Jeanette shuddered under this insidious entreaty, but remained firm in her resolve. The unexpected kiss just made it that much more difficult, more poignant, more achingly bitter-sweet, to carry on what she had determined to do.

She pulled back, and took a deep breath to gain her equilibrium after the disorienting caress. She stiffened her shoulders, and without a word, turned on her heel and walked past him to the mission van, her head held high. Michael could not know that she had bit her lip hard to keep from crying out, that she had had to fight with her own soul not to just fall into his arms; he would never know that his pleas had almost undone her resolve.

He only knew, as he watched her retreating back as he followed her to van, that she had become a Light in his world, and by her own hand, she was going to snuff that Light out…

"I'll find a way," he whispered to himself, pulling together the pieces of his broken heart. "I'll find a way to save you, Jeanette…."

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

Everything was going wrong, Michael thought to himself as he sat alone in the mission van in the Black Forest just outside LeBrun's compound. A few minutes ago, Jeanette had gone into LeBrun's bedroom deep inside the underground bunker, and he was listening now for her first words with him.

Maybe her last words, he thought grimly.

It was a disastrous mission so far, in Michael's opinion. The problem was, he realized, that everything was going RIGHT. No engine problems had stalled their plane trip to Germany, no unexpected technical problems had ruined their surveillance, none of the Section personnel had behaved other than perfectly. Even the informant, their connection to LeBrun, a short, rat-faced man named Gunther Heinz, had showed up on schedule to escort Jeanette into LeBrun's complex. She had passed through LeBrun's tight security without a hitch, expertly accessing her target.

Even the weather cooperated. It was a beautiful Fall night. It did not rain. No earthquake shook the ground, no sinkhole opened up to swallow LeBrun, no bolt of lightning from the blue incinerated the terrorist so that Jeanette would not have to.

In other words, what he had prayed for did not happen. No miracle occurred, neither small nor spectacular, to stop the relentless passage of Time, to halt the inexorable Fate that Jeanette had orchestrated for herself.

She was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it.

A rebellious streak flared inside him, heating his belly with hot flame. He had given up so much to Section, had sacrificed over and over again for the greater good. He had been denied even the simplest of human needs and pleasures- lovers, sister, child, friends; the need to be safe, the pleasure of not having to kill to stay alive. He balked now at the idea of making yet another sacrifice that would cut away another piece of his soul.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't just stand by and watch Jeanette die. She was his friend, his mentor. She had been like a protective older sister, and now she was something much more. He had given up Nikita, a wrenching loss he had not even begun to heal from. He had been denied ever seeing his son again. His wounded soul could not take anymore. He couldn't lose Jeanette, too, not on top of all the other losses he had endured.

Orders or no orders, he was going in.

Abruptly, Michael cut the com link that would allow Jeanette to hear what he was saying, although he would still be able to hear her. So far, all he could hear was the tap of her high heels on the stone floor of the concrete bunker as she walked toward LeBrun's chamber. There was little time left- he knew if he was going to save her, he had to act NOW.

Taking his PDA with him, he stood and exited the van, joining the teams that had surrounded the compound. The First Team leader, Davenport, emerged from the shadows as soon as Michael got out the van.

"Sir?" he whispered from the shrubbery where he was crouched, hiding. "Is something wrong?"

Michael shook his head and motioned him over. "Nothing," he lied flatly. "I have a new assignment for you."

Davenport nodded, and joined Michael in the shadows of the van, straightening his long frame. For a big man, he moved stealthily, as silent as a cat.

Davenport said nothing, only waited expectantly. He had complete trust in the cleverness and intelligence of this cunning leader. He had seen Michael save a hopeless mission time and time again, on sheer guts and imagination. There was nothing, in his opinion, that Michael couldn't do. He was a Superman.

Cold green eyes met soft brown. "You're off First Team," Michael ordered curtly. "Let Jenkins take over for you, understood?"

Davenport looked stricken, wondering what he had done wrong. He had no idea why Michael would pull him from the unit that was assigned to blow up the compound once LeBrun had been taken and Jeanette was clear. He thought that there was an understanding between them, a comradely rapport, a mutual respect. He could think of no reason why Michael had suddenly lost confidence in him.

Davenport let out a sharp breath and dared to ask his question. "Why?" he demanded, swallowing hard.

Michael's cold green eyes softened, and, to Davenport's infinite shock, his superior placed his hand gently on the taller man's arm.

"Because I can't trust anyone else," Michael answered simply.

Davenport blinked, taking this in. So that was it, he thought, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. Michael was playing Superman again. But this time, Davenport himself would get to be in on the game.

"I'm your man," his underling agreed quickly. "What do you need?"

Michael's blank stare did not abate, but he seemed to relax just a little at this response. "Is your com unit off?" he demanded.

Davenport nodded.

"Good," Michael replied. "Tune it to channel B so that you'll only broadcast to my signal." Michael sighed, hesitating a moment before he said the next words.

Davenport waited expectantly.

"What I'm about to tell you is just between us," Michael began, his eyes going cold again. "If you betray me, I'll kill you," he stated flatly, a bare statement of fact.

Davenport blinked, but nodded immediately. He had been around in Section long enough to know how things worked. Michael DID trust him, in his own wary way.

"Of course," the tall operative agreed quickly.

Michael seemed pleased with this response, and edged closer, lowering his voice. "No egress for Jeanette was profiled for this mission," he began, rushing out the words, feeling very much under the pressure of time. "She's ordered me to incinerate the compound as soon as LeBrun is killed…"

Now Davenport was truly shocked. "Christ!" he swore in surprise. "What are we going to do?"

For a moment, Davenport thought he saw Michael grin. But it may have been just a trick of the light, a fleeting expression gone in an instant. Perhaps he had imagined it…

"We're going to change the profile," Michael answered grimly. He paused to lick dry lips, hesitating, then asked nervously for confirmation. "Are you with me?" the green-eyed leader asked, his tone, to Davenport's amazement, was pleading and vulnerable.

The big operative grinned. He wouldn't miss this for the world.

"All the way, Sir," Davenport assured him with a smile. "All the way."

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

Victor LeBrun, international terrorist, thug, and murderer, was a happy man. He had money, power, the will to kill and conquer, and absolutely no conscience. It was a heady combination. He considered himself lucky to have been born a wolf in a world brimming with miserable sheep. There was so much fleecing to be done, so much prey for him to ravage…

He had his wolf's grin on now. Settled back in his comfortable couch in his underground lair, sipping his after-dinner cognac from a crystal glass, he contemplated with eagerness the night's planned entertainment. Heinz had promised him that the woman he was bringing to him tonight was something beyond the ordinary- she was very, very special.

Victor had not actually seen a picture of this special woman, but he already knew what she would look like. Blonde. And tall. He liked them like that. He had a weakness for beautiful things, a weakness he saw no reason not to indulge himself in. After all, if he had to hide out from his enemies in this miserable sunless cavern underground, he might as well not be alone. He liked to enjoy a little female company.

Victor almost salivated in anticipation. If the whore was really talented, he might keep her for another night, maybe three. But that was as long as it might last. LeBrun was easily bored, and needed fresh meat. The woman would be killed, of course, after he was through with her. The girls came to him, warm and willing, pleased with his good looks and the promise of money, but they never left alive. It was too great a security risk to have a bunch of hookers running around who knew of his whereabouts. So to ensure that none of them played kiss and tell, he scrupulously made a point to see to it that all the prostitutes who serviced him died. Sometimes he enjoyed killing them even more than he enjoyed the sex with them.

His flunkies would whisk the evidence away of his night-time pleasures, and it would start all over again the next night.

He liked things neat.

He looked at his watch. It was just past eight o'clock. The thick member between his legs stirred to life. This was the time of night the women were brought to him. His body knew that, and responded instinctively. He put down his glass and rubbed his hands together, feeling the excitement of anticipation build along with his erection. His breaths came a little harder now. He strained his ears to hear her footsteps in the corridor….

He was not a patient man.

Finally, after what was only minutes, but seemed like much longer to the greedy terrorist, the woman at last arrived. There was a knock on the door, not a timid knock, but a bold one, and the thug bade the night's entertainment to enter.

Jeanette pushed the door open and sauntered in. By this time, after the long flight to Germany, the trip through the Forest in the mission van, and then the wait to be cleared through LeBrun's security, Jeanette's nervousness was all gone. Any butterflies she might have had about this meeting had long since flown. Firm in her resolve, anxious to get on with it, the profiler was perhaps even more eager for this encounter than LeBrun was.

"Hello," she greeted him in a low, throaty tone. "I'm Jeanette…" She batted her lashes, and then walked closer, making sure he got a good look at her. "I'm so very pleased to meet you…." Smiling, she held out her hand.

LeBrun's eyes had widened when she entered the room. Good Lord, he thought, his flunkey Heinz had not exaggerated one bit about this one being special. He had never seen such shapely tits on a woman in his life. And she was elegant, too. High class. Not one of Heinz' usual street whores. Immediately, his plans changed. He would keep this one, he decided instantly, maybe even longer than three days, maybe a week. He knew he wanted at least that much time to enjoy those lovely breasts…

He rose from his seat and came forward, and then awkwardly bowed over her out-stretched hand. The gesture was not done out of gallantry, but because this stance afforded him a closer view of the part of her body that fascinated him.

Jeanette saw where his crude gaze had fallen- squarely on her chest, and it pleased her. The target, she thought with grim satisfaction, was taking the bait.

"Delighted to meet you," LeBrun mumbled, almost drooling. He straightened from his bow, and, still holding onto her hand, tried to pull her closer.

Jeanette avoided this embrace, slipping skillfully back out of his reach. She smiled again. "No so fast," she chided him, in a tone that held only warmth, and no hint of harshness or rejection. "There's no hurry. We can take it slow," she said, her voice low and inviting. "We have all night, don't we?" she purred.

The terrorist's eyes raked her hungrily, but he stayed where he was, not attempting to touch her again. He shrugged his broad shoulders and grinned at her. She was right. He had all the time in the world.

"Of course," he agreed, willing to play her game. "Why don't we sit down and have a drink?"

Jeanette smiled, and nodded her blonde head. She sashayed over to the couch where LeBrun had been sitting and took her place delicately in the exact spot he had occupied just moments before. The seat was still warm from his body. Coquettishly, she lifted the glass from which he had been drinking from the table and downed the last of LeBrun's cognac that remained. She felt she needed this Dutch courage.

"Very nice," she commented, licking her lips, her eyes raking his body in return. Her lascivious gaze did not miss an inch of the brawny blonde terrorist's frame, the wide shoulders, the big hands, the finely cut navy blue suit. She left no doubt her remark was about what she saw, not what she had tasted in the glass.

LeBrun chuckled at this audacity. She was a feisty one, no doubt, a real tease. But a tease who would, in the end, deliver. Her saucy style promised endless satisfaction. He decided he might like the idea of letting her lead this game.

He sauntered to the bar at the side of the room, and poured them both more drinks.. He filled the glasses full, then brought them back to the couch. He handed her her glass before he sat down next to her.

"Thank you," Jeanette murmured, accepting the drink. She did not move away this time when he put his arm around her shoulders.

"You're welcome," LeBrun whispered huskily. He nuzzled her neck, smelling her perfume. His erection flared again.

Jeanette laughed throatily, as if enjoying this caress. Suddenly, she pushed him back from her, with one hand in the center of his chest. She pushed so hard that his drink sloshed over the glass and some of the cognac spilled onto his expensive clothes, wetting him to the skin.

LeBrun glared at her. "Clumsy Bitch!" he yelled angrily. "See what you've done!"

Jeanette was unfazed by his ire. She smiled teasingly again. "Sorry," she taunted throatily, her eyes twinkling merrily. "I guess this means I'll just have to get you out of those wet clothes, hmmm?"

Quickly, before he could react, Jeanette set her glass down on the table and slipped to the floor, facing him, kneeling between his legs. Her hands reached up and she began to undo his tie, then the buttons on his shirt.

LeBrun laughed, realizing what she was doing, and leaned back against the cushions, relaxing. More games. He liked that. He watched her eagerly as she finished opening his shirt and baring his chest, running her fingers sensuously down his skin from sternum to navel until she reached the top of his belt buckle. The bulge in his pants was unmistakable.

"Nice," she cooed again. "Very nice….." She eyed his crotch and licked her lips.

LeBrun sighed, and leaned his head back on the couch, settling in to await her pleasuring of him.

