita said outloud, then laughed, and followed her comrades into the night.

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

Exhausted, the two travelers found a quiet booth in the back of an airport lounge and ordered breakfast, even though it was three in the afternoon. It was their fourth airport and third country of the day.

The shifting time-zones and the rapid disorientation of miles traveled and borders crossed was somehow soothed by the simple, ordinary act of sitting down to a meal. Camilla felt herself finally beginning to relax.

The lounge was mostly deserted, it being too early for the drinkers and too late for the lunch crowd. She and Michael had the place to themselves. It was the first opportunity the two teammates had had to really talk to each other without being overheard.

Camilla stirred her coffee and looked shyly up at her companion. "I really do understand, you know, Michael," she commented desultorily. "I'm not as bull-headed as you might think...."

Michael regarded her curiously, and leaned forward towards her across the table, keeping his voice lower than even his usual soft tones. "What do you mean?" he whispered. "Bull-headed about what?"

She leaned toward him until their foreheads almost touched, in order to keep their conversation at as low a decibel level as possible. Anyone watching them would have taken them not for conspirators, but as two young people that were fascinated with each other.

"I'm not totally blind to the fact that if Mijovich is deposed, his country will be plunged into chaos again," Camilla whispered. "I understand that's why your... organization, whoever the hell you people are, wanted to stop me.."

Michael looked down into his coffee cup, unable to meet her eyes. He debated about whether to tell her the truth, then decided that she was a strong woman, and could handle it. What she had been through today had proven that.

"And you must understand that I am still under an obligation to stop you, if you try to have him ousted as Premier of his country," Michael warned her, the glittering green eyes again meeting hers.

She stared back at him, unafraid. "Like I said, I don't want him deposed, so we have that goal in common- to maintain the stability of his country, and of that volatile region in general..."

She smiled at him suddenly, a beautiful, impish smile of delight. "We also have matching personal agendas, don't we?"

She sipped her coffee and then tilted her head, watching him thoughtfully.

"What we both want is to stop him from carrying on his extra-cirricular activities, and concentrate instead on affairs of state."

"Exactly," replied Michael, then added, "Preferably, in as discreet a way as possible. Understand?"

Camilla laughed in delight. "Oh, yes, indeed, Michael we do think alike.." She recovered from her mirth and then looked at him, suddenly solemn.

"You may think that because I'm a reporter that I'm in this for some sort of personal glory, that I want my name in the headlines as the woman that brought Mijovich down, but that's not the case..."

She shook her head and looked down at the tablecloth, struggling with her tears. " I don't want glory, and I don't want vengeance. After hearing what those women went through, after talking to his victims, I just want it to stop, that's all..."

She looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. "I just want it to stop..."

Gently, Michael leaned forward and brushed his hand across her cheek, catching a tear-drop on his thumb and wiping it away.

"Oui," he said softly. "Moi aussi. We'll stop him together, okay?"

Camilla smiled tremulously through her tears. "Okay," she agreed.

She wondered for the hundreth time that day why she trusted him so. He had kidnapped her, threatened her; he had made it very clear that if she crossed a certain line he would stop her, maybe kill her. He was certainly capable of that, she knew instinctively. Michael was a dangerous man. Why? Why did she feel she was totally safe placing her life in his hands?

With his hand on her face now, she thought maybe it was the gentleness in him that drew her, in his voice, in his touch. Maybe it was the strength in those hands, in that face. Maybe it was the compassion that she had seen in his eyes when he had first learned about Mijovich's young victims.

No matter how he tried to hide it, behind his aloof mask and his cold exterior, inside, Michael had a warm heart, a heart that could feel pain for others.

Camilla had not gotten to be a good reporter without using her astuteness and keen powers of observation, and her gut instincts. And those instincts were telling her that if she just trusted Michael, everything would be all right.

"So, Frenchman," she teased him, smiling. "Just so we're not at cross-purposes, why don't you tell me just what you have planned for the Premier?"

Michael smiled back. He trusted her as well, but his nature was still innately cautious. "You first," he countered in a soft voice, his eyes wide and innocent.

She laughed again, shaking her head. "You're really infuriatingly impossible, you know that?"

Michael looked confused. "Impossible?" he asked. "Infuriating? In what way?"

She shook her head again. "Well, Michael," she teased, "All I can say is, if you're always this open and generous with your words and thoughts, you must drive your girl-friend nuts trying to figure you out..."

Michael stiffened, the last traces of his smile fading to be replaced by the blank mask. The remark had hit home; he knew the fact that he hid things from Nikita had hurt her, but that had never been his intention. He saw his silence as his way of protecting her. Nikita had never understood that about him. Instead, his reticence had only caused her to resent him.

