ATTENTION: Stories marked with an * may contain material which would be better appreciated by those over 18. Parental Discretion is advised. This is your responsibility, not ours.

"How Michael's Locks Were Shorn"

by MLN

(TWO YEARS EARLIER . . . )

The pain was like an icepick being stabbed into my eyeballs, the kind of headache that made one think the words "tumor" and "aneurysm" and long for a .38. I would have killed for a Tylenol, committed mass murder for a lobotomy. And I knew I'd probably have to, since the infirmary dispensed medication with the stinginess of my uncle Alfred, who died with $431,906.27 stuffed in his mattress. He had a very big mattress did uncle Alfred.

"Good morning," a man said.

Good morning? GOOD MORNING? No one had said "good morning" to me in ages. Well, not ages. Three months, twelve days, and fourteen hours ago. Strangely enough, very few of the felons in the Penelope Pulanski Prison for Women observed the Emily Post rules of etiquette. And, to be honest, there weren't many "good" mornings in prison. In fact, the worst part of the day was morning -- the moment you woke up and realized that it wasn't a nightmare, that you were indeed sleeping on a bed that would serve quite nicely as a railroad track and that your immediate companion was a woman with the IQ of a turnip who could outwrestle Hulk Hogan.

"Good morning," the voice said again, a little more loudly. I suppose that meant I had to answer. With an immense effort, I squeezed open one eye. Ouch. Bright. Very bright. The prison must have gotten a deal on 100-watt bulbs.

Gently, and verrry slowly, I rolled the eyeball to the left, the direction from which the voice had come.

What I saw sent both eyelids flying to meet my eyebrows, icepick or no.

HOO boy. Apparently, the prison had also gotten a good deal on prison guards. This one was definitely an improvement over Sergeant Harvey, the poster boy for post nasal drip. Man oh man. Oh what a man. Green eyes, longish curly hair -- a real dreamboat -- and the basic black was a definite yes in the uniform sweepstakes.

Suddenly, thirty years to life didn't seem like such a long time.

Dreamboat leaned forward slightly. He opened his dreamy mouth and I held my breath with anticipation. What would he say? "You're so beautiful I committed a heinous crime just so I could be near you?" Or "I'm to be your own personal guard and I'll be sleeping in your cell night and day?" Or --

"You're not in prison anymore."

Nuts. I should have known it was too good to be true.

But it was probably for the best. I've always been a bit sappy over guys with long hair, even going so far as to buy a few of those bodice rippers in the supermarket just for the pictures on the cover. (`S true. Honest.) And in fact it was that one weakness of mine that landed me in the slammer to begin with. I'd told my sister during her last visit that the most important lesson I'd learned from this whole mess was to stay away from guys with long hair. Of course, that particular promise wasn't hard to keep since my days were spent with female convicts and bald, potbellied guards.

Dreamboat was waiting for a response, a look of mild curiosity in his dreamy eyes. I hated to disappoint him so soon in our relationship, so I braved setting the icepick to hammering again and croaked, "Where am I?"

"Everyone thinks you're dead," he said, and then he unlocked my restraints.

Wait a minute -- restraints? I was in restraints?

This wasn't a bed -- it was some kind of gurney --

And the room. White. All white. Definitely NOT the Penelope Pulanski Prison for Women laundry room --

And --

"DEAD? What do you mean, dead?" I sat up, regretting it immediately and praying that, please God, I wasn't in a hell that punished transgressors with the eternal pounding of brain cells into pulp. "I'm dead?"

"No, you're not dead," he explained patiently. "Everyone thinks you're dead."

Oh, OK. That made sense. Everyone thinks I'm dead, but I'm not dead. Just another day in the life of Becky Moran, ex-wife, ex-Detective First Class, ex-Prisoner Number 830578.

Dreamboat was waiting for an answer. Christ, he probably thought I was as slow as mush. So much for making a good first impression. "Sorry," I said, "I'm a little out of sorts, what with being knocked out in the laundry room and all. Could you possibly provide a little clarification on what it means to be `not dead'?"