She undid his zipper, and he held his breath, expecting to feel her hands and mouth on his body. To his shock, the whore did not fellate him, but grabbed his tie instead, twisting it suddenly around his throat…

He opened his eyes, wide, and began fighting her, fighting for breath. The tie was criss-crossed across his wind-pipe, and she was yanking the ends of it as hard as she could, cutting off his air, crushing his throat…

Jeanette struggled too. She had practiced this thousands of times, had taught it to her students. Usually it only took a few seconds to kill this way, if enough pressure was applied to the vulnerable area. But LeBrun was still conscious, still alive. And he was fighting her.

Too late she realized she should have used another method to dispose of him. She had underestimated the weakness that her illness had caused. Months ago, she could have done this easily, but now, after weeks of debilitating sickness that sapped her power and her hope, she no longer had the strength in her upper body to finish this task that she needed to do. The strain of pulling on the tie was hurting her, and though she yanked it with all her might, it was not enough. LeBrun was thrashing around, getting free..

"Bitch!" he yelled again, his voice hoarse and rasping from his near-strangulation. He had wrenched free, and had pushed her away from him, tearing the tie off his neck at the same time he came to his feet. He was beyond rage.

Jeanette lost her balance and fell backward to the floor, sprawling awkwardly. The impact jarred her side, and she felt the incision near her heart tear and give way. She screamed in pain, even before LeBrun fell on her, and started to hit her.

"Bitch!" he cursed her again. He was straddling her waist, his massive legs pinning her while his arms were free to strike. He hit her over and over again, hard slaps across the face, until she was almost unconscious from the blows, and the pain of her fall. When he had subdued her enough, the tone of his attack changed. He no wanted to just hurt her; he wanted to humiliate her as well.

The lovely breasts were there, thrusting up between his knees. He wouldn't kill her just yet, the ravenous wolf decided.

He would rape her first.

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

Outside in the dark, Michael heard Jeanette scream through his com unit, and jerked in pain himself. The sound seemed to stab through the center of his chest, piercing him like a knife. He almost lost his footing on the slippery embankment that led to the LeBrun's bunker, shaken by the profiler's cries.

Beside him, Davenport reached out his hand to take Michael's arm, to steady him.

"Sir?" the big operative inquired, alarmed. He had been following the mission leader steadily for the last fifteen minutes, and he noted with something like envy that the sure-footed Michael had not faltered over the wet, sloping terrain one instant, until now. Davenport's com unit was not keyed to Jeanette's frequency, only Michael's, so he had no idea what had jolted Michael so suddenly, causing him to flinch like a puppet jerked on a string.

"Are you all right?" Davenport asked in an urgent whisper. "What's wrong?"

Michael took in a shaky breath, and then shrugged off his comrade's hand, his mouth firming grimly. He shook his head and pointed toward their goal, an iron door in the side of the hill that led to LeBrun's lair. Besides the way that Jeanette had entered, this was the only ingress to get to her. It was a rarely used entrance that Michael had discovered by studying the schematic of LeBrun's fortress. They had already taken out five guards on their way to it, and Michael wouldn't be surprised if they encountered more.

He gave a one word order, his curtness, and the trembling in his voice betraying his fear.

"Hurry," Michael whispered roughly.

Davenport nodded, realizing he would get no explanation until later, when everything was over, and maybe not even then. Michael was good at keeping his thoughts and actions a mystery. But for now, with perfect faith, Davenport would follow.

They scrambled down the hill a few more yards, and finally reached their goal. They did not encountering any further resistance, except from the door itself. It was solid steel and several inches thick. Davenport kicked it, and then shoved his six foot three bulky frame against it, but the door did not budge. He knelt on one knee in the mud and fumbled in his vest pocket for his B&E tools, but Michael waved him away, knowing Jeanette had no time to wait for Davenport to pick the lock.

"Blow it," Michael ordered, his voice high, a desperate note betraying his impatience.

Davenport's eyes widened, a little surprised that Michael would risk exposure this way by the sound of a blast. Nodding, he obeyed. He pulled a small putty-like wad of what looked like chewed gum out of a container in his vest, and stuck it to the lock on the door.

Without discussing it, Michael and his underling backed off, turned their faces away from the door, crouched low, and covered their ears.

A second later, a hiss of flame exuded from the putty on the lock, followed by a spray of sparks and smoke. A small, deep boom accompanied the satisfying sound of the door hinges creaking in complaint as they swung open.

Michael did not wait to let the smoke clear. He was already through the dark opening, pushed on by the sound of Jeanette's whimpered cries and LeBrun's harsh cursing in his ears. It was going down NOW, he thought worriedly, and it was going down HARD. He had to get to her before it was too late.

"Let's go," Michael urged, throwing the words over his shoulder to Davenport as he raced inside. He didn't look back to see if his comrade followed.

The tall operative scrambled to keep up. Guns drawn, they rushed into the dimly lit corridor of the bunker. Fortunately, no alarm sounded, and no terrorists came out from the darkness to stop them. Michael's eyes were everywhere, searching, searching….

At last, he found what he sought. At the end of the hallway was an elevator shaft, the doors open, its car waiting patiently for the next passenger to enter. Michael ran for it, entering the small space, and then turned, slamming the button with his palm that would make the elevator go down.

Frantic, only a few steps behind, Davenport reached the elevator just as the doors were closing on Michael. He threw his team leader a desperate glance.

"Sir?" Davenport questioned, bewildered, at a loss as to what to do now.

The older man, his face stony and determined, did nothing to halt the car's movement to allow Davenport to board. Instead, Michael shouted curt orders through the closing doors.

"Stay here and keep the egress clear," Michael commanded baldly, his voice holding no hint of fear or sentiment. "If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, tell Jenkins to blow the compound…..…"

He had no time to say more, as the heavy steel doors came together completely, blocking the grim-faced operative from Davenport's view.

"Christ," Davenport swore under his breath, hoisting his gun higher and taking a stance in the corridor where he could see both the door and the elevator. "Holy bloody Christ…."

He flinched suddenly the next moment as the com unit behind his ear flared to life. Michael must have activated it as soon as the elevator doors had closed, so that Davenport could hear what he was hearing.

"Bitch!" LeBrun's voice screamed hoarsely through the com unit. There was a sharp crack, flesh meeting flesh. "F*cking worthless BITCH!" LeBrun slapped her again, once, twice, three more times. "You'll pay for that!" LeBrun threatened, his voice pitched in a low growl.

Davenport cringed as he listened to Jeanette's soft, weak whimpers in between the soft thuds of more blows being rained on her flesh. Then he heard the sound of her dress tearing, as the wolf ravaged his prey.

A few harsh grunts followed, as LeBrun struggled with their clothing. Davenport heard the unmistakable rasp of a zipper being lowered, and then more ripping sounds, as the silky dress was torn from Jeanette's body.

"He's going to rape her," Davenport realized helplessly. His stomach churned sickeningly. "Sweet Jesus…." He prayed. His heart hammered in his chest, adrenaline pumping wildly. He twitched with the need to jump into action. He wanted to rush to her rescue, but he knew he couldn't leave; he couldn't desert his post. He had his orders.

He couldn't save her. Only Michael could do that….

The next moment, just when Davenport thought what he was listening to couldn't get any worse, the tone of the terrorist's animal-like grunts changed.

LeBrun screamed again. A high pitched wail, this time not of rage, but of sheer terror……

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

"F*cking BITCH!" LeBrun bellowed, enraged. "F*cking worthless whore BITCH…."

Jeanette heard the words through a red haze of pain. She was barely conscious, unable to move, far beyond the ability to fight back. The heavily-muscled terrorist straddled her, his hard hands striking her over and over again as he vented his fury on her delicate face.

She began to float, a feeling of calm peace engulfing her, in spite of the horror of the situation. She was half out of her body, detached from the events taking place on the bunker floor, feeling distant, as if it were all happening to someone else.

The sense of separation from her body did not alarm her in the least. She had experienced this before, several months ago, while she had been in the hospital, under the surgeon's knife. Her soul slipped its moorings and was free to wander, enjoying the peace of disembodiment. It was a wonderful place to be now, she thought. Much better than being down THERE, in that ravaged body…..

"Poor girl," she thought, regarding the scene from above, watching her own blonde body sprawled beneath the terrorist, enduring his assault. "Poor, poor girl…"

Calm, at peace, feeling no pain, Jeanette hovered, watching the scene below.

LeBrun's rage was not abated, she observed, when he had beaten his victim into unconsciousness. It only seemed to frustrate him more. Like a wild animal, lost in the bloodlust of a killing spree, LeBrun's base nature demanded more. More pain, more suffering, more debasement….

Suddenly, his breathing changed, the wild, harsh panting of rage subsiding into a pattern of lustful, soft grunts. "Bitch…" he cursed her again, but this time the tone was softer, huskier, laden with need.

"I'm going to give you what you came for, Bitch," LeBrun growled. It was a mating ritual, Jeanette realized, understanding his intent. As an animal, it was all the terrorist understood. He was had passed so far beneath being a human being that the concept of mercy, or respect, love or pity, were beyond him. LeBrun, after a life-time of heedless brutality, had devolved into some kind of mindless beast, knowing only the pleasures of killing and the joy of lust.

>From the safety of her distance, Jeanette pitied him. "Poor man," she thought in her detached way, perfectly serene in her compassion. "Poor, poor, man…"

She watched as LeBrun lifted off his victim, groping between their bodies to grab at the woman's long skirt. Impatiently, growling and grunting like the wolf he was, the terrorist wadded a fistful of silk in each hand and tore the dress apart, rending it from hem to waist. Salivating at the white skin that this action revealed, LeBrun grunted again as he fumbled with the woman's black panties, shoving them aside out of his way.

"Bitch," he moaned roughly, feeling the hard, heavy ache of his c*ck growing thick between his legs. "Jesus," he promised her, his voice thick with desire. "I'm going to give it to you good…"

He fumbled with his own clothes, wrenching the zipper lower past his past stiff erection, freeing him manhood for its dark work. Impatiently, he shrugged out of his jacket and shirt, wanting to feel his naked skin against hers.

Grunting, he lowered himself on his victim, intending to roughly enter her. He stopped, groaning again.

Her breasts, LeBrun thought incoherently. He wanted to feel those breasts with his hands, his tongue, wanted to see them wobble and jerk with his rough thrusts as he f*cked her. Though the lower half of her gown was gone, the high-necked dress was still intact above the waist, if perhaps a little disarrayed. LeBrun's hands fumbled at her neckline, fingers slipping on the black silk. Finally, grunting impatiently, blind with lust, he managed to get a good enough grip on the material to rend it as he had done the skirt, ripping it open from neck to waist.

Jeanette's soul quivered, her equilibrium gone. For a moment she found herself back in her body, her consciousness returning to its fleshly home. She was on her back underneath the brutish terrorist, wracked with pain, staring up into LeBrun's soulless eyes, begging for mercy.

"No…." she pleaded desperately, piteously. Jeanette struggled feebly, knowing it was useless. "Please, no…."

The wolf smiled, pleased that she was awake now, and would be aware of every humiliating, degrading thing he was about to do to her.

He laughed. "Shut up, whore," he told her gleefully, his eyes lighting up at the thought of her pain. "We're going to take this nice and slow, just like you wanted it, hmm?" he taunted her with her own words. He laughed again, and lowered his face to her throat, licking his tongue across her battered cheek. "We've got all night…." He growled in promise.

He shivered in delight at Jeanette's answering whimper of fear.

He looked down, expecting to see soft feminine mounds topped with pink-tipped nipples. Instead, he was taken aback to find that she still was not yet naked, but wore a strange undergarment, a flesh-colored long-line bra, that apparently hooked down the front, not the back. No cleavage showed at the top; it was like a vest, fitted perfectly to her body, all the way up to her neck.

"What the…?" He grunted, more surprised than angry. Clumsily, he groped at the fastenings, his arm bumping the up-thrust swell of her left breast.

Jeanette screamed with agony as the terrorist's touch jarred the raw flesh underneath the vest. The pain seared through her, and she retreated again into the haven of unconsciousness, only half- aware that she was still whimpering. This time she did not float up into the light, but sank deep in the other direction, rushing gratefully into heavy, inky blackness….

LeBrun's assault went on, his victim fainting doing nothing to stop his avid curiosity about what pleasures he would find under that strange vest. The stubborn hooks came apart slowly, but at last he got them free. The rapist wrenched the garment apart, eager to see the firm tits that he knew were hidden beneath.