Camilla saw immediately that her remark had stung him and she was quick to apologize. "I'm sorry, Michael," she said softly. "I didn't mean that as a personal attack. I'm sure your girlfriend understands you just fine." Camilla grinned, and couldn't help teasing him again. "Even if you don't talk much," she added impishly.

In spite of himself, Michael managed to smile back, letting her know that all was forgiven. Then, with obvious relief, he changed the subject. "You were saying, about your plan to stop Mijovich?"

Camilla nodded, and began to explain her ideas. At a table some distance away, a tall figure in black, with a black scarf swirled concealingly around bright, blonde hair, slipped from the restaurant and out into the busy airport concourse, getting lost in the crowd.

Nikita stumbled to an out-of-the way chair in a waiting area, jerked a handkerchief from her coat pocket and dabbed at her eyes. She knew she should keep her two teammates in sight, but somehow she couldn't bear to watch them any longer.

She hadn't been able to make out what Michael and Camilla had been saying, but the growing rapport between the two was unmistakably clear.

Camilla obviously understood him. Something Nikita had never been able to do. Hating herself for her jealousy, and helpless to stop the feelings of inadequacy that flooded her, Nikita spent the rest of the time before her flight was called trying to regain her composure.

She was still crying when, seated unseen by her companions several rows behind them, the jet took off on the last leg of their journey.

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

When at last they arrived at their destination, Michael and Camilla had no trouble gaining access to the palace or gaining an audience with their target, Premier Jovan Mijovich. The stocky, balding leader, though somewhat surprised, was delighted to see them.

To Mijovich, Michael represented the convenient security force of Section One, that had kept him in power and saved his life on three different occasions from terrorists attacks, once from Legion, once from the free-lancer Griffin, and once from the farmers from Vacul, the families of his victims.

As far as Mijovich was concerned, anyone from Section One was on his side, and gave him tacit approval to do anything he wanted. He greeted Michael like an old friend.

"Come in, Come in, my dear Boy!" Mijovich invited, ushering the couple into his palatial private quarters and indicating that they should take a seat on the gilt and brocade couch in front of the fireplace. Michael and Camilla exchanged a look, then sat.

Mijovich took a chair opposite them and beamed a great smile. "Wonderful to see you again," he said, nodding at the silent, blank-faced Michael. Then he turned his attention to Camilla, taking her hand in his and patting it. Camilla froze at his touch- it was all she could do not to yank her hand back from his in disgust. Mijovich seemed not to notice her revulsion.

"Of course I remember you, too, my dear," he said soothingly. "You were present that awful night when the inauguration was disrupted by those rude, gun-toting thugs..."

He shook his head and made a tsk-ing sound, patted her hand once more, and then released it, to Camilla's vast relief.

"I trust you are recovered now from your ordeal of that night?" he asked, his voice oily with his false solicitousness.

Camilla wiped the hand he had touched down her skirt and looked Mijovich in the eye. "Actually, Mr. Premier, if you want to know the truth, I HAVEN'T recovered from that night," she answered softly, but sternly. "It's about that night that I have come here to see you."

Mijovich raised an eyebrow, and turned a curious face to Michael. "Really?" he said in an ingenuous tone. "Is there some unfinished business I should know about?"

Michael stared back at the seemingly innocent Mijovich and then took a small computer disk from his pocket and held it up for the Premier to see. "No," he answered in an ominous tone.

"Your business is now definitely finished."

"And now," said Camilla with a grim set to her mouth, "The world will know all about just how dirty that business is."

Mijovich tensed, his eyes narrowing as his gaze darted from the disk, to his two visitors, and then back again.

"Just what is it you are talking about?" he demanded, no longer pretending to be the smarmy host. "What exactly is on that disk?"

Camilla and Michael stood up, both holding Mijovich's gaze. "The disk has the truth about you, Mijovich," Camilla told him in an outraged voice. "It has the record of all the women you have raped, and tortured, all the women you killed, or left for dead- just like Maria Brunner...."

Mijovich angrily shook his head, quick to defend himself. "But Maria told you that I was not the one that raped her," the politician protested. "You heard her say so yourself!"

Michael looked disgusted, and his lip curled disdainfully. "She only denied the truth because she was not willing to be responsible for more bloodshed in her country," said Michael softly. "But we all know you did it, and that your... activities didn't stop in Vacul with Maria."

Mijovich stared back at Michael, his eyes growing cold and his face hardening into a cruel mask. All trace of the effusive host was gone, to be replaced by Mijovich's true self- the ruthless, psychotic killer.

The Premier laughed. "So I take my pleasure in what you might call exotic ways," he sneered. "So I get a little rough sometimes. So what?"

He waved his hand dismissively. "They are only women, after all. And what leader hasn't done the same from time to time?" he went on in a reasonable tone, as if his irrational words made sense.

"I think I am entitled to my pleasures," Mijovich continued. "With all I have done for my country, I think I am owed that much...."