In response, he held out a photograph. "This," he said, "is your funeral. You were buried in Row 17, Plot 9."

Hands shaking, I took the picture. Seventeen? Nine? Funeral? Was he speaking English?

I looked at the picture. Omigod. That was my sister. My niece. They were standing in front of a grave, crying.

Oak trees in the background. Yes, I knew that place. The Four Oaks Eternal Resting Haven, where my parents were buried, in Row 17, Plots 7 and 8, if I wasn't mistaken. My grandparents were two rows down, and great aunt Julie --

Omigod, my former partner Jim. Standing behind my sister, comforting her. Sonovabitch never once visited me in prison, but he goes to my funeral?

And the lieutenant. Nice of him to come. His wife, too. Mort from the gas station. Mr. and Mrs. Jenson from next door. Uncle Phil, Aunt Kathy. Where the hell was Cherry? Too busy at the tattoo parlor to attend her own cousin's funeral?

"I still don't understand," I said to Dreamboat.

"We've decided to give you another chance," he replied. "We'll give you a new identity, we'll train you with new skills, and you'll work for us."

"Work? You mean, like a job? You did all this to offer me a job?"

A pause. A long pause. One of those long, meaningful pauses that precedes a statement of grave importance, like Roosevelt saying "December 7, 1941, a date that will live in infamy" or Walter Cronkite saying "President John F. Kennedy has been shot" or Keith Obermyer saying "The Atlanta Braves have traded David Justice for --"

"Yes," Dreamboat said.

Yes? YES?

I should've known. Long on hair, short on syllables.

"What kind of a job?" I asked, enunciating the obvious with precision.

He put his hands behind his back and began circling the gurney slowly, thoughtfully. And, yes, I had to admit that once I was granted a view of his backside I began to think that perhaps intelligent conversation might not be the most important prerequisite for a male companion.

"A job not unlike your previous position, Detective Moran --"

I interrupted: "I'm not a detective any longer."

"I am aware of that. And I am aware of the circumstances that led to your being incarcerated for murder." He stopped and looked me in the eye (OMIGOD -- kill me now). "Your training and your willingness to subvert the rules of your position make you a viable candidate for recruitment to our organization."

"Your organization?"

"We're called Section One. We are an extremely covert anti-terrorist organization --"

"Oh, fudge," I muttered. "Feds. I should've known."

"We are not a federal organization. We answer to no specific government or institution."

Huh. "You mean you're not CIA?"

"No."

"FBI? NSA? ABCDEFG?"

"None of the above. To be directed affiliated with any established intelligence community would require that we operate within the boundaries of their rules and regulations."

"And you don't?"

"No."

"You just make it up as you go along?"

"We employ whatever means are necessary to bring down the criminals and terrorists who are out of reach of conventional law enforcement."

Whatever means are necessary. I looked down at the picture of my funeral, my stomach suddenly squeezing into a tight ball as the implications of what he was saying became clear. "You really told them I was dead?"

"Yes. You committed suicide in your cell."

Oh poor Lizzie. Poor Sara. After all they'd been through --

"You can't do that," I said desperately. "They wouldn't believe you."

"We can, we did, and they did."

His face was as still as a mask, his voice as dry as paper. I couldn't see the smallest drop of compassion for the lifetime of terrible guilt and pain he'd just sentenced my family to. "You son of a --"

And thus I discovered that the floor of this particular room was considerably less comfortable than the cot in my prison cell.

"Damn," I said with grudging admiration. "That's a hell of a right hook." And not a bad view, I thought, looking up into eyes greener and dreamier than meadow on a clear summer's --

WHOA, Beck. Time to put the hormones on hold This is the guy that just stole your life and devastated your family.

"You will be trained in such maneuvers," he was saying. "And many more."

"Yeah? Will I get to practice them on you?"

"Perhaps," he said, rising to his feet fluidly. He resettled his jacket and brushed back his hair. Mr. Control, apparently. Didn't like muss and fuss. I'd have to remember that.

"What if I refuse this --" I swallowed, and then nearly spit out the word. "This JOB?"

He didn't even blink. "Row 17, Plot 9."