To his shock, when he removed the vest, the whore's breasts were removed with it. The garment opened down the center, like the bindings of a book, the front and back leaves of which retained the lovely round shape that had so enticed him. He looked down, scanning the bare flesh that had lain under the false, molded tits, and gasped in horror.

Great, jagged horizontal scars scored her chest on both sides where breasts once had been. On her left side, a deep hole two inches across gaped open. He could look inside this puncture wound and see all the way inside the meat-lined cavity, as if he were looking directly into her chest. Blood oozed from the opening's sickening maw.

"Oh, God!" the terrorist screamed, jumping in fear. He had seen a lot of ugly things, but nothing as hideously obscene as this. "Oh, Christ!" he yelled over and over, leaping off of the horrid scarred blood-soaked skeleton THING that he had mistaken for a woman. It was a nightmare.

"Bitch!" he screamed, becoming angry again, now that he realized she had cheated him out of his pleasures. "I'm going to kill you, you ugly bitch!"

He reached for his gun, which was still in the pocket of his jacket, where he had thrown it on the floor. Hand shaking, he retrieved the weapon, bent on killing the vile thing that had so shaken him. His heart still raced with shock and fear. LeBrun, like all bullies, was a coward at the core.

He was still fumbling with the safety on the gun, his hands shaking, when the door opened behind him to admit a dark-clad nemesis with green eyes, an avenging angel who held his own weapon high, aimed right at LeBrun's own breast, which was empty of a heart.

Those cold green eyes were the last thing Victor LeBrun saw before the grim-faced angel pulled the trigger, blasting his worthless soul into oblivion, never to return.

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

Michael raced through the bunker's long corridors, spurred on by the urgency of Jeanette's cries through the com link. The ride he had just taken in the elevator had seemed endless, and he was met by resistance when the doors opened on the bottom floor, as he expected, but he had been ready. He had hidden himself in the small compartment in he elevator's ceiling, so that when its doors opened, LeBrun's men saw only the empty elevator car.

Taking them by surprise, Michael waited until the guards had entered the elevator below him, and were looking around its empty walls, puzzled. The men did not know what hit them when Michael's lean body leapt on them, knocking them to the ground.

Bullets from Michael's silenced gun finished them, and the black clad operative forged on. He tried to stifle his growing panic and rage at the sounds of LeBrun's abuse, his harsh grunts and curses, the slaps, the rusting of clothes, and, most wrenching of all, Jeanette's whimpers, each one like a knife in his soul. Once he heard LeBrun laugh, a cold sound that sealed the terrorist's fate.

"I'm going to kill the bastard," Michael promised himself grimly. He would enjoy killing scum like this.

He encountered four more guards, which he easily dispatched. The men were playing cards around a table, obviously not concerned with security. Michael kept one of them alive long enough to get the information he wanted out of his prisoner.

"LeBrun," Michael barked succinctly, holding his gun to the guard's throat. "Where is he?"

The frightened man's eyes widened, white rimmed. He pointed down the hallway to a large door. "Down there," the dead man choked out. He groped in his pocket and pulled out a thick plastic card, punched with a design of holes, holding it up pleadingly for Michael's gaze. "Here's the key…." The guard whimpered.

Michael took it from the man's hand. "Thank you," he said politely, and mercifully snapped the man's neck, killing him instantly. Michael dropped the guard where he stood, and stepped over the body, not bothering to look back. He rushed toward the door of LeBrun's chamber, finally coming to the end of the endless corridors.

Jeanette begged for mercy through his com unit, and Michael shuddered. He could hear alternate screams coming through the door, first Jeanette's, then, inexplicably, LeBrun's. Michael marveled fleetingly that the more guards did not come to their boss's rescue, but then figured that perhaps they were used to the sounds of their leader's grunts and cries, and the women's screams, as LeBrun "entertained" his ladies of the evening.

His heart pounding rapidly, he flicked the key card out of his palm and shoved it home in the lock. The door sung open, and he saw his target. LeBrun stood in he center of the room, his naked back facing Michael. His pants were undone and hanging loose around his hips, and he was sweating. Panting and shaking, the terrorist fumbled with a gun in his hands.

Michael registered vaguely that Jeanette lay unconscious on the floor, but the moment, Michael could not concentrate on her; his whole mind was focused on the brutish terrorist, on cleansing the earth of his vile presence. The terrorist's nakedness offended Michael, and he forced himself not to shudder at the thought of this rabid animal touching Jeanette, pawing her, violating his woman…

LeBrun looked up, a stupid expression of stunned amazement on his face. The cornered wolf was not so intelligent after all. He was still staring at Michael with a dazed look when the operative pulled the trigger.

LeBrun dropped where he stood, and Michael ignored the body, not bothering to check to see if the wolf was dead. Michael knew his aim had been true, his hatred making his arm straight, his sights clear.

He fell to his knees beside Jeanette, barking an order to Davenport as he did so.

"Tell Team A to set the charges," he commanded. "LeBrun is dead. I have Jeanette. We're coming out in five minutes."

"Yessir," Davenport answered, relieved to hear Michael's voice after hearing the gunshot and then only silence. He sighed in relief, but not surprise. He knew Michael could save the day.

Only then did Michael take a good look at Jeanette, now that he had cleared all other distractions. His first impression was that he wasn't seeing her right, as if he had suddenly fallen into an abstract painting, a Picasso artwork, or another dimension. Disoriented, he blinked, and shook his head, not believing what he was seeing.

Jeanette was all there, but pieces of her were in impossible places, at even more impossible angles. Her breasts lay at her sides, under her arms, facing backward. Michael felt sick, as if the floor had suddenly shifted underneath him. He blinked again, and looked closer.

Her head was backwards, sideways. How could that be? Swallowing hard, feeling he was lost in some strange alternate reality, he knelt beside her and reached out for the bright hair that was lying across her face at an impossible angle.

Her hair, scalp and all, came away in his hand, the blonde curls dangling from his fingers.

A wig, he realized in shock. It was wig, that had become loose when LeBrun had knocked her about. Michael looked down, registering Jeanette's pale, bruised face, her eyes closed in deep sleep, or death. She was completely bald, her head naked without its blonde covering except for some short peach-fuzzy stubble, black/gray in color.

He placed his hand on her chest to check her breathing, his eyes still riveted on her face. Suddenly, he flinched as he realized just what lay under his fingers, and he jerked his hand away, staring at her chest in shock.

Breastless, scarred, bloody, wounded. Michael was breathless with shock. His fingers were sticky with her blood, the scars showed clearly through the red streaks that he had smeared over her chest.

This was the secret she had been hiding, Michael realized numbly. This was her camouflage….

Oh God, he thought, stunned. Oh God….

He saw her take a breath, then another, and at last he found his voice, even though it came out high and reedy. He was shaken to the core.

"Get Medical," he ordered through his com unit. "Have them waiting for us on the plane."

"Yessir," Davenport's voice acknowledged. There was a sympathetic pause, then the operative dared to voice a question. "Is she bad?" he asked gruffly.

Michael closed his eyes in pain. "Yes," he whispered back. "Very bad."

Taking his time, using infinite care, he gently replaced the wig on Jeanette's head, arranging the curls around her face. He pulled the vest closed, and snapped it as best he could, being careful not to jar her wound. As he fastened the last hook in place, the illusion of womanhood returned.

He stood, and removed his knee length jacket, then bent again to wrap the garment around the comatose woman, covering her nakedness. He buttoned the jacket securely around her neck, dressing her as carefully as a child would dress a beloved doll. Scooping her up in his arms, Michael cradled her against his chest, sheltering her in his strong embrace.

"It's okay, my Love," he whispered to her, unaware that tears were running down his face. "It's okay, Jeanette," he comforted himself with these words. "We're going home now…."

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

Twenty-four hours later, Michael pushed open the door to Medlab and walked through. When his team had returned to section from the mission after their seemingly endless trip back from Germany, Jeanette had been whisked to Medlab and he had been forced to debrief for what seemed like an excruciatingly long time with Operations. Now he was free at last to check on Jeanette's condition.

His footsteps were slow and solemn, as if he were going to a funeral. Uncannily, he felt that there had been some strange transformation of the Section hospital's noisy corridors and harsh, glaring lights- it was if, looking through new eyes, he saw it as a place of holiness now, a cathedral, because it enshrined Jeanette, and hence his desire to walk with reverence and dignity through it's golden doors.

In a daze, barely registering his surroundings, Michael found his way to Brian's office. The young doctor ushered him in, and he took a seat as Brian closed the door behind them. Michael was only dimly aware of his friend's presence, hardly able to hear or see, lost as he was in a fog of crushing sorrow.

The truth was that Michael was numb with grief. He had had to absorb one shock after another since the mission started, harsh truths that had left him reeling, truths that had forced him to question his perceptions of reality. He had thought he had known what Jeanette's reality was, but now that the face of Death had been revealed to him from under its erotic camouflage, he found himself disoriented, knocked off balance, shaken….

For it had been Death that he had seen, emblazoned on the scars and blood of Jeanette's body. Brian's soft voice confirmed it, but it was something that Michael already knew, as soon as he had seen the reality of Jeanette's condition that LeBrun's ravagement had revealed.

Cancer. A devious enemy even harder to fight than any terrorist Section might encounter. Michael dimly registered Brian's words, through a haze of numbness.

A double mastectomy, the young doctor said, as he recited Jeanette's gruesome medical history from a thick report which he held in his hands while he sat with one hip perched on the edge of his desk.. It was an old, familiar story, but one that had not lost any horror in the re-telling.

A year ago she had found a lump in her right breast. She had gone to the doctors, and they had confirmed her fears. It was a tumor. Tests revealed the left breast was also affected; There was a tumor there, too, deep in the tissues where she could not feel it.

Radical surgery had been done to stop the enemy, to save her life. They had done the amputation, thinking they had got it all, but they hadn't. Tests revealed that the tumors had spread into the chest wall. The enemy was winning.

Michael winced, flinching at these words.

Brian went on with his tale, not leaving out anything.

Her doctors had fought back with more harsh treatments- they had tried to burn the enemy out with radiation, then, when that failed, they had used the poisons of chemotherapy. In desperation, they had cut a hole in her chest, and poured the burning chemicals in, through a permanent catheter to deliver the poison directly to the entrenched enemy's site. This hole was the wound LeBrun's roughness had ripped open, the source of the blood Michael saw.

But even this treatment had not routed their nemesis. Like generals in a losing battle, the doctors' scorch and burn policy had not won them any victory, but had only left disfigurement and destruction in their wake.

And pain, Michael thought. So much pain….

And the enemy raged on. Brian's eyes clouded with tears as he summarized the account of horrors.

"It's metastasized, Michael. The cancer has spread to her lungs. It's only a matter of time," the young doctor had told him in gentle frankness. He folded the report closed and tossed it on his desk. "There's nothing else we can do now except keep her comfortable…"

"Oh, God," Michael gasped, struggling to take in this blow. He bit back a sob and lifted his head to face Brian squarely, unwilling, like Jeanette's doctors, to concede defeat just yet. "How much time?" he demanded angrily. He needed to know, needed to know what he was dealing with….

Brian sighed, and ran a hand through his unruly hair. "No one can tell you that," he answered carefully. "Every patient is different, every disease process is unique. There's no formula for predicting life expectancy, there are no rules. It's only something we can guess at…"

"Then GUESS, dammit!" Michael shouted, his fear making him furious. "What the hell are we looking at?"

Brian nodded, and rubbed his hand over his firm chin. He sighed once more, in sympathy, not the least bit upset by Michael's sudden hostility. He had seen it all before- it was a natural part of grief to be angry.

"Weeks," his friend replied in the same gentle tone. "Maybe months, but I doubt it…." He smiled tremulously. "I hope it's not months, for her sake…."

Brian waited a few moments while Michael absorbed this in stunned silence. When he realized that Michael was too shocked to respond, he went on, his tone apologetic.

"Jeanette already knew her diagnosis was hopeless when she came here," Brian continued softly. "I suppose she looked at the LeBrun mission as a way to go out in a blaze of glory, instead of lingering slowly…" He closed his blue eyes, his face contorting with grief as he remembered his own lover John's agonizing battle with stomach cancer. "Given the torment she's been through in the past year, you can hardly blame her for preferring it that way…."

Michael looked up sharply, coming quickly out of his dark, silent reverie. "You KNEW?" The distressed operative asked in disbelief. How could Brian have known this and not told him? He wondered, stunned. "You knew what she was planning?" Michael choked out, appalled. "The mission, deceiving me, everything?" he demanded in horror.