Camilla, enraged, snatched the disk from Michael's hand and shook it in Mijovich's face. "You're a sick Bastard, Mijovich! And I think the world is entitled to know just how sick you really are!"

Mijovich, to Camilla's fury, just laughed at her again. "Ah, so you release this news to the world.. So what? No one will believe you..."

Camilla shook her head and challenged him. "They'll believe this!" she shouted, shaking the disk once more. "I have proof! Evidence that.."

Mijovich laughed louder than before. "EVIDENCE, you say?" He shook his head, still laughing merrily. "The rantings of hysterical women, only. My people have seen this before-- mud-slinging, rumors meant to discredit me, impossible stories...."

"Go ahead, my dear," Mijovich challenged her. "Publish your stories. No one will take them seriously..."

He shoved her away from, making no attempt to wrest the disk form her grasp. "Keep your disk," he yelled at her. "Do what you want. Just get out!"

Michael stepped forward, putting himself between Camilla and Mijovich. "No, he said in a steely tone. "We're not leaving yet."

He had watched grimly as Camilla's plan to get Mijovich to stop by threatening to publish her information had failed miserably. Mijovich was obviously not threatened in the least by the reporter, or by the press, or by public opinion.

But maybe he would feel threatened by the wrath of Section One. Michael took a deep breath and hoped fervently that Plan B would more effective than the team's first effort.

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

Michael stepped closer to Mijovich, blocking the Premier's line of sight to Camilla with his body. The men were within inches of each other; now, out necessity because of the difference in their heights, Michael literally looked down his nose at Mijovich.

"You think you can play with impunity with your public, but don't make the same mistake when it comes to Section," Michael threatened in a low voice. "Just because we have been lenient with you until now, doesn't mean there are no limits on what you can do..."

Michael's lip curled disdainfully. "There is a line, and you are dangerously close to crossing over it," he went on in a hoarse whisper. "If you try our patience further, we will be swift to take steps against you..."

To Michael's chagrin, his attempts at intimidation did not have the effect he had desired. Mijovich had listened to the words with an impassive mask, but when Michael had finished, the Premier just laughed. In his face.

"Oh, please, my dear Boy," Mijovich chuckled heartily. "Spare me your theatrics..."

The older man shook his head, overcome by mirth. "Not to say it wasn't a good performance, but, PLEASE!..." he chortled, "I was on the phone with the Agency, with George himself, in fact, just yesterday..."

He nodded, and stepped back away from Michael, going over to stand by the fireplace. "George and I had a most amicable chat..." Mijovich grinned. "Yes, we were on very friendly terms, indeed. I doubt I have anything to worry about from that quarter....."

His face hardened and he stared into Michael's face with an ugly sneer. "Section understands me. We have the same philosophy, if you will..." He smiled evilly again.

"We both believe that the sacrifice of a few innocents here and there is not a large price to pay to maintain the overall well-being of the masses."

With an arrogant smile, Mijovich dismissed his visitors. "It was nice to talk to you both, but this topic is really beginning to bore me...."

He sighed heavily, as if the burden of their rudeness was too much to bear. Mijovich waved them toward the door. "Please leave, before I grow even more annoyed and have you both thrown in prison...."

Michael clenched his jaw, and turned to Camilla. As a master stategist, he knew enough to know when the battle had been lost, for now, and it was time to retreat, regroup, and fight another day.

"Let's go," Michael said tensely through his teeth to his companion. He reached for Camilla to take her by the arm and lead her toward the door, but she pulled away from him.

"That's it?!" she shouted angrily at Michael, her eyes wide with shock. "You're going to leave, just like that?" she demanded loudly, pointing her finger at Mijovich. "You're just going to walk out of here and let that piece of slime get away with it?"

Michael's gaze caught hers and his eyes tried to convey a warning. He wasn't giving up, just falling back and re-grouping. Camilla didn't understand his message. She also didn't seem to realize the danger they were in, if Mijovich's temper flared higher.

All she knew was that she couldn't stand around and do nothing. Michael put his hand gently on her arm. "Let's go," he said again, this time more urgently.

His warning set her off. With a hoarse cry she jerked her arm from Michael's touch and launched herself at Mijovich, flailing her fists at his chest and face, crying raggedly, and trying to kick him.

"Camilla, no!" Michael cried, and stepped toward her, but it was too late.

Before he could help her, Mijovich had deftly deflected her blows, and in a moment had spun her around, twisted her arm up high behind her back, and held her immobile against his chest. With his free hand, he encircled Camilla's soft, slender throat.

Michael froze, and Camilla stopped struggling. This victory intoxicated Mijovich, and he laughed again, delighted with the surge of power he felt from their helplessness.

Michael, eyeing Mijovich warily, decided his only option was to beg. "Let her go," he pleaded softly. "Please..."