Ouch. Right for the solar plexus.

"Training will begin at five a.m.," he said, and then the door closed behind him.

Part Two

The first thing I noticed about my new home was the single bed. No roommates. So there was a God.

The second thing I noticed was that God herself could not have fit another bed into the room. If I stood dead center and stretched really hard, I could touch both walls with my fingernails. White walls, of course. Everything I'd seen in this place so far was white and gray. It was like being inside a washing machine.

On further investigation, I found that the bed wasn't just a bed. Underneath the mattress were two drawers, and neatly folded in the drawers were shirts, pants, underwear, bras, underwear, socks and shoes -- all in the wonderfully appealing, and might I add flattering, shade of metal gray. Two of each, like on the Ark. (Hey, maybe Dreamboat's name was Noah!)

I picked out a shirt and checked the label. My size, as were the pants and the shoes and, I was dismayed to find, the bras and underwear. I didn't even want to think about how and by whom my sizes were taken.

At least the mattress was decent. Not like that pancake they called a mattress in prison. I fell onto it gratefully, covering my eyes and playing my usual lights-out game of pretending that when i awoke the sun would be shining through the raintree outside my window and Copper would be nudging me awake with his cold doggie nose and then I'd get up and let him out and I'd fix coffee and take a shower and dress and grab a muffin and head for the precinct where Jim and Donny and Alex and the rest of the guys would be grouped around the donuts arguing about the holding call that went against the Bulldogs last Saturday --

The door creaked open, someone stepped inside, and my reverie vanished. It COULDN'T be five a.m. already.

I peeked around my arm and felt a brief flash of relief and disappointment that it wasn't Dreamboat. It was a woman. And if I were a man, I'd say whaddawoman. A tall, cool, drop-dead blonde, dressed in what appeared to be a stretched-out tube top. I sent up a brief prayer that I wasn't looking at my new job's official uniform.

Blondie closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Uh oh. I knew that look.

"My name's Nikita," she said.

Well, that answered one question. The people here did have names. Or a name. I guess that meant it half-answered y question.

"Uh huh," I answered eloquently. "I'm --"

"Rebecca Moran."

"How'd you --" I started to ask how she knew, but then I shook my head. "Never mind. I can tell already that this is the type of joint where EVERYONE reads the memos."

Blondie (Nikita, whatever) just looked at me, not even seeming to breathe. I flashed ahead to the training that was in store for me: Blank Stare 101, with an optional elective in Expressionless Voice. I didn't have a chance of passing that one, for if there's one thing I can't do it's keep my mouth shut when I'm feeling threatened.

"You wouldn't by chance be the nurse, would you?" I asked. "I have a headache that would flatten a rhinoceros, mainly from whatever drugs you guys knocked me out with but also from hunger, since you kidnaped me before dinner break. It was tuna casserole night, too. One of my favorites."

"You have a brother named Brian Moran."

OH HOH. So this was personal, not professional. "Actually he's my half-brother," I said warily.

"He's a policeman."

"Was a policeman, yes."

"Was?"

"He was fired a year or so ago for accepting graft. Last I heard he was driving a beer truck."

Blondie's blue eyes narrowed. "I guess police corruption runs in the family."

I jumped up, my feet thudding with a satisfyingly sharp clunk on the floor and my brain noting with relief that Blondie and I were about the same height. (I also noted, with regret, that her hair was considerably blonder than my mop of brown brambles.) "Look, Nikki," I told her in my old cop-on-the-beat voice, "you people may know my name and my rap sheet you don't know squat about me and my family. I never accepted a dime from anyone, and neither did my father. We were good cops, something my sexist, racist pig of a brother could only understand if he had a total character transplant. I haven't even spoken to him since he left Atlanta ten years ago, so if you got a beef with him you're going to have to deal with him yourself. I got my own problems."

Another long silent moment, the kind in which you can hear your heart pounding and your cells decaying.

Blondie smiled. Suddenly, sunnily. "So tell me, Becky, would you settle for crabmeat salad?"