Brian shook his head. "No, Michael, of course not….." The doctor licked dry lips. "I knew about her illness, not about what she planned. Jeanette contacted me just before she arrived. She had me meet her privately, in a place where she knew we wouldn't be eavesdropped on…" The doctor smiled slightly, remembering. "We sat on a bench in a public park, and she did look beautiful, with the sun shining on her hair, so blonde and pretty…." He shook his head once more. " I only realized after she began talking a while that it was a wig…."

He sighed, collected himself, and continued. "She told me she was planning on coming to Section One to run a last set of missions, to profile them…." His blue eyes met Michael's. The stricken lover was sitting listening avidly, his eyes full of pain.

"Unfinished business, she called it," Brian went on. "She wanted me to tend her as her physician, and to make sure no one knew of her illness. No one in Section was to know, not even Madeleine and Operations…"

The doctor leaned forward and placed his hand gently on Michael's shoulder. "She said she wanted to see you again, something about making amends…" He shook his head, the dark curls tumbling over his forehead. "She wouldn't tell me anything more, but I just assumed, because you and she were old friends, that you knew of her illness, and that was why you were in her room so much…." The doctor's blue eyes softened. "I just thought you wanted to spend as much time with her as you could before the end…."

Michael swallowed hard, struggling to keep down the hard lump of pain in his throat. He fought tears, but one escaped to run hotly down his cheek.

"No," he confessed, feeling inexplicably hurt by Jeanette's deception. "She didn't tell me….." He bit his lip to keep it from trembling. "I was as besotted and taken in as any green recruit…." He sighed heavily. "I didn't see past the camouflage. I was blind-blind and STUPID…"

Brian shook his head once more. "You weren't stupid, My Friend," he said gently. "Jeanette is a clever woman. She only let you see what she wanted you to see…." He sighed again. "Maybe she intended to tell you the truth, but then couldn't bring herself to do it," he mused soberly. "Maybe your admiration and your devotion gave her something she needed-" He paused carefully before finishing his sentence. "-A deep confidence. Maybe she couldn't tell you the truth because she needed to stay in her role as the alluring beauty in order to have the courage to go through with what she had profiled for herself…."

Brian's words brought Michael up short, stopping his anger. His world reconfigured itself again, as he looked at things in a new way. He tried to look past his own pain to see things from Jeanette's point of view. Perhaps Brian was right. Maybe Jeanette hadn't deceived him about the truth of her condition because she didn't trust him, but because she needed his trust MORE. Maybe he was wrong to feel wounded by what he thought of as her betrayal. It was possible she had not been out to trick him, but rather to trick herself, into doing what she had to do….

"And you can't underestimate the power of her need for dignity, Michael," Brian went on, interrupting Michael's wildly reeling thoughts. "After the surgery, Jeanette was left with psychological wounds, as well as physical ones. The loss of her breasts made her feel humiliated, ugly, less than a woman…." He paused for a heartbeat. "Maybe she just couldn't bring herself to seem less than perfectly feminine in your eyes…."

The stifled sob in Michael's throat escaped then, coming out as a harsh, painful cry. His tears overflowed, and unashamed, he let them fall. But he only allowed himself to indulge in this sweet release of grief for an instant, realizing he had months and years ahead to process his pain. The time for crying would come soon enough. He had an endless eternity to recover from this blow.

It was Jeanette who had no time. No time at all.

"I want to see her," Michael begged, turning his tear-stained face up to Brian pleadingly. "Is that possible?"

Brian, his face solemn, nodded. "Of course," he answered gently. He straightened his long frame from the desk. "I'll show you the way."

Silently, Michael followed the tall surgeon out of the cramped office and down a series of long corridors. Michael felt cold, despite the hot, glaring lights above him in the Medlab hallways. At last Brian stopped by a large steel door, guarded by two brawny, stone-faced operatives. The men stood back to let them pass.

At Michael's curious glance at this arrangement, Brian explained.

"Jeanette is still Oversight," he whispered softly, for the guard's benefit, lowering his voice so they could not overhear. "She's left orders that no one is to have access to her without my consent…" He grinned suddenly, an impish smile lighting up his face. "Even Operations and Madeleine can't visit unless I say so…" He entered a code in the keypad lock and then pushed the door open an inch. "And it'll be a snowy day in Hell before I let that happen…"

Michael smiled back briefly, relieved that Jeanette had such a devoted protector in Brian. But his face fell quickly, realizing the harsh reality of what awaited him just beyond the door.

"She's awake," Brian assured him, seeing Michael hesitate. "And I know she wants to talk to you…"

Suddenly, Brian reached out and enveloped Michael in a huge hug, strong but brief. His arms cradled his grieving friend in tender warmth, as if imparting a needed strength. Michael closed his eyes, and drank in this power, absorbing this compassion into his empty heart like a dry sponge. In an instant, it was over, and Brian was releasing him, pounding him encouragingly on the shoulder.

"Call me if you need me," the doctor assured him again, and then, with another tender smile, he turned on his heel and walked off down the corridor, leaving Michael alone in front of the open door of Jeanette's room.

Squaring his shoulders, Michael took a deep breath, pushed the heavy door the rest of the way open, and went in.

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

Michael squared his shoulders and pushed open the door to Jeanette's room and entered. She was lying on her back, looking small and fragile in the big hospital bed. Her face was turned to the wall, away from him, but he could see the side of her face, the pale cheeks covered in livid bruises from the beating LeBrun had given her. The glamorous blonde tresses were gone; pink scalp showed through the short stubble of salt-and-pepper fuzz that was all that remained of her hair after the burning radiation.

The shock of this nakedness of her head stunned him anew, almost as much as the absence of breasts. She wore a thin hospital gown, and with her arms at her sides, he could plainly see that there was nothing under the flat expanse of her gown except the small mound on one side that was the bandage covering the wound for the chemotherapy catheter. The beautiful, enticing breasts that had so held his attention were gone, an illusion that she had created out of her own need to be whole again.

He stepped forward, silently, not sure whether she was asleep. Unbidden, the image of the deep scars that scored her chest under the gown came back to him. Graceless wounds, somehow piteous and obscene- something that no woman should have to endure, but millions did, in order to stay alive. The scars were fascinating in their ugliness, the same way beauty and horror can be fascinating, and compelling. He had a hard time tearing his eyes away from the place of emptiness on her chest where her breasts should be.

Her slender form was still under the covers of sheet and blankets. He couldn't believe he hadn't noticed how thin she was, almost emaciated, until now. His heart wrenched in pity. He hesitated, not sure whether to say anything, or to just leave, and let her rest.

She sighed, startling him. Brian was right; Jeanette was indeed awake. Then she stirred, the crisp white sheets rustling as she brought one arm up to drape it protectively across her ravaged chest, as if protecting the scars from his probing thoughts. The other arm stayed by her side, tethered down by tubes and IVs. She turned her head slowly, to meet his eyes, her own blue eyes wide and awake, alert and oh so vulnerable, glistening with bright tears.

"Hello, Michael," she said simply, in a tremulous voice.

Michael met those eyes, and gasped. The world re-oriented itself again, his perceptions shifting with new awareness. The eyes were the same, the same eyes that had regarded him fondly all those years ago, watching with care over his fledgling progress as he trained as a raw recruit. These were also the same eyes that had looked at him so adoringly just few days before, flirting with him outrageously, watching him with possessive, female pride. He saw in those eyes all the roles she had played with him, each done in love- she was his mother, sister, lover, his friend.

She loved him. What he hadn't conceived of before, he knew with certainty now. She loved him. And in that love she was as had always been, although he had not seen it clearly til now-

She was beautiful. Even this way, scarred, disfigured, dying- she was beautiful. It was as if the illness had burned away all the illusions, hers and his, and he could see her exactly as she was, the outer shell of physicality stripped away to reveal the pure soul underneath. She was a living spirit, an eternal fire in the heart of God.

The feeling of being in sacred space descended on him again, wrapping him in total peace. There was an ethereal quality to the very air in the room, here in the presence of Death. He was indeed on holy ground.

"You're beautiful," he blurted out, not knowing what else to say but these words that weighed heavy on his heart. There had been a pressure inside him that was now released as he said these words. He felt something wet fall on his hand, and he looked down- it was one of his own tears- he hadn't even realized he was crying.

Jeanette let out a soft sob of relief at this gesture of caring, at the words of total acceptance. She had been afraid of his reaction. She had expected him to be angry at her, perhaps resentful at being used and tricked, and most likely repulsed by what he had seen of what remained of her ravaged body after the cancer had had its way with her. This loving graciousness, this sweet greeting, the words said in all sincerity, words she had never dreamed of hearing again- that she was beautiful- undid her. She dropped the last of her defenses, and, feeling safe and free to do so, let go.

There was a new atmosphere between them. Jeanette felt it, too, even stronger than Michael did. There was no longer any reason to hide from each other.

Here, on holy ground, it was time for the Truth to come out.

"You're beautiful, too," she whispered gently, trying to smile between her warm grateful tears. With the hand tethered to the IVs she patted the mattress beside her. "Sit here and let me explain," she invited, her voice shaking with emotion. "I owe you that, at least."

Michael approached slowly, and perched on the edge of the bed. Carefully, he took her hand in his lap and held it there, caressing her fingers with as much adoration as he had shown any lover, before or since. He was conscious of how important this moment was, how fleeting and beautiful, how honored he was to be in her presence, for this moment out of time. He knew what she was about to tell him was important, perhaps life-changing. The space had that momentous feel to it, a feeling at once strange and unfamiliar, and yet well-known, as if he had experienced this foreknowledge of impending sacred wisdom in life-times past.

Jeanette twined her fingers in his, gripping his hand hard, with more strength than he thought would be possible for her. A dreamy look came over her eyes, and Michael knew she had traveled elsewhere in her mind, far back in the past.

"When I found out I had cancer, it was a blessing, really," she told him slowly, as if she were talking to herself.

Michael choked back his shock. "Blessing?" he asked, bewildered, his grip tightening on her hand. "In what way?"

She sighed, and went on with her musings. "Because of the time it gave me- time to think…" The beautiful blue eyes played over his face. "If I'd caught a bullet in the back on some mission, I never would have had time to contemplate things, to go over my life, to review all I'd done…." She paused, her mind working, and Michael knew somehow she was thinking of him, of what they had achieved together. "It gave me time to try to make amends…"

"You can be proud of your life," he told her gently, seeing no reason to hold back now on his sincere praise. "You saved a lot of innocent lives, helped hundreds of people…." He kissed the hand he held in his. "You are a brilliant profiler…."

Jeanette shook her head in agitation, her smile fading. "No, Michael," she protested, turning her head away, unable to look him in the eye anymore. "I didn't always help people….." She let out a long sigh. "There are things I regret, deeply. There are times I didn't help people…" Jeanette choked out, as if the words pained her. " I HURT them…."

She turned her head sharply back to look at him, her eyes meeting his once more. "There were times I played God…"

"Jeanette, you didn't do anything wrong…." Michael began, attempting to console her guilt. He saw no reason for her self-flagellation; he himself had killed so many people, had lied and deceived and tricked and betrayed. His mind shied away from the kind of thoughts he would have if their situations had been reversed, if he was the one lying on his death bed, wracked with regret. Jeanette was a saint in comparison.

"You're a profiler- it's your job to control things…" he soothed her. He caressed her fingers between his, trying to impart comfort. "You're kind, and you're fair. You always have been. You didn't hurt anyone…" he assured her softly. "I know you didn't…"

Abruptly, with a small cry of distress, she snatched her fingers from his grip, as if unable to bear his touch any longer.

"You're wrong, Michael," Jeanette protested, breaking into tears. "I HAVE hurt people…." She stared at him, tears overflowing her bruised cheeks, her eyes as magnificently beautiful as before. "I've been so cruel…." She whispered wretchedly.

Then she spoke the words that stunned him, rocking his world topsy-turvy once more, making him catch his breath with stunned disbelief, setting his mind whirling in shock….

"I hurt Adam, Michael. I hurt your child, and your wife Elena, and Simone, too," Jeanette confessed in harsh whisper. "I hurt Nikita, and everyone you have ever loved," she told him breathlessly. Her face crumpled in a contortion of sheer pain. "I hurt YOU, Michael…." She sobbed.

"God forgive me," she pleaded, burying her face in her hands and weeping brokenly. "I hurt you most of all…."

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

Michael let her cry for while, then gently put his hand on her wrists and pulled her hands away from her face.