Mijovich smiled evily and shook his head."No, I've changed my mind. I don't want her to go after all. I think I'd like her to stay a while and... entertain me..." His grip on Camilla's throat tightened. She whimpered, and Mijovich's gaze raked the young reporter's body.

"She's very pretty, don't you think, Michael?" Mijovich taunted.

"Although, I don't think she's quite as spectacular as that blonde you had with you last time.... Nikita, that was her name, wasn't it?"

Michael stood still, but his mind was working furiously. He had been frisked for weapons before entering the palace, and he was now unarmed. But a gun wouldn't have helped him now, not with Camilla being held as shield in front of Mijovich. He watched the Premier carefully, searching for an opening to make his move.

Michael decided to play for time, and to distract the little terrorist by continuing the discussion of the topic Mijovich seemed so interested in.

"Yes, Nikita is quite.... special," Michael began softly, moving imperceptibly closer.

Mijovich sighed. "Ahh, yes, Nikita..." he said with genuine longing. "I have dreams about her sometimes..."

Michael's stomach churned, thinking about what those dreams might entail. He inched forward. "Dreams?" he choked out, encouraging Mijovich to elaborate.

Michael's eyes never left the hand at Camilla's throat, watching carefully, waiting for the Premier's grip to slacken, even slightly. He listened as Mijovich went on, even though the words sickened him.

"Yes, dreams," said Mijovich, sighing again. "Such a strong woman, so untamed, so free. A spitfire..."

"I imagine what it would be like to have all that untamed wildness at my command, all that beauty and rebelliousness under my control. All mine....." Mijovich sighed again, and with the sigh his grip loosened.

Michael made his move. He lunged forward, quick as a panther, leaping between Camilla and her captor.

Camilla felt herself dragged from Mijovich's grasp, then shoved away from him. The momentum of Michael's push sent her spiralling to the floor, and she looked hopefully back up at the two men, confident that Michael would have no trouble vanquishing his smaller, weaker opponent.

But she was wrong. Michael did not win.

She saw Mijovich touch his hand to Michael's neck, and then watched in horror as the taller man stiffened, let out a short gasp, jerked once, then collapsed heavily to the floor, unconscious.

Camilla crawled over to him, alarmed at his sudden stillness.

"Michael!" she cried, shaking him and running her hand over his chest, frantically checking for a heartbeat. "Oh, Michael!"

"He's not dead, my dear, only drugged," came Mijovich's smarmy voice behind her. The Premier held up a small, short needle in his hand and smiled at her.

"He'll be out for a while," he went on in a lascivious tone, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Long enough for us to have our little tryst, eh?"

Mijovich came toward her, stretching out his hand and licking his lips in anticipation. Camilla, frightened beyond anything she had ever felt before, shrank back from him, still clinging to Michael's still form.

But before her tormentor could reach her, the door was suddenly flung open and a figure appeared silhoutetted in the light. It was a figure out of the past, a figure out of Mijovich's dreams.

The Premier straightened, moving away from his prey and approaching the newcomer with outstretched arms and a rapt smile on his face.

"This is wonderful!" he said with a laugh. "Wonderful to see you again, my dear, dear Nikita!"

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

Nikita strode further into the room and shut the door behind her. Her gaze flickered over the prone figure of Michael and then met the eyes of the woman who knelt protectively by him. Camilla returned her look with a small nod of her head.

In that second of exchange, the women had communicated their understanding. Camilla had thought til now that Nikita was on Mijovich's side, but after looking into the depths of those blue eyes, she knew different.

She had seen Nikita's concern for Michael, her apprehension for Camilla, and her revulsion for Mijovich, all in that brief glance. Camilla also sensed that she and Nikita shared something else as well- a burning desire to see that this monster, this abuser and defiler of women, was stopped once and for all.

Mijovich did not notice the look, or the exchange of messages between the women. He was not a very perceptive man, or very intelligent. He had gotten where he was not because of his sensitivity, or brains, but because of his low cunning and feral ruthlessness. He could feign a pose of morality for the public, but that's what it had always been- an act, a show. There was no true goodness or morality in him, only a selfish lust for power.

And now that lust had been kicked into high gear with the appearance of his fantasy woman, Nikita. Mijovich was only aware of her nearness, and how she was smiling at him, coming toward him, with her slinky, sinuous walk.

"Hello, Your Excellency," Nikita greeted him coyly. "It's good to see you again," she purred, forcing out the lie. Nikita held out her hand to the Premier coquettishly.

Mijovich remembered her as the woman who had risked her life to save his more than once; he did not see through the obvious falsehood of her smile and stance. Being an ego-maniac of vast proportions, he did not find it shocking or surprising that she would come to him now, that this blonde beauty would desire him.

Mijovich chuckled in delight and took her hand in his, bowing low over it and kissing her finger-tips. Nikita fought down the bile that rose in her throat and plastered on a rigid smile in return.