Part Three

The little white pills, four of them, rattled on the tray beside my now-empty plate. I looked up at the woman who had dropped them there. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Extra strength," Nikita said, taking the chair beside me.

"God bless you." I grabbed all four and gulped them down with the last of my iced tea.

"I'll bring you a whole bottle tomorrow," she said. "You're going to need it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she said grimly.

"Great." Glumly, I picked at the crumbs that were all that remained of my crabmeat sandwich and potato salad. It had been such a good dinner, such a surprise. Real food on a clean plate with actual silverware. No one yelling obscenities or stealing your biscuits. Just a few well-dressed, well-mannered operatives (I was learning the lingo) carrying their trays to their tables, talking quietly under the strains of Muzak, politely clearing their dishes away for whoever might follow -- for all the world like every cafeteria in every office building in the world. I had begun to hope that maybe this place wasn't the inhuman mechanized bureaucracy I feared it was.

"So what can I expect tomorrow?" I asked, not really wanting to know.

"Well, first you'll meet Madeline."

"Madeline?"

"She's sort of the Queen Bee around here."

"Meaning she stings?"

"Meaning you cross her and you get cancelled."

"Cancelled?"

Nikita ran her finger along her neck and made a wretching sound.

"You call it CANCELLED?"

The operatives at the next table looked up, alarmed. Nikita shook her head at them. "New recruit," she said. They nodded and went back to their meal.

"If this Madeline is the Queen Bee," I asked, REALLY not wanting to know this one, "who's the King Cobra?"

"That would be Operations."

"Operations?"

Nikita nodded and helped herself to a stray cracker that had escaped my voracious attention by sliding under the napkin.

"You're telling me there's an actual human being here with the name of Operations?"

"Well, I guess he would qualify as a human being."

"Oh, boy," I said. "This just gets better and better."

"You won't have to face him just yet. He never deals with new recruits. After your orientation with Madeline, you'll start your classwork. Martial Arts, Weaponry, Computers, Assault and Recon Strategy, Economics, Deportment, Foreign Languages, World Politics --"

"And then?"

"And then lunch."

For a moment, I actually thought she was serious. But then she grinned, and I found myself laughing -- a really good laugh, too, a deep, belly-shaking, half-hysterical laugh that left me shaking and crying. "I've gone crazy," I said tearily, blowing my nose in my napkin.

Nikita's smiled slipped away and she grasped my hand across the table. "You'll be all right," she said. "Just remember. One day at a time."

I held onto her hand like a lifeline. "Is that how you do it? My name is Nikita W. and I'm an operative?"

"Actually, it's Nikita S."

I smiled, or tried to, and let go. "OK. Got it. Stiff upper lip, cool as a cucumber, don't let `em see you sweat. I can do that."

My companion sat back, drawing one leg up to her chest. I marvelled at her flexibility. As a tall woman myself, I knew how clumsy long limbs could be, and I also knew I could never twist myself into a pretzel the way she did. Unless, of course, Section One had classes in pretzel maneuvers.

I couldn't tell how old she was. She looked in her late twenties, but she spoke with the world weariness of someone much older. It was probably experience, though, rather than age that gave her that tinge of fatalism. I'd heard something not unlike in my voice, ever since the, well, the "incident."

To distract myself from my own problems (and because I was curious), I tried changing the subject. "You never told me how you knew my half-brother."

She grimaced. "He was one of the cops who arrested me."

"Oh," I said, as if I understood. Then, looking around, I realized I did. Of course. All these people -- Nikita, Dreamboat -- were "recruited" like I was, from prison. So much for improving my immediate circle of friends.

"Well," I told her, "knowing Brian, I would imagine you didn't exactly receive full justice under the law."

She shrugged. "It really doesn't matter now."

There it was again, that edge of defeat and resignation. Life stunk, and all you could do was hold your nose and pray for rain.

But I also couldn't help thinking that she must have a spark of hope somewhere inside her. Otherwise, why had she come gunning for me?

Or was I reading too much of myself in her? As soon as my finger squeezed that trigger, I'd known that my life was pretty much over. Down the drain, into the sewers, snackfood for the rats was Becky Moran. I knew, I really knw, but I didn't know. I didn't, I couldn't believe it. Hell, even this morning the first thought that gurgled up in my drugged brain was "I'm free."