"Tell me what you think you did that was so wrong," he said softly, his tone warm and indulgent. He gave her an encouraging smile, as he didn't believe what she had to tell him would hurt him at all. "How could you have possibly been cruel to Adam and Elena and Simone, people you've never met?"

Jeanette stared at him guiltily, then took in a shuddering breath, trying to get control of her sobbing. She sighed deeply, gulping air, and then collapsed back on the pillows. Again, she turned her head away to look at the blank wall, as if she was unable to find the courage to face him.

"Arrogance is an insidious thing," the dying woman began softly, her voice so low that Michael had to strain to hear her, even though he was still sitting right beside her on the hospital bed. "I suppose I had so much success in my work back then that I started to believe what people said about me---" She paused to bite her lip and give a sharp, self-deprecating laugh. "-That I could walk on water….."

"There didn't seem to be anything I couldn't do," she went on softly, this time her voice just a bit stronger. "I designed the profiles, and they happened. I created scenarios, and they came to life. I manipulated, and schemed, and plotted, and people jumped to obey. Whatever I commanded, whatever I envisioned, whatever I THOUGHT, came about." She laughed bitterly again. "I was…. God."

Michael brushed his fingers against hers in an attempt to comfort her pain. "Yes, you had power," he agreed gently, "But remember what you used it for. You're intentions were always to do good…."

Her head snapped around at this remark, and the blue eyes focused on him intently as if her were her only life-line. With the free arm, she gripped his elbow tightly, and pulled him closer. "Oh, yes, Michael," she cried, breaking into sobs again. "What I did to you, it was only out of a desire to help you, please believe that. I played God with your life, but not because I wanted to control you or hurt you. Only because I thought I could save you, and because I was too arrogant to realize it wouldn't work…."

The somber green eyes met hers, still glowingly affectionate. "You were my trainer," Michael countered in a soothing tone. "You controlled everything I did back then…" He dared to reach out and stroke her cheek gently, wiping away tears, in an effort to comfort her. "You saved my life many times during that year I was your material…" He shook his head and smiled gently. "You taught me how to stay alive. There's no need to feel guilty about that…"

To his puzzlement, Jeanette cried harder, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, tears flowing out from under lashes squinted in pain. "It wasn't THEN that I played God, Michael," she sobbed brokenly. "It was later…"

"When, then, exactly?" he asked, still in the gentle tone. He thought the question might distract her from her grief. Her emotional distress was beginning to concern him.

His ploy worked. Jeanette made a valiant effort to gain control, sitting up straighter in the hospital bed and wiping her eyes. She sniffed loudly, and then looked him in the eye, determined to confess her sin, to unburden herself of long-ago festering secrets that had eaten away at her heart. She needed this release in order to have peace with her conscience.

Jeanette took a deep breath and told him the raw truth, bringing the dark things on her soul into the Light.

"I profiled your role in the Vacek mission, Michael," she said bluntly. "I'm the one who made you marry Elena."

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

Michael stopped breathing, the last lungful of air he had inhaled caught in his throat. He paled visibly, all the blood rushing from his face, and would have fallen if he weren't already sitting down. Jeanette felt him tense beside her, and she waited for a reaction, but there was none. He was too stunned to make a sound.

In the silence, she rushed on, elaborating on her shocking statement.

"You have to understand," she pleaded in a low urgent voice. "You were the student that I was proudest of. Everyone saw it," Jeanette said emphatically. "Even when you were a raw recruit, your potential shone above all the others. It was obvious from the beginning that you would make an outstanding operative, and you didn't disappoint us…."

Michael managed to gasp in a breath, the air feeling harsh and irritating to his frozen throat, burning his lungs as it went in. He choked out a protest, his mind whirling. "What does that have do with anything?" he demanded, torn between confusion and anger, and a deep hurt at being manipulated. "What does how well I did in my training have to do with your assigning me to marry Elena?" The green eyes bored into hers. Michael gripped her hand hard; dying or not, he would not let Jeanette go until he had all his answers.

"Why did you pick me?" he growled roughly.

Jeanette gave a little gasp of fear at his touch and his intense gaze, but she lifted her chin and went on. "It has everything to do with it," she answered, with a touch of asperity. "You were the best; Madeleine and Operations saw that…."

She shook her head, a worried frown creasing her bruised forehead. "I kept track of where they sent you, what missions you were assigned to…" His trainer sighed deeply. "It scared me how many missions there were, Michael…" she told him hoarsely. "Each one more dangerous than the last. They thought you were invincible; they used you like an inexhaustible resource…"

Her eyes clouded with tears, and the tension in her voice grew thicker. "I knew your lucky streak couldn't last forever. Not because you weren't GOOD, and not because you weren't careful," the profiler qualified insistently. "But the odds were against you…"

Jeanette squirmed uncomfortably on the bed. She choked back a sob as she continued. "I knew sooner or later, something would happen to you. A mission would come along that you couldn't fight, think, or finesse your way out of…." She shook her head. "I dreaded the day that I would see your name on a casualty list, but I knew that day was coming, and I was determined to do something before that happened…"

Michael stared at her in stony silence. They both knew that the Vacek mission had spared him nothing. He was still sent out on missions even after his blood cover as Elena's husband and as Adam's father was established. Section still demanded that he continue his role as their super-operative on dangerous and risky assignments; the Vacek mission was just another task he was expected to perform.

"I wanted to save you…." Jeanette pleaded, looking up into his face with tear-filled eyes. "Please believe that…" The tears spilled over on her battered cheeks as she begged him to understand. "I didn't know you would still maintain the same status. I thought you would be taken out of play, spared any danger in order to protect your cover…"

She stared unseeingly at the bedcovers, lowering her head, her eyes blurred with tears. "And I thought it would achieve for you something more than just safety. I thought it would give you things you could never have otherwise in Section…" Jeanette choked out roughly. "A home, a child, a family, …."

Michael stared at her, contemplating just what Jeanette's interference had cost him.

Simone.

"And a wife," Michael finished for her bitterly, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

Jeanette lifted her head up sharply at his tone. Her mouth firmed defiantly. "I wouldn't have chosen just anyone for you, Michael," she went on sincerely. "If Vacek's daughter had been someone as vile and disgusting as he was, I never would have considered it. But Elena was beautiful, educated, sweet-tempered…" The profiler nodded her head. "I thought it was possible that you could love her. I thought she might make you happy…."

Michael closed his eyes. Happy, he thought. Oh God. The truth was, he had loved them both- beautiful, innocent, calm Elena, and fiery, passionate, beautiful Simone. And the agony of having those two loves warring inside him had torn him in two.

"If you followed my progress closely as you say you did, you'd have known that I was already married when you concocted this scheme…." Michael burst out, unable to keep the resentment and hurt from his voice.

He did not want to admit how accurate Jeanette had been in her assessment that he would fall in love with Elena. He had, almost from the first moment he saw her. But the guilt and torment that this caused him had done nothing to make him happy. From the moment he started the mission his emotions were in turmoil; his life had become a living hell.

"I knew about Simone, yes," Jeanette answered softly. Her hand squeezed his. "But from all Madeleine's reports, however, it looked like it was just an arrangement of convenience; the two of you were physically attracted to each other, perhaps obsessively so, but it seemed there was not much emotional depth to your marriage…" Her voice faltered as she went on with her apology. "I didn't think you would miss her so much…."

Michael flinched, then glared stonily into Jeanette's blue eyes. "You taught me TOO well, Jeanette," he spat out acidly. "About camouflage. About hiding the truth, about making things appear to be different than they are…." His voice broke as he said the next words. "I loved her. I just took great pains to make it APPEAR that I didn't…."

He glared at her, then pronounced the words slowly, as if he didn't want to spare his former trainer any of the hurt he had felt himself. "It killed me to have to see the pain in Simone's eyes when I left our bed to go be with another woman….." He closed his eyes, willing the tears not to fall, and failing. "She suffered so much because of what I did, because of what YOU created. I think that's why she chose to die with Sparks rather than come back with me…."

Jeanette sobbed brokenly. "I know, Michael," she cried, burying her face in her hands. "And I'm so sorry. I hurt you, but I never intended to be so cruel…" she looked up then, and placed her hand on his arm, whispering to him urgently, letting the tears fall unheeded as she went on, knowing there was so little time left.

"The guilt of what I did to you has tormented me," she confessed brokenly. "I had to fix it, somehow, I had to make it RIGHT," she rushed on breathlessly. "I had to make it all up to you, or I knew I could never die in peace…"

Michael stopped short, his anger dissipating in the face of what lay ahead for her; only his grief remained. There had been other consequences to her profile than just hurt and pain.

There was his son.

"You don't have to make up to me for anything," he said softly. "What you did brought me Adam, and I'll always be grateful to you for that…." Michael admitted gruffly.

Jeanette watched him solemnly for a moment, her face stony, until her chin began to quiver uncontrollably and a sob was wrenched from her, almost involuntarily.

"It's… more than gracious of you to say that, Michael," she choked out in a trembling voice. "But we both know you have no reason to be grateful. At the time, I thought I was helping you, but all I did was hurt you, and everyone you loved…."

Her eyes closed tight as she gasped in a breath, her voice breaking on a sob. "I hurt your precious baby son, too…." She cried, inconsolable. "Adam will have to grow up without a father. I think I regret that most of all…."

Michael forced himself to remain calm, although it took an effort not to grab her and shake her. His anger was still close to the surface.

"You say you didn't want to hurt me. But why did you think that if I fell in love with Elena, if I loved my son, loved living with them- that I wouldn't be hurt when it ended?" Michael asked, bewildered. "You knew the mission couldn't last forever…"

Jeanette sighed shakily, and ran her hand through the short stubble of her hair. "Why? Because I didn't think it would end, Michael," she confessed with a bitter, rueful smile. "You lived with Elena, what, over five years?" Jeanette shook her head. "Vacek was more elusive than anyone we have ever tracked. It might have been decades before we caught him…" she sighed again. "I thought there was so much time, time for you to have more children, time to watch them grow up, time for you and Elena to grow old together…."

She closed her eyes wearily and leaned back against the pillows, exhausted and spent from her revelations. In a pensive tone she added the words that Michael knew included not just him, but herself….

"I thought there was so much time…."

Michael's heart wrenched in pity again, even as his stomach churned in anger. His emotions were a rollercoaster mix of highs and lows, bitter and sweet. Tentatively, he took her hand in his again, holding it gently. Jeanette loved him in her own way, and she was dying. Even if he wanted vengeance, that option was out of his hands. Fate was dealing out to her the stiffest of punishments, and he had no wish to add to her already insurmountable pain. Jeanette was dying- he could afford to be merciful.

""It's all right," he told her gently, the words tantamount to a blessing. "I forgive you. Don't cry. It's okay now…."

Jeanette opened her eyes, turned her head on the pillow, and smiled at him. Tears shone in her eyes. "Yes, I think it is…" she said in a dreamy tone, her gaze looking at him, but seeing past him into some future that she would not be there to share with him. "I wanted to make amends to you, and perhaps I've done that. Maybe this time, my profile will turn out the way I intended it to…"

She smiled again, a smile from her soul, the light of it shining through her face, making her beautiful. "Nikita, after she recovers, will be re-conditioned, and she'll love you again…." Jeanette sighed in deep satisfaction. "And you, Michael, are clever enough to know how to camouflage the fact that you love her, too…."

She closed her eyes wearily, settling her head into the pillow. "I thought I wanted to die in LeBrun's bunker, in a bomb blast, but I'm glad I didn't," she whispered, still too weary to open her eyes. "I'm so glad I lived long enough to get things right with you. I've made a lot of mistakes; I've been wrong about so many things, but I think I'm right about what the future holds for you…."

Her voice grew fainter, weaker, but a serene smile curved her lips. "You'll be happy, Michael," she breathed out on a deep sigh. "Don't worry now….." Jeanette murmured, her smile widening, growing stronger, even as her life-force faded away. "You'll be like me. So very, very happy….."

His mentor breathed out for the last time, her head falling to the side as the monitors beeped and clanged cacophonously, but Jeanette did not awaken.

She was gone, her Spirit soaring in peace, her Soul released in beauty and light. Only the sheep's clothing, the camouflage of the spent outer shell remained. The Butterfly had flown, leaving behind the ugly, discarded cocoon that had housed her Beauty.

"Jeanette?" Michael asked quietly, not believing that she could have gone like this, so peacefully, so …easy.