Retaining his grip on her hand, Mijovich gestured to Camilla and Michael. "I am just finishing up my business here," he said in what he thought to be a seductive voice. "Why don't you and I take a walk down the hall to my suite? We can have a more... private reunion there, hmmm?"

Nikita smiled seductively back, slipping her arm under Mijovich's and linking her arm with his. She leaned her face close to his and whispered her throaty reply.

"I definitely want some private time with you, Jovan, but I don't think we need to go anywhere," she murmured. "Right here will do just fine..."

The Prenier's beady eyes widened. "Here? With her?" he said in surprise, then laughed, the idea of an audience arousing him. He looked from Nikita to Camilla and then back again, his smile widening.

"You are a very unusual woman," he whispered to her with a leer. "Very passionate ... very wild.. kinky..."

Nikita grinned. "You don't know just how wild I can be," she promised him.

Before Mijovich had a chance to laugh again, Nikita hooked her leg behind his, knocking the small man off his feet.

With her arm around his, she flipped him neatly to the floor, where he landed hard on his back, stunned, all the wind knocked out of him.

Camilla quickly scrambled up from her kneeling position by Michael and rushed to Nikita's aid. The blonde tossed her a pair of handcuffs and the reporter quickly set to work, cuffing Mijovich's wrists behind his back.

Before the Premier could recover his breath, he was was hauled unceremoniously up from the floor by the women and set in a hard-backed chair.

Panting hard, he blinked in outraged indignation at his seductress. "Hey, no need to play so rough, my Dear..." he complained in a whiny tone, then tried to leer at her again.

Nikita slapped him hard across the face, eliminating any trace of the lascivious smile. "Listen up, Mijovich, and listen good," she said through clenched teeth. "This is no game, understand me?"

The beady brown eyes stared at her, hurt, then narrowed suspiciously. "What is this about?" he demanded in a querulous voice, still too unobserving to be afraid. "What do you want?" he said in annoyance.

"She wants the same thing I want," Camilla answered, standing behind Mijovich's chair and holding him down in his seat with her hands on his shoulders. She bent lower and hissed the words into his ear. "We want to stop you from ever hurting another woman again.."

Mijivich swallowed hard, and looked up at the angry blonde in front of him, the seriousness of his positon finally sinking in. "And just how ... how do you p-plan to stop me?" Mijovich stammered in fear.

To his horror, Nikita smiled sweetly, and then reached in her pocket and took out a jack knife, and with a deft, practiced move, expertly flicked it open.

"I dunno," said Nikita in an innocent tone. "I'm sure I'll think of something..."

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

Camilla met Nikita's eyes over Mijovich's head and another look of understanding passed between them. The reporter grinned slightly and grabbed Mijovich by the hair and tilted his head back, exposing what there was of his short neck to Nikita's view.

"I have a suggestion," she said brightly. "Why don't you cut his throat?"

Nikita smiled back and brought the knife up to rest against Mijovich's collar. "Good idea," she told Camilla approvingly. Slowly, she pressed the edge of the blade into his flesh.

The Premier whimpered. "No! Please! You can't!" Eyes wide, he swallowed hard and pleaded with the women. "You can't kill me- my death would bring an international disaster..." he begged in a rapid tone, his voice quavering with fear.

"Remember your duty to the world...." Nikita's eyes narrowed, and she kept the knife where it was, pressed into the Premier's throat. Her voice dripped with revulsion and disgust.

"I remember my duty, Mijovich," Nikita hissed angrily. "It's a pity YOU can't seem to remember yours..."

She pressed the knife more firmly into his neck, drawing blood. "Frankly, I think the world would be better off without you..."

Mijovich whimpered again. "Oh, God, no..." he gasped, and closed his eyes tight, preparing for the end.

Camilla sighed and met Nikita's gaze, playing along with their game. "He's right, you know," she conceded reluctantly. "We can't kill him..."

Nikita frowned at her captive for a minute, then heaved a huge theatrical sigh, and lowered the knife. "Damn it," she swore in a frustrated tone. "You're absolutely right.."

It was Mijovich's turn to sigh, in relief. He eyed the women hopefully. "Then you have no choice than to let me go free..." he urged them.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that exactly," replied Camilla with a wink at Nikita, he mouth turning up at the corners in an evil smile. "We can't kill you, but that doesn't mean we don't have other options..."

Nikita laughed. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" she asked Camilla in a playful voice. "About a certain drastic measure the prison system is contemplating using on unrepentant sexual offenders?"

"Yeah, that's it!" agreed Camilla merrily, playing along with their game. "What did they call that procedure, exactly?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

Nikita looked into Mijovich's eyes. The Premier was sweating profusely. She grinned.

"Castration," she answered succinctly, and lowered the knife from the prisoner's neck to his groin.