Amazing what a little crabmeat and acetaminophen could do. I leaned forward and lowered my voice. "If you want, I can tell you how to get my brother. But good."

She was surprised, I could tell. And not a little interested. The corners of her mouth started to curl slightly upward, but then --

"Ni-ki-ta."

We both jumped. Nikita's upraised leg hit the floor with a bang. "Michael," she said.

So Dreamboat did have a name. And what a lovely name it was. Rolled right off the tongue. Like music or marmalade or mayonnaise. Mmmichael. No Mike or Mikey or Mickey. Mmmmmichael. A name to be whispered softly in the dark under a --

"The briefing is in ten minutes," said the mmmman with the beautiful name.

"I know," Nikita said pointedly, and a look passed between them.

OK, so I've seen "looks" between men and women before. I've been the recipient and even the instigator of "looks." But THIS look -- omigod, grab the fire extinguisher, folks, we got a conflagration. These two were an item. No, they were an entire column. Maybe even the whole freakin' ledger.

After my initial mild disappointment (all right, I was downright devastated), I told myself I was relieved. I was now perfectly free to hate Dreamboat for what he'd done to me and my family. And to begin planning my revenge. Something really painful. Maybe involving scissors. . .

Nikita was introducing me. Dreamboat (or should I be calling him Nightmareboat now?) glanced over me with a blank green gaze, not even bothering to nod, and immediately turned his attention back to Nikita.

"We should go," he said. Ever see the movie "Fatal Attraction"? You know, that pathetic excuse for a suspense film that was really just a not-so-subtle attack on feminism? Well, as you probably guessed, I hated it, but there was one part of the movie that didn't make me gag, and that was when Glenn Close says to Michael Douglas (with this great tilt of her head and just the right oomph): "I WON'T be IGNORED!" When she said that, I nearly threw my popcorn into the air and cheered, because that's how I've felt for most of my life -- fighting for respect and attention first from a father who thought all little girls should play with Barbie dolls, then from an all-boys club that was supposed to be a police force, and then of course from the scumbags I was sworn to bring to justice. If there's one thing I won't be, it's ignored. So . . .

"Michael and I met already," I told Nikita cheerfully. "He punched me in the stomach. That was after he told me about how he'd destroyed my life and my family, especially my ten-year-old niece, whose peace of mind has no doubt been shattered by my untimely demise."

Nikita blinked. Michael blinked.

I cringed and waited to be cancelled.

Michael ducked his head slightly toward Nikita. "I'll see you upstairs," he said and walked away.

"Uh -- I have to go," Nikita said, rising.

"Wait," I said, cursing myself. "I'm sorry. My mouth just has a life of its own sometimes. I didn't mean to cause any problems."

She glanced toward Michael, now hovering at the door of the cafeteria. "Don't worry about it," she said enigmatically. "I'll see you tomorrow with the meds."

I watched her saunter to the door and then watched (very VERY intently) her brief exchange with Michael. He glanced toward me and said something, she grinned saucily and said something back, he shook his head slightly and walked away, and she gave me a quick thumbs-up and followed him.

I liked that girl.

I was debating how much I liked her, and marveling at how amazing it was that she'd left me to find my way back to my cell on my own, and wondering how the hell I was ever going to find my way back to my cell on my own, when I was startled by a voice behind me. A warm, gravelly, amused voice.

"Lookin' for some company, doll?"

DOLL? I turned, ready for battle, but then dropped the lancet of my stinging wit on seeing who addressed me. He was an older guy with a long gray ponytail, dressed like an aging hippie, complete with bandana. But it wasn't his age or his attire that disarmed me; it was the kindness in his blue eyes.

"Actually," I said as he slid his tray onto the table, "I'm looking for someone who can give me directions,"

He took a seat and pointed up with his index finger. "North." Pointed down. "South." Pointed left and right. "East and west."

I nodded. "Very good. I can see a sense of humor isn't a requirement around here, but I'm pleased to note that it's not against regulations to try."