"JEANETTE!" he sobbed, realizing the truth, that her love lived now somewhere beyond him, beyond this world. "No! Jeanette…." Michael cried, bereft. "Oh God, please… Jeanette…."

He stared at her, stunned, for a long moment, then, slowly, realizing he could no longer hurt her, that nothing could ever hurt her again- he gathered her scarred and battered body in his arms and rocked her, kissing her softly, reverently, a sweet kiss goodbye. He held her a long time against his heart, until she grew cold, until he was sure the Angel inside her no longer fluttered behind that disfigured, amputated breast, until he knew she was so far away in some beautiful place that she would no longer be concerned that he, in anguish, wept…..

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

Madeleine was tapping her finger thoughtfully against her perfect chin and staring at her computer screen when Operations walked in.

"You wanted to see me?" Paul asked, concerned, as he strode into the gray-walled, starkly austere office of Section's chief strategist. Even the plethora of plants blooming colorfully all over the room did nothing to bring life to the dead space that Madeleine inhabited. Operations was unaware of the décor, however, concentrating all his attention on his partner in crime, and the war against it.

Madeleine relaxed visibly, as if she had been waiting tensely for him to appear, and needed this chance to unburden herself of whatever deep thoughts she harbored inside her devious, if beautiful, head.

"It's about Michael," she began without preamble, getting right to the point. She paused thoughtfully, watching Paul from across the room. "And Nikita as well…." She added pensively.

Operations' back stiffened, and one eyebrow went up, all his senses on alert. "What about them?" he barked, somewhat alarmed. "I thought they were over each other…" He grinned suddenly and settled his long frame in the uncomfortable-looking steel-framed chair in front of Madeleine's desk. "Since Nikita's adjustment, those two barely speak to each other. And.." he added with a wolfish grin, "I thought Michael had his hands full these days just keeping the lovely and insatiably lustful Jeanette satisfied …."

Madeleine's eyes widened in surprise. "Oh," she said softly. "So you haven't heard?"

Paul leaned forward in his chair, alarmed at her tone. "Heard what?" he demanded anxiously.

The brunette beauty sighed. "Jeanette's dead," Madeleine announced bluntly. "She died this morning in Medlab."

Paul blinked, stunned. "My God, how is that possible?" he spluttered, his shock giving away to anger at the inconvenience of the profiler's demise. "Damn. I knew LeBrun beat her up pretty bad, but I didn't know her injuries were that serious…"

"Jeanette didn't die from the injuries she sustained on the mission," the magnolia-skinned Strategist interrupted. "The beating just hastened the process. She had cancer….." Madeleine sighed deeply once more. "Apparently she was already dying when she came here."

With an elegant movement of one delicate hand, she turned her monitor around so that the scene on the computer screen was open to Operations' view.

"Jeanette had arranged for the surveillance in her room in Medlab to be blocked, but our technicians managed to circumvent it, and this is what we found, visual only…." Madeleine explained. "This feed is only a few hours old…"

Paul leaned closer, peering into the screen. A shocked expression crossed his face, and he took off his glasses, then peered at the screen again, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Michael was sitting on the hospital bed, sobbing, rocking a cadaver in his arms. The body was hideous, wasted, the hair gone, the flesh barely clinging to the delicate bones, the face a mass of purple bruises. Through the silence of the grainy video, Michael's grief was devastatingly plain. He kissed the dead thing tenderly, and held the corpse carefully to his breast, as if this rotting piece of meat were something infinitely precious.

"Christ," Paul cursed when he at last found his breath. "That's JEANETTE?" he choked out, appalled that he had not realized that the buxom, flirtatious profiler had been a wasted and doomed cancer victim underneath the distracting plumage.

Madeleine nodded. "Apparently she fooled us- all of us- as to the truth of her real condition," the Strategist said, unable to keep a note of genuine admiration out of her voice. "No one knew of her prognosis, except for Dr. Whicker." She paused, looking thoughtfully at the screen again. "And Michael, of course," she added gravely.

Operations nodded, still processing this stunning news. He waited, knowing Madeleine would soon say more.

She did not disappoint him.

"This changes things, of course," Madeleine went on in a concerned tone. "What we thought was a strictly physically driven affair of passion between mentor and student turned out to be something much more…."

Her gaze drifted to the screen again, where Michael's image sobbed on, shoulders shaking with grief. "He loved her…." The Iron Maiden said softly, her tone almost wistful. "We'll have to deal with that…."

Operations sighed heavily, then shrugged, as if this movement could rid him of the uncomfortable feelings the image on the screen had provoked. "So he loved her," Paul said dismissively. "So what? She's dead now, and he'll get over it….."

Madeleine raised her hand, interrupting him. She shook her head gravely. "I don't think so," she went on somberly. "Michael's feelings were deeply involved; his roots for his affection for her go far back into the past, spanning the whole time he's been in Section…."

Madeleine frowned. "On top of the other recent losses he's endured- losing Adam in particular, this blow could not have come at a worse time…" she continued pensively. "Jeanette was his way of staying focused, his lifeline….."

"The fact that Nikita was in Medlab at the same time, recovering from the Mozambique virus, and Michael ignored her, didn't even try to see her, and went straight to Jeanette, combined with his grief now, tells me that we will have some serious work to do, trying to get Michael back on an even emotional keel…" Madeleine continued on in a low voice. "He won't recover from this blow easily, without our help…."

Paul sighed again, exasperated. He hated it when she was right. Things were complicated now, but he liked things simple. That had always been his way.

"Fine, so we'll help him!" Paul agreed, impatiently. "What do you suggest we do?"

Madeleine paused, eyeing him carefully, as if trying to gauge his reaction to what she was about to say before she said it. "I suggest," she said slowly, "That we give him Nikita."

Paul coughed, choking on the breath that had snagged in his lungs at the shock of these words.

"Are you out of your MIND?" he gasped, unable to believe what he was hearing. "You just spent the last year trying to break those two up!" He shook his head, amazed at her turnabout. "And now you want to undo all the success you've achieved? This is crazy! I…."

"Hear me out, Paul," Madeleine interrupted his tirade sharply. "What we achieved with Nikita's adjustment was all that we hoped. We broke up their bond of conspiracy, and Michael moved on. We had no objection to their having a physical relationship," she reminded him tartly, "Only a political one. Now that that goal has been achieved, I think Nikita's usefulness as an emotional support for Michael takes precedence over any qualms we might have over their getting together as conspirators…."

"He NEEDS her," Madeleine finished urgently. "Michael is difficult; he pulls back, he retreats…." The dark-haired beauty sighed. "We can't get to him. No one can reach him like Nikita can…." Her brown eyes pleaded with his. "We need her to save him…"

Operations sighed wearily, giving in. He never could refuse her anything when Madeleine looked at him like that.

"Okay, fine, FINE!" he agreed snippily, although he was secretly pleased that she had already designed a plan to deal with the problem so he didn't have to handle it. Fathoming the depths of Michael's twisted psyche had never been his strong suit. The man was a complicated mystery, best dealt with by minds more convoluted than his own, namely Madeleine's.

"Go ahead then," Paul told her. "Have Nikita de-programmed as soon as possible…."

The dark beauty smiled. "Thank you," she said simply.

Operations smiled back, pleased that the problem was settled. He took one more glance at the screen, where Michael still rocked the lifeless body of his trainer, and shuddered. The vision of Jeanette's corpse gave him the creeps. Then, whistling as if to ward off ghosts, he thrust his hands in his pockets, turned on his heel, and left the room.

As soon as he had gone, Madeleine palmed a button on her desk and called up Medlab.

"Dr. Whicker," she ordered in her melodious voice. "I want you to prepare Nikita for a re-adjustment procedure…" she paused; when she spoke again her voice was tinged with sympathy. "Then I'd like you to take care of Michael. I think he needs you…."

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

Dr. Brian Whicker sighed and ran his hand through his tousled black curls, disarranging them further. His white labcoat hung limply over his rumpled green scrubs- he had been up for thirty-two hours and the prospect of resting in his own bed was no where in sight.

There was still so much to do. In the past endless day, he had watched one patient die, another collapse in crisis, and yet another suffer the ravages of the Mozambique virus.

Jeanette, Michael, Nikita- all of them were his friends. He had suffered along with them. It had been one hellacious day.

Of the three, Brian worried about Jeanette the least. He had been shocked a bit that the end had come so soon, but not surprised. Often terminally ill people would hold on until they could complete that one item of unfinished business- talking to a loved one, settling their affairs, getting through a holiday or anniversary or birthday, whatever it was- and then, when that was done, they gave themselves permission to let go. The dying really had more control about when the actual moment of departure occurred than most people thought. Apparently, Jeanette had only needed to see Michael one more time, before she allowed herself to slip out of the burdensome, worn-out body and escape to the freedom of the Other Side.

All in all, Jeanette was the lucky one. Her suffering was over, and Brian felt only relief that she had chosen not to linger anymore. He was glad for her that she was free. In his long and intimate experience with human pain and disease, he had learned that there were things much worse than Death, and being ravaged by cancer was one of them. Brian had, if not made friends with the Grim Reaper, at least had come to an uneasy truce with Him. In this case, the Dark Angel's coming for Jeanette had been a welcome visit. Brian, when thinking of Jeanette, felt no sorrow now, only a deep sense of peace.

Michael's situation was different, however. There was no peace for him, only the agony of grief. Brian had heard the monitors beep in alarm when Jeanette's life-signs failed, but he had deliberately stayed in his office, allowing Michael time alone with the body. Brian knew that Michael needed this time to say goodbye, and his avoidance of rushing into Jeanette's room was not done out of reluctance or professional neglect, but rather respect for the couple's privacy. It was an intimate moment, one that Brian as a sensitive physician was unwilling to interrupt too soon. Besides, he thought sorrowfully, there could have been nothing he could have done. Jeanette was beyond his help, and, even if he had wanted to, there would have been no way to bring her back.

So he waited. Brian expected to perhaps see Michael at his door, stunned and seeking comfort, after a half hour or so. Or perhaps he would come right away, barging in, demanding that Brian do something to bring her back, to stop the monitors from their incessant wailing. Or maybe an hour would go by, an hour in which Michael would compose himself, and appear, stoic and stone-faced, dry-eyed, to calmly report that Jeanette had passed away. Michael, Brian knew, often retreated behind the cold mask when he was the most hurt.

At any rate, Brian was not sure exactly what Michael's reaction would be. He simply sat at his desk, folding his hands in front of him, and waited.

And waited.

When two and a half hours had gone by, Brian knew something was wrong. Feeling his anxiety gnaw coldly at his gut, he rushed down the hall to Jeanette's room, and found Michael.

The sight of him made Brian gasp in shock.

Michael was still rocking Jeanette's body in his arms, rhythmically, mechanically, as if he were a instrument that had been set in motion and now could not be stopped. Tenderly, his hands cradled her head, her back, while he held her to his breast, heart to heart. Tears flowed down his face, but his eyes behind the wet tears were distant, as if his mind had flown to another place.

"Michael?" Brian whispered gently as he approached the bed. Christ, he thought to himself, worried beyond the point of reason at the sight of Michael's ravaged, yet expressionless, face. I have to do something. I have to bring him back…

"Michael, she's gone now…" Brian soothed him gently, stepping closer. "She's in better place. It's all right. Let me take her…" He reached out his hands to embrace Jeanette, to carefully remove her from Michael's grasp, but the bereaved operative did not let go. He continued rocking her, continued staring into space. He looked through Brian as if he weren't there.

Brian stiffened in alarm; he had seen Michael distressed before, but nothing like this. He wondered for a moment if his friend's soul had received one too many blows, and was attempting to flee, escaping out by following Jeanette into the beyond. Brian shivered with fright; Michael was in some dark world of his own.

The doctor decided he would have to be stern. "Michael, please," Brian said in a commanding tone, determined to break his friend out of his trance. "You can't do this…."

He put his hand firmly on Michael's arm, in preparation to pry Jeanette's body out his grip if he had to. "Let her go. It's time to let go now…." Brian ordered firmly.

Michael blinked then, and turned his head, the green eyes focusing on Brian as if he had noticed the doctor's presence for the first time. The doctor's words seemed to have triggered an explosive reaction, jolting the grieving operative out his numbness.

The full mouth firmed rebelliously. "No," Michael whispered hoarsely, his face a mask of anguish. "I won't let her go. I…I CAN'T…" he cried, his voice rising in a hysterical wail. "Don't you see? I've lost everything- EVERYONE!"