Mijovich yelped, then began crying. "Please don't hurt me," he sobbed distraughtly. "Please don't hurt me, I beg you...."

Behind him, Camilla trembled and let out a little gasp. She hadn't expected to feel any pity for this murderer, this tyrannical rapist and callous maimer of innocents. But his pleas and his piteous cries were so much like what she had imagined his victims' cries to have been. Her heart wrenched, even though a cold part of her soul knew he deserved every moment of suffering he got.

But what was the difference? If they tormented and abused Mijovich, didn't that make them as bad as he was? If they injured him, wouldn't they be just as guilty? Mijovich deserved to be punished, but she didn't know if she had the stomach for any more of this game.

It was like she had told Michael- she didn't want vengeance. She just wanted Mijovich to be stopped. But how?

"Nikita..." the tender-hearted Camilla choked out. "What are we going to do?"

Nikita closed her eyes and sighed, as Mijovich cried on. Camilla was right. Her first preference had been to just kill him neatly, and that she could have done. But since that tidy solution was not an option, it left them only with messier alternatives.

Nikita and Camilla had silently agreed to scare Mijovich into stopping, to play their game of threats. But now they both realized that just threats would not be enough to keep Mijovich in line. If they let him go now, they knew when they were gone, Mijovich's reign of terror would just start up again, his rampages would go on unabated.

The alternative was to really maim the Premier in a most direct and fitting way, but standing there with Camilla's tear-filled eyes looking pleadingly into hers, Nikita didn't think she was capable of doing what needed to be done in cold blood.

"Damn," Nikita swore, withdrawing the knife and standing back from her prisoner. "I don't know," she sighed, her voice catching on a sob. "I just don't know.."

From the far side of the room a soft voice interrupted them. "I know what to do to him," stated a slightly groggy, but now-conscious Michael from a sitting position on the floor. Slowly, he got to his feet, legs still a little unsteady underneath him from the effects of the drug. All three of the others stared at him- Nikita, Camilla, Mijovich- as he approached them, looking weary, but very calm.

"Let me take care of it," said Michael softly.

"Michael?" Nikita gasped as he stepped close to her.

The serene green eyes met hers and he gave her a reassuring nod. He reached out his hand and took the knife from her unresisting fingers.

He turned to look at Mijovich, his eyes never leaving the Premier's terror-stricken face. The rapist began whimpering again.

"Nikita," Michael ordered softly, "Would you take Camilla out into the hall while I finish up our business here?"

The blonde paused, feeling reluctant at first to leave, then she took one look at Camilla's tear-stained face and capitualated. She realized that she trusted Michael, this time, to see that Mijovich got what he deserved.

She put her arm around the weeping reporter. "C'mon," she said gently to the other woman, guiding her toward the door. "Let's go..."

Camilla leaned her head gratefully on Nikita's shoulder and allowed herself to be led out of the room. Before they went out the door, Nikita met Michael's eyes once more.

She nodded at him, her eyes bright. "Thank you," she said sincerely to her team-mate.

Michael inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, and then turned back to Mijovich, raising the knife.

The last thing Nikita saw before closing the door behind them was Mijovich's frightened face.

"Good riddance," she said under her breath, then smiled, and led Camilla down the hall.

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

Once outside, Nikita led Camilla to a nearby bench a few yards down the hall, then slipped back and pressed her ear to the door, hoping to catch what was going on inside.

The walls of the palace were thick, the door wide and sturdy, but still not entirely sound-proof. By straining to hear, Nikita was able to listen to what was happening between Mijovich and Michael behind the thick paneled door.

Nikita could tell that Mijovich was still crying, and pleading for mercy. Michael's voice was softer and lower; Nikita could not distinguish the words, but it sounded like Michael was giving Mijovich some kind of instructions, or an explanation.

As Michael's voice went on, Mijovich's panic escalated. His pleas and sobs grew louder and more hysterical, then suddenly stopped. A few seconds later the sobs continued, but much more muffled. Nikita guessed that Michael had stuffed some sort of gag in the Premier's mouth to quiet him.

Michael's voice ceased, too, and all Nikita could hear was the scraping of the chair legs on the floor as Mijovich struggled, and/or Michael grappled with Mijovich's body. Nikita wasn't sure she wanted to guess just what was going on behind the door.

She flinched when there was a sudden, short, sharp scream from Mijovich. Cringing, Nikita waited for another scream, but there was none, only the sound of Michael's soft footfalls as he moved around,and then some rustling sounds like paper being torn? Tape being put on bandages?

Nikita wasn't sure, but she held her breath tensely and strained to listen harder than before. To her amazement, she heard Mijovich's voice again, this time not a scream, but a resigned whimper. She could almost catch the words...

"All right.. whatever you say... I'll do anything...." The Premier was groaning, promising to cooperate.