He let out a strangled sob and clutched Jeanette more tightly to his breast, as if seeking warmth from the rapidly cooling body. He stroked the corpse's bare, stubbled head reverently. "They've taken everyone away from me," Michael groaned softly, the words coming out in a choked rush. "They're all gone- my parents, Rene, Simone, my sister, Elena…" Michael rushed on, in a litany of the living and the dead, ones whose love was now beyond his reach.

"And ADAM," he sobbed, " Oh, God, Adam…" Michael moaned, his whole body shuddering violently with his grief. "And then they took my Nikita…" he wailed, bereft.

He looked down at the silent corpse in his arms. "And now they want to take Jeanette," Michael whispered. He caressed his mentor's battered face, his fingers tenderly tracing the outline of one eyebrow over the permanently closed blue eyes. He shook his head, his mouth firming stubbornly. His tears had all gone, to be replaced by a look of desperate determination.

"I won't let them take anymore from me," Michael vowed solemnly. "I won't give up Jeanette…." He clutched Jeanette's body more tightly to his chest and glared at Brian, not in anger, but in a desperate warning, his eyes pleading. It was if he were a cornered animal protecting its wounded and dying cub against capture, making a last futile stand, willing to fight hunters and rescuers alike.

"Don't you touch her," Michael growled. "Don't you dare touch her…."

Carefully, his eyes full of grief, heart breaking, Brian backed off. He dropped his hand from Michael's arm and straightened slowly. "All right," the doctor agreed shakily, trying to keep his voice from cracking. "She's yours, Michael," he assured him gently, tears blurring his vision. "She won't leave you, and I won't let anyone take her from you…."

Michael shuddered, then sighed deeply, nodding in relief. He closed his eyes, and buried his head in Jeanette's cold, emaciated shoulder. He went on rocking her, his body relaxing it's stiff stance as the entranced rhythm of his grief took over once more.

That's when Brian made his move.

"I'm sorry, Michael," the doctor whispered, as he dug in his pocket for the hypo-spray filled with sedatives that he had placed there in case it was needed. Michael looked up in surprise at his words, but was unable to do more than just lift his head and widen his eyes as Brian plunged the needle home in the side of the operative's smooth neck.

Michael jerked once, then collapsed back on the bed. Jeanette's body fell with him, settling close, her dead arms still wrapped lovingly around him in a macabre, yet tenderly poignant, embrace.

Brian watched the couple on the bed with pity for a moment, allowing his tears to fall. He gave in to his emotions for a full minute, but would permit himself no more time than that to indulge in his grief. There was still so much to do.

He gathered himself to go on. Wiping his eyes, the tender-hearted young doctor steeled himself for the task ahead. He walked to the intercom panel near the door, and punched the button brutally, bruising his palm as he did so.

"Terri! James!" he ordered curtly, calling on the most trusted and senior members of his personal staff. "I'm in Room A. Get in here!"

He only waited little more thirty seconds before his two co-workers appeared at the door, running. Both men looked shocked at the scene on the bed, but said nothing, waiting for Brian's orders expectantly.

"Take Michael to Observation," Brian spat out tensely, forcing himself to say the words. He was reluctant to treat his friend this way, but felt he had no other choice. "Keep him sedated and restrained…." He swallowed hard, and choked out the rest. "I want him under twenty-four hour guard as well. Suicide watch…."

Terri's face grew grim, but he nodded, issuing no protest. He trusted Brian completely. If Dr. Whicker considered these measures necessary, then he was not about to argue. "Yes, Doctor," Terri agreed in a respectful tone.

James raised one eyebrow. "And the other patient?" he inquired softly, eyeing the obviously stiffening corpse draped over Michael's warm body on the bed. He cleared his throat nervously. "Do you want me to call House-keeping?"

Brian stared at him for a moment, then closed his eyes. He couldn't bring himself to destroy what Michael had fought so desperately to preserve, the outer shell that had once housed Jeanette's soul, the body to which Michael, even while unconscious, clung to still.

"No," Brian answered roughly, unconsciously echoing Michael's words. He shook his head in firm refusal. "You can't take her…" He swallowed hard, choking back fresh tears. "Jeanette stays here."

Terri's eyes softened in sympathy. He knew Brian was not one of those doctors that developed a self-protective callused indifference to their patients' pain in order to endure the job; Brian felt things deeply, and he always took it hard when he lost a patient.

"We'll take care of it, Sir," Terri assured him gently. "Don't worry."

Brian managed to nod his thanks, not trusting himself to speak. He was just turning to leave when the intercom on the wall squalked to life.

It was Madeleine, ordering him to perform some twisted procedure on Nikita. Brian stiffened with rage, barely comprehending the words. He was raw and reeling, angered beyond reason. When Madeleine mentioned Michael's name in the next breath, twisting a knife in the young doctor's fresh emotional wounds, Brian saw red.

He slammed his hand against the panel, bruising his palm in the same place as before. He didn't even register the pain.

"Listen up, you BITCH!" Brian vented, the dam of his control breaking. "You're not getting anywhere near my patients, do you hear?" he screamed, pushed beyond his limit. "Whatever sick mind-game you're planning for Michael and Nikita this time, I won't be part of it!" Without waiting for a response, he took in a deep breath and let her have it. "You'll have to get your jollies someplace else, because if you even THINK about f*cking with them again, I'll kill you!"

There was a long pause, a stunned silence in which Terri and James waited, wide-eyed with fright. No one dared to speak to Madeleine like that. No one that wanted to live, that is. What would she do to the foolish young doctor?

Brian stood panting, trying to catch his breath. He was as stunned by his outburst as his comrades were.

Into the silence, Madeleine's melodious voice spoke calmly. "I think, Dr. Whicker," the Iron Maiden said with sweet politeness through the intercom, "That it would be best if you came to my office so we could discuss this further."

Brian shrugged, his anger returning unabated. He was still wound up, still had more emotions to vent; he was spoiling for a fight. "Suits me," he answered with insubordinate grimness, his voice a surly growl. "I'm on my way…."

Terri and James watched him in stunned awe as he strode out of the room. As he left, Brian tossed more orders over his shoulder. "Put a guard on Nikita's room," he told them. "And here on Jeanette's room as well…."

His blue eyes flashed fire. "I'm not going down without a fight…"

Terri sighed wearily. That's what he was afraid of. That Brian would fight, and lose. "Yes, Doctor," he agreed morosely.

But Brian did not hear him. He was already gone, striding quickly down the corridor to sacrifice himself in the lion's den…..

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

Brian stormed down the corridors, in a fine rage, oblivious of his surroundings. He did not see the gray walls around him, or the operatives rushing by, scurrying to perform their tasks. In his mind's eye, Brian only saw Michael as he had found him when he first walked into Jeanette's room - eyes blank, spirit broken, cradling his dead lover in his arms, rocking, rocking…. Brian's tender heart wrenched anew.

""I'll kill that bitch if she puts him through anything else," Brian vowed to himself under his breath. He rounded a corner and reached the door to Madeleine's office; it slid open for him and Brian stormed through.

Madeleine stood in the center of the room, looking cool and collected in a severely cut gray suit. She was industriously occupied at her plant stand, calmly grooming her orchids, and did not look up when he came in.

"Come in, Doctor," she welcomed him absently, concentrating on clipping a stray leaf from one stem that did not meet her approval. When this task was finished to her satisfaction, she put down her scissors and then turned and smiled at him. "We need to have a little talk."

Brian's struggled to control his rage, the momentum of his anger growing in the face of Madeleine's calm rationality. He was made more unsettled and uneasy by the intimidating surroundings- Madeleine's cold office had always given him the creeps. It was all he could do not to jump out of his skin.

The young doctor stepped further into the room, reluctantly approaching her. "You bet we do," he promised her sarcastically. He took a deep breath and let her have it.

"You can't put anything more on Michael," Brian hissed out tightly. "Whatever sick thing you've planned to do to him, you'll just have to cancel it…" The distraught physician ran his hand wearily through his hair. "Michael just can't take anymore…"

Madeleine tilted her head, her eyes widening in curiosity. "Oh?" she queried, still calm. "How is he?"

Brian met her cool brown eyes, his own filled with sorrow. "His heart is broken," he told her tensely. "I'm sure that's not the clinical term for it, but I don't know of a better way to describe his condition…" Brian bit his lip and closed his eyes wearily. "Right now I've got him sedated and restrained in Medlab, under 24 hour suicide watch…." The blue eyes flickered open and met hers again, defiantly.

"He's as close to going over the edge as I've ever seen him," the doctor announced in a warning growl. "I'm not willing to let you and your petty mind games push him past the point of no return," he spat out tensely. "Do you understand that?" he yelled, his voice rising with undisguised panic.

Madeleine sighed, then nodded. "You may not believe this, Doctor," she told him, turning her attention to her plants once more. She raised the scissors, then hesitated as she contemplated which leaf to trim next. "But I'm only trying to help Michael be whole again…." She went on, sighing once more. She selected a victim and snipped. The leaf dropped soundlessly in the tray. "We're just as dismayed as you are that Jeanette's death has affected him so deeply. We only want to help." Snip snip went the scissors, as she plunged the sharp edges into the living green tissue. "We've decided that only Nikita can bring him out of his fugue state," she continued, circling the orchid like a lioness closing in on prey.

"Therefore, the programming we gave her three months ago, when she was adjusted to no longer feel any affection for Michael, will have to be reversed…."

Brian gasped. "What?" he almost shouted, appalled. "You did WHAT?!" Brian had been surprised when he had learned that Michael and Nikita had drifted apart, but he had had no idea that Section had been behind Nikita's change of feelings, or that the fire that burned between the two lovers had been deliberately extinguished by some trick of Madeleine's. The very concept of it amazed and disgusted him.

Madeleine turned to face him, the scissors still in her hand. "You heard me, Doctor," she said serenely. "The adjustment went quite well, just as we hoped, but her indifference to Michael no longer suits our needs now, unfortunately…" Her eyes strayed back to her helpless plants, a scowl upon her face, the scissors poised to strike.

"When Nikita's deprogrammed, no doubt it will be awkward at first, but I'm formulating a few scenarios that might make it easier for them to quickly renew their intimacy," Madeleine went on, unaware of how callously manipulative and calculating she sounded. Brian's stomach turned.

Deftly, with a sudden movement, she clipped yet another leaf. "A husband and wife mission might work," the beautiful strategist mused, "Or if that doesn't achieve what we need, perhaps all it will take is for one of them to believe the other is about to be sent on a Valentine mission with someone else…." She paused thoughtfully. "If that doesn't work, we could always let them think that other is in danger of being cancelled….."

The scissors poised for yet another attack. Before she could cut anymore, Brian lunged at her, grasping her by the wrist, stilling the scissors in her hand from wreaking any more damage on the hapless orchids.

"Stop it!" he shouted at her, his blue eyes blazing. "Just STOP! Don't you see what you're doing to them?" Brian yelled, appalled.

Unafraid, Madeleine gave him an amused smile. "To the orchids?" she queried dryly, giving him a pointed look. "Or to Michael and Nikita?" Her eyes twinkled merrily. "I believe I know a quite a bit more about horticulture, and human nature, for that matter, than you do, Doctor…" she drawled contemptuously.

Madeleine tried to shrug out of his grip then, but Brian held her wrist firm, her fingers hovering over the satiny pink flesh of the turgid blooms.

"You know NOTHING!" Brian grunted forcefully. "You don't know anything about people or gardening, or about growing things, whether it's flowers or human feelings. You don't know anything about Michael and Nikita, or about what they need to thrive. You don't know anything about what they need to love…"

Madeleine tilted her head up at this impassioned tirade; she looked down her nose at the brash young doctor and gave a weary sigh, as if this conversation bored her. "And you, no doubt, will tell me what I'm doing wrong, is that it?" she asked impatiently.

Brian let her go with a grunt of disgust, but he kept his grasp on the scissors. Madeleine stepped back, and Brian edged forward, wedging himself between the plants and the Section's Taskmistress, as if protecting the defenseless orchids from more mutilation.

"You torture them, Madeleine," Brian went on, his voice low and intense. Madeleine, and even Brian himself, were unclear whether he meant the orchids or the operatives in Medlab. "You control everything, manipulate every nuance, every fledgling effort to turn to the light. You cut the hope and the tenderness from them like it was a cancer…."