Next she caught Michael's soft, one word answer. "Good," he said distinctly, and then she heard the chair scraping against the floor again, and after a moment, the unmistakeable sound of metal clanging as the handcuffs were tossed on the floor.

From down the hall, a wide-eyed, anxious Camilla came to stand, trembling, next to Nikita. She looked up nervously into the other woman's blue eyes. "Is it over?" she whispered.

Nikita nodded solemnly. "I think so," she answered. Camilla licked her lips nervously. "What... what did Michael do to him?" she asked in a quavering voice.

Nikita shook her head. "I honestly don't know," she answered.

The women fell silent then, waiting for Michael to emerge.

They didn't wait long. Less than a minute later, the door opened and Michael slipped out into the hall, closing the door so swiftly behind him that neither woman was able to catch a glimpse of the Premier in the room beyond.

Michael's face gave away nothing, either. With a composed voice and blank stare, he took each of his teammates by the arm and ushered them down the hall.

"Let's go," was all he would say.

When they were out of the palace and had reached the relative saftety of a swiftly moving taxi-cab on the way to their hotel, Nikita tried again. Lowering her voice so that the driver of the cab would not hear, Nikita asked him what had happened.

Still infuriatingly calm, Michael met her gaze with serene green eyes and said cryptically, "Later."

After that, Nikita subsided in her questions, and Michael volunteered no answers.

It remained that way the whole trip back, the threesome remaining amazingly quiet on the long plane trips, each absorbed in their own dark thoughts.

When at last they arrived back home and Michael broke his silence, Nikita was none the wiser. She was waiting in the car as Michael escorted Camilla up to the door of her house. Nikita watched through the windshield as Michael went inside with the reporter and shut the door. A few minute later the two emerged, Camilla obviously moved by whatever it was that Michael had told her. There were tears in her eyes as she reached up to give Michael a brief, but fierce, hug goodbye and a kiss on the cheek, as well as a grateful, tremulous smile.

When Camilla had gone back in her house, still crying, and Michael had returned to the car and slipped behind the wheel, Nikita looked at him speculatively and dared to ask another question.

"So, you told her what you did to Mijovich?" she said, trying not to sound too anxious for an answer.

Michael started the engine and backed out of the driveway. "Yes," came his succint reply.

A few moments went by while Michael drove on, and Nikita waited for him to elaborate. Realizing there were no more words forth-coming, exasperated, Nikita tried again.

"AND?" she demanded. "Aren't you ever going to tell me anything?" she said, voice rising in frustration.

Michael gave her a quick glance, then turned his eyes back to the road. "Yes, he replied softly. "I plan on telling you everything."

Nikita blinked, then stared at him warily. "Really?" she said, not believing him. "And just when would that be?"

Michael shocked her then by reaching for her hand and bringing it quickly to his lips and kissing her fingers. He took his eyes off the road to stare into hers with an intense, fiery look that sent tendrils of desire through her, from the back of her neck all the way down to her toes.

"When you have dinner with me," he answered in the soft, seductive, French voice. "Tonight."

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

Michael would not tell her more; he just dropped her off at her apartment, and, pressing another kiss to her hand, promised to pick her up later at eight o'clock that evening.

Nikita, trying not to dwell too much on the mystery, or on how the pressure of his lips on her fingers had made her feel, puttered around the apartment, trying to distract herself until the time for their dinner-date came.

She unpacked, then decided to take a shower. The hot water did little to ease her tension, and by the time she was through, she was more wound up than ever. She wrapped herself in her favorite pink robe and sat on the edge of the bed with a a fluffy towel over her head, intent on drying her hair.

Absently, she did something she seldom did these days- she turned on the televison, hoping to lose herself in some mindless program to pass the time.

She flinched with shock and dropped the towel when she saw the image on the screen.

"What is THIS?" she exclaimed, jumping up from the bed and turning the sound up on the televison.

The voice was unmistakable. As was the face. The beady brown eyes, the balding head, the jowly cheeks, the insincere smile.

"Mijovich!" she gasped. "What the hell is going on?"

Nikita sat back down on the bed and forced herself to listen to the smarmy voice, her confusion growing as she heard Mijovich drone on about human rights and dignity and government responsibility...

Eventually, the image of Mijovich was replaced with that of the station's nightly news-caster.

"You have been listening to a Channel 6 special report," the young male reporter announced breathlessy. "You have just heard Premier Jovan Mijovich admit publicly that his army had been responsible for atrocities to civilians during his coming to power. The Premier has promised that his government will make full restitution to all victims, as well implement sweeping reforms in his regime's human rights policies..."

Nikita's jaw dropped. She stared in numb disbelief at the screen as the announcer went on.

"To quote Premier Mijovich directly," the reporter intoned dramatically, " 'Today marks the dawn of a new era of freedom, peace, and civil liberties for the people of my country, and the world.' "

Nikita flipped through the channels, hoping to learn more. On every station, pundits were either discussing the news or re-running the video of Mijovich's speech.