Madeleine stiffened her back defensively. "I just want them perfect," she countered. "I have to stop any potential decay or sickness from spreading by trimming away the weak leaves…"

Brian shook his head, continuing to follow her metaphor. "You cut to the quick," he replied in turn. "You cut deep, to the bone. You stifle and subdue, and maim…" His eyes strayed to the flowers behind him, but his mind was on Michael and Nikita. "You can't expect them to go on living with wounds like that…."

Madeleine's breath hitched in her throat. She was wise enough to heed the doctor's words, to grasp his warning. "Really?" she gasped. "It's that bad?" She shook her head. "You think Michael might die?"

Brian nodded, part of him relieved that he had at last gotten through to her, that he had her attention. "Michael's had everyone he ever loved stripped from him, most of the time without closure, without a chance to say goodbye," the doctor went on softly. "Before he has even a chance to process one loss, you subject him to another. He's never had a chance to heal between wounds. There are only so many blows his psyche can take, Madeleine," Brian cautioned her. He glanced pointedly at the orchid. "How many parts can be cut away from a living thing before there's nothing LEFT?" he demanded, raising his voice.

"And there's Nikita, too," Brian warned sternly. "I know you manipulated her emotions with mind-control and drugs before, and now this…." He shook his head gravely. "Just how may times to you think you can take her feelings apart and put them back together again, before she starts to unravel?" The blue eyes glared fiercely into hers. "You're pushing both of them over the edge. You can't go on like this, you just CAN’T!" Brian begged. "You'll lose them both!"

Madeleine watched him silently, her mind working. He could see her weighing options, calculating things in her head, and coming up with the same conclusions that he had.

"What do you suggest we do?" Madeleine said with a concerned sigh, her brown eyes meeting his.

Brian paused to take in a shocked breath, amazed that she was at last listening to him, at last hearing him. He expelled the air in his lungs with a sigh, and rushed on. "I suggest you do NOTHING," he ordered crisply. "Just leave them alone. Just let them be…"

Madeleine raised one eyebrow, her expression skeptical. "Is that the best you can do, Doctor?" Madeleine queried, her tone almost disappointed. "You have no actions to suggest, no measures that should be taken?" Her mouth firmed grimly. "Is that the only lame recommendation you can give, for us to ignore their pain?"

Brian sighed, and closed his eyes. "It's not lame, and it's not ignoring them; it's not neglect…" he opened his eyes and faced her squarely. "Healing takes time; so does grieving. People have to find their own way. You can't impose it on them from the outside with some pill or procedure…" He told her earnestly. "It has to come from within. Love is the same way…." He lifted his chin defiantly. "You can't MAKE them feel things, Madeleine. You can't make them want to live. You just have to stand back and let them find a way to survive on their own…"

Madeleine said nothing, but her eyes still held the same skeptical look.

Brian rushed on, grasping for a way to reach her. His gaze wandered to the mutilated orchid again. "How big do you think this flower could get if you just let it grow, and didn't cut into it all the time?" Brian demanded. "Aren't these things jungle plants? They grow free in the wild, don't they?" He reached out his hand to gently touch the single, stark bloom. "I've seen pictures of them, tropical vines with thousands of blooms, growing in clumps hundreds of feet across, reaching past the tree tops…"

Madeleine let out a soft gasp. "Yes," she agreed softly. "If I let it grow, it would take over the office, reach to the ceiling…."

Brian's stern blue gaze locked with hers. "Then LET IT," he said solemnly. "Just leave it alone and see what it can do…."

There was a tense pause, while Brian waited for Madeleine's answer. They both knew her decision was not just about gardening.

Gently, Madeleine reached out and took the scissors from Brian's hand. She turned them over and over in her palm, eyeing them regretfully for a moment, then walked to her desk with them and shoved them quickly into a drawer, shutting the instruments of torture away.

"Very well, Doctor," she agreed, her back to him. Brian saw her shoulders stiffen with pride. "I'll take your advice." She turned to face him, and gave him a serene smile. "We'll give Michael and Nikita six months down-time. No surveillance, no missions, no…. interference…" She eyed the pink orchid on her plant stand and gave the startled young doctor a wry grin. "We'll see how many blooms we have by then…"

Brian's eyes filled with grateful tears. His generous heart was overwhelmed with relief and a burgeoning sense of hope, as new and tender as delicate orchid petals. "Thank you…." He whispered, overcome. "I don't know what to say…." He smiled back at her. "Just… thank you…."

Madeleine smiled back. "You're welcome, Doctor," she told him serenely. "You're welcome."

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

Three months later.

Michael walked slowly through the cemetery in the early morning mist. The stark winter trees were bare of leaves, and the shrubs and flowers that would bloom in the spring were now little more than naked twigs, bare skeletons of their future glory. In the cold fog, pierced only by the naked trees and shrubs, and the upthrusting gray tombstones, this place seemed desolate, fit only to be inhabited by ghosts.

Michael smiled to himself. He liked it here. Perhaps, he thought, because he was a ghost himself.

He strolled deeper into the barrenly peaceful park. A cold wind kicked up, ruffling his hair and lifting the edge of his long coat. Michael didn't mind the cold, or the piercing wind. Strangely, he welcomed it, as if the chill zephyrs were cleansing somehow, blowing right through him, clearing away all the doubts and confusion in his mind….

He walked on, his steps automatically leading him to a particular tombstone in the far corner of the graveyard. He had come here everyday for weeks, this pilgrimage a matter of routine now, a familiar ritual. Along the way, he paused at other markers that he had come to know. Soldiers killed in wars, infants who had died in the first week of life, old widows buried beside their husbands who had preceded them in death. One plot held an entire family, five grave markers all bearing the same date of death, parents and three children, all killed in a car crash one winter's night.

They died young, they died old. Some slow, some sudden. Some together, some alone. Michael had yet to determine which way was the easiest, which path brought the least suffering. He was still figuring out which ones were the lucky ones.

For himself, he knew he had died young. A tombstone in another graveyard in Paris said so. Now he just felt old, and so very tired, as if the dying process had been prolonged for another fifteen years; That's how long he been in Section Hell, sentenced to interminable suffering….

The living ghost walked on, at last arriving at the marker he sought. He slipped quietly into the stone bench nearby and read the familiar lines on the tombstone that jutted out over the small mound of earth that covered all that was left of Jeanette.

Born 1955. Died 1999. A short life- Not much time to make a mark on the world, Michael thought, but Jeanette had achieved many things in that brief span of years.

She had given him a home, and a family, a wife, and a child. Jeanette had achieved for him what everyone in Section coveted and could never have- a real LIFE. Coming home to that house in the suburbs, holding Adam in his arms, was more living joy than any ghost like him had a right to hope for. After his initial anger and shock, Michael had come to appreciate how great a gift it was that Jeanette had bestowed upon him. And it had been done out of the sheerest unselfish love; Jeanette had wanted nothing in return from him, only one thing, her last dying request…..

That he be happy. That's all. Just this one impossible thing…

Michael sighed and sank more deeply back on the bench. The cold seeped into his bones, through his coat, but he almost welcomed the discomfort. It made him feel he was alive. The cold, like the wind, seemed cleansing somehow, purifying…

And he needed to be purified, of that he was certain. There was so much dirt on him, he thought. So much guilt, so many layers of darkness…. The wind had peeled some of those layers away, it seemed to him. His coming here everyday, to think, to ponder, to remember, was healing him. Slowly, his burden was lightening, his soul awakening again to the light after what seemed to have been centuries of darkness. This time alone had been a blessing, his salvation. The six months reprieve that Brian had somehow won for him was saving his life….

Brian. Michael smiled. It was almost as if the young doctor had known just what Michael had needed. Somehow, Brian had known to not let Housekeeping take Jeanette's body away to Disposal. It was Brian who had arranged the profiler's funeral, a proper ceremony with a minister, a casket, and hundreds of flowers.

Orchids, Michael recalled. Reams of pink orchids. In the winter. He shook his head. They must have cost the earth…

But they were perfect, and beautiful. As beautiful as Jeanette herself. He had only been out of Medlab a few days when he had stood here, at this grave, watching them close the casket on Jeanette's earthly form. The body that they buried was not the battered cocoon that he held so tightly in Medlab, but rather the beautiful butterfly. The blonde wig was back, and so was the beautiful figure, courtesy of the special prosthetic vest. Makeup covered the bruises on her face, and she had been as lovely in her camouflage as she had been in life.

God only knows how Brian knew that I needed to see her like that again, Michael thought in amazement. I needed to grant her this final dignity….

He sighed again, and shifted on the cold bench. Suddenly, he felt restless somehow, as if the cemetery had brought him all the peace he could find there, but it was time to move on. He knew, with a blatant certainty, that here was no more healing to be done among these tombstones. It was over. He would have to find a new place for cleansing and growth.

It was time to move on. But where?

"Goodbye, Jeanette," Michael whispered, feeling suddenly alone and lost. Tears welled in his eyes, as he felt the same empty bereft feeling the day Jeanette had died. Something had ended; his mourning was not over, but the intense grieving period was past. The cemetery seemed like a stifling cocoon now, a protective covering for his soul that grown too constricting, too suffocating. He needed to break out, to go beyond…

How? His soul cried. Where do I go? What do I do now?

He looked up in desperation, searching the leaden skies. From deep inside him, a part of him that connected with God prayed a silent, wordless prayer, a cry for mercy…. He closed his eyes, and prayed hard…

"Hello, Michael," a soft voice said shyly. "Am I bothering you?"

Michael flinched in shock, his eyes flying open. Before him stood not Jeanette's ghost as he had thought, but a lovely, living blonde, a fleshly ghost, as real as himself.

"Oh!" he gasped involuntarily, shaken and disoriented by this vision.

"I didn't mean to startle you," said Nikita gently, gazing at him with warm blue eyes.

Awkwardly, Michael came to his feet. The cold bench had numbed him, and he staggered a little under the weight of his confusion and fear. Fear of being hurt.

It was fear mixed with delight, however. He hadn't seen Nikita alone since that time in her apartment when she told him she didn't love him anymore. Since then, he had tried to stifle and cover his pain under a mask of sharp indifference, but her presence always hurt him anyway, her rejection cutting through all his defenses. Now to have her here, looking at him like that, with warm sympathy in her eyes, made his heart turn over. Hope stirred in his breast, and he drank her in with hungry eyes.

"Hello, Nikita," he answered warily, somewhat breathlessly. "What are you doing here?"

She blushed, her cheeks turning as delicate pink as the orchids in Madeleine's office. "Brian told me where you would be," she confessed, embarrassed. "I wanted to come and see how you were…"

She raised her eyes to his, and he read her own fear of rejection in the blue depths. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you- you know- when Jeanette died…" She lowered the frightened gaze to the small mound of earth under the grave-marker. "I'm very sorry for your loss…"

Michael blinked, and then impulsively put his hand on her arm. "Thank you for your sympathy, but there's no need to apologize…." He told her urgently. He raised his hand and tentatively caressed her cheek, still pink from her blushing and from the cold. "You've been sick, remember?" he said gently. "You haven't been out of Medlab very long …."

Nikita smiled at him, relief in her blue eyes. "No I haven't," she answered, grateful for his understanding. Michael noted that her cheeks were still pale under the soft blush. The virus had left her weak and debilitated for several weeks. The long convalescence had given her time to think. She had realized that her feelings about Michael had changed since her illness; she MISSED him, missed being close to him, missed seeing him everyday, missed being able to touch him, missed knowing his touch in return…..

But he was no longer hers. She had rejected him, and Michael had fallen in love with another, an old flame from the past. It was the same old story with them, she thought ironically. She was always the newcomer, the usurper, the replacement for his old, and deeper loves….

Would he forgive her now, after all she had done to him? Would he let her get near again, after she had pushed him away?

Michael waited tensely, devouring her with his gaze. He knew with certainty in his heart that he was meant to be with Nikita again, but would she even want him now, after Madeleine had conditioned her not to love him anymore, and after he had turned from her to be with Jeanette? Michael felt his life hung in the balance in that moment, that he teetered on the edge of Fate, between darkness and light, despair and hope, love or loneliness….

Life and Death.

A bird sang, and Destiny shifted, making its choice….

Nikita shivered suddenly, and burrowed her neck into her black coat.

"It's cold out here," she commented shyly. She bit her lip and then asked her momentous question, her eyes filled with longing. "Would you like to go for a cup of coffee?"

Michael's breath caught in his throat, his heart breaking open to welcome new life.

"I'd love to," he answered, equally as shy. He smiled, and then took her hand, and together they walked out of the realm of ghosts and into the land of the living.

********

Miles away, in Madeleine's deep underground office, an orchid bloomed.

The end.

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