Nikita was still trying to process her amazement when a knock came on the door and she realized with a start that the time had slipped by her and that it was already eight o'clock.

"Coming, Michael!" she yelled, as he knocked again and she crossed the apartment to the door, pulling it open for him.

Michael, resplendant in his tuxedo, and holding an exquisite spray of flowers for her, as well as a bottle of champagne, eyed her in surprise, from her wild hair, over her pink robe of which he was sure there was nothing underneath, and down to her bare feet.

"Did you forget we were going to dinner?" he said in a hurt voice, eyes wide.

Nikita grabbed him unceremoniously by the arm and pulled him inside the apartment. "Forget dinner," she said, and tugged him roughly toward the stairs to her bedroom.

"Get up here," she demanded, marching him up the stairs and into the room. She gave him a shove, and Michael, flowers, champagne and all, landed on the bed. Before he could ask her what was going on, Nikita had plopped down beside him and pulled his head close to hers, her hands on either side of his face.

"I want it NOW," she told him with an agressive growl. "I'm tired of waiting."

Michael sat tense and shocked on the bed, looking into her blazing eyes. Then his gaze fell to her soft lips so close to his, and he was lost. With a sigh, he succummbed to her demands.

"Whatever you want," he said softly, and kissed her.

It was Nikita's turn to be shocked. The kiss was wonderful, if unexpected, but at the moment her lust was overpowered by her indignation and curiosity.

"I didn't mean THAT!" she said, pulling away from him, more flustered than before. "I want an explanation!" she cried, and pointed to the television, where the news reporters still droned on about the virtues of the day's new hero, Jovan Mijovich.

Michael collected himself with difficulty, reigning in his romantic visions of a passionate evening with Nikita. He sat up on the bed, put the champagne and flowers carefully on the nightstand and then ran a nervous hand through his hair.

"I ... persuaded Mijovich that it was in his best interests to do the right thing," Michael stated quietly. "That's all..."

"Persuaded him... HOW?" demanded Nikita. "What did you do to him, Michael?" She pointed at the television again. "How did you get Mr. Slime of The Week to transform into the White Knight after five minutes alone in a room with you?"

Michael smiled and reached into his jacket pocket, taking out a small black device with a red button in the center. He placed the device in her hand, closed her fingers around it, and then brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers again.

"For you," he said, his eyes glowing softly. "A gift. Condsider it my apology for lying to you about Mijovich before..."

Nikita's eyes widened and she opened her palm and stared at the device in her hand. "I can control Mijovich with this?" she gasped. "It's a detonator, isn't it?"

"Oui," said Michael softly. "Before I left the country with Camilla to see Mijovich, I stopped to see Walter. He had been working on a new weapon called micro-plastique. It's basically very tiny bombs that can be inserted under a person's skin, and then detonated electronically from afar..."

Nikita gasped again, and stared into Michael's green eyes. "You mean, you used this micro-plastique device on Mijovich, and threatened to blow him to bits if he didn't change his ways?"

"Something like that," Michael answered enigmatically. Nikita looked confused. "But why would that work? Mijovich knows we can't kill him, that we would never use the bomb...."

"The bomb wouldn't kill him," Michael explained. "The amount of the explosive is too small for that. If detonated, it would only destroy the area immediately around where the device was implanted...."

"Oh!" said Nikita, beginning to understand. "So, you mean, there's only enough fire power to blow off a limb, like a hand or a foot?"

Michael looked at her, and gave her a devious smile. "Yes," he answered, voice full of meaning. "A hand, or a foot, or some other... appendage..."

Nikita stared at him in shock, comprehension dawning. "Michael," she gasped, "That's so.. so..." she stammered to a speechless halt, unable to find the words.

"Sick? Depraved? Inhuman?" he said, hanging his head and looking away from her.

She reached out for him, taking his chin in her hand and turning his face up to look at her."No, that's the not the words I would use," she told him softly.

She broke out into a dazzling, impish smile. "I was thinking more along the lines of... perfectly appropriate and brilliant and ... delightful.."

Michael laughed, and Nikita, unable to resist, kissed him. They fell back on the bed, lost in each other, passion flaring. For a time they were unaware of anything around them until the voice of the news reporter on televison startled them momentarily out of their erotic trance.

"This is the big moment, folks," the announcer gushed breathlessy. "Right now, before our very eyes, we are seeing the two estranged sides coming together at last. A new intimacy is flourishing, as new bonds are being formed, the two melding together as one..."

Michael lifted his head up and laughed, and Nikita, flushed and breathless, stared hard at the screen. She groped for the remote and clicked off the t.v.

"You got that right," she said with a laugh, and then, with a determined look in her eye, pulled Michael's head down to hers and kissed him once more.

The End

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