"Yeah, well, don't be too sure about that, doll."

"Oh, what a relief. I was afraid you were going to give me GOOD news. See, I was on a streak and I didn't want to break it."

He grinned. "You got spunk, doll. I like that."

I leaned forward. "Uh, the name's Becky Moran, by the way." Hint, hint.

His smile never wavered. "Pleased to meet you, Becky. I'm Walter."

Again with the no last name. At least it was a real name, not the title of a department.

"I'm new here," I volunteered. Mother always said that pointing out the obvious is a good way to fill in those awkward silences.

"I know. That's why I picked both chocolate AND butterscotch. I wasn't sure which one you'd like."

I looked at his tray. Pudding. Two bowls, two spoons, two napkins. "Chocolate," I said without hesitation.

"A girl who knows what she wants," Walter said, handing over bowl gallantly.

Since he was feeding me pudding, I decided to let the "girl" comment ride. "So, Walter," I said, scooping with gusto, "what do you do around here?"

"I build bombs."

Gulp. (And a note to any medical researchers who might be reading this: one CAN choke on chocolate pudding.)

"Are you any good at it?" I asked, a bit helplessly.

"Doll, I'm the best."

"Ah, well, I'll have to remember that the next time I go shopping in Beirut." And then, of course, I realized that it might actually be possible that some time in the future I could be in Beirut. With a shopping cart. Or a bomb.

I pushed away the pudding.

Walter, watching me, patted my hand. "Don't worry, doll. I can already tell you're one of the five percenters."

"The five percenters?" Would I EVER learn this Section lingo?

"I'll explain it to you one day," Walter said. "For now, I think I'll just offer you my services as tour guide."

"You mean show me around the place?"

"As much as you're allowed to see at this point." He collected our bowls and carried the tray to a moving belt at the other end of the room. I followed him like a puppy, noting for future reference the proper procedures for disposal of Section One china: Step One, place tray on belt. Step Two: exit the room.

"Walter," I said as we completed Step Two, "did Nikita send you to look after me?"

"No," he said. "Michael did."

Part Four

(ONE YEAR LATER, between the episodes "Verdict" and "Mercy")

Master Yamamota sneered. I sneered back.

Well, OK, we didn't exactly sneer. We bowed. But we sneered MENTALLY. The bow was just a polite fiction to cover our true intentions, which were to kick each other's butts. Or so I told myself, because it was the only way I could psyche myself for what was about to come.

What came was what always came: a few quick jabs, a few quick kicks, and the introduction of my nose to the floor mat. Oomph.

"Re-be-cah."

Oh, great, I told the floor mat.

I didn't even have to look. I knew who it was. There was only one person in the universe who used my full name, now that my mother was dead, and there was most definitely only one person who could make my name sound like the mating call of some exotic tropical bird.

"Yes, Michael?" I said to the floor mat.

"Could I speak with you a moment?"

Sure, like I had a choice. Stiffly, I rose to my feet, sneered at Master Yamamota, and crossed to where Michael was standing like a Greek God of Gorgeous.

"You're telegraphing with your eyes," he told me. "Never let your opponent know where you're about to strike."

Sounded like one heck of a life lesson to me. "Thanks," I said. "Is that all?"

"Try it again," he suggested.

And then he smiled.

The earth opened up, swallowed me whole, and spit me out again. Richter would have to add a few notches to his scale for this one.

But, to my credit, I kept my composure. I was, after all, a professional -- a former Detective First Class, a Murderer First Degree, and the All-Time Champeen of the pinball machine at Willie's Pool Hall. I would not be fazed by a simple muscle contraction.

So, I merely nodded my head to his request and then proceeded to trip on the edge of the floor mat.

Red-faced, I took position opposite Master Yamamota and sneered. No, I mean, I really sneered this time. Then I bowed. And when Yammy came at me, I kept my gaze concentrated on the mole on his forehead rather than his lethal, flailing arms and legs, and wonder of wonders, I got in a side ankle trip (not the technical name, I know, but I'm lousy at jargon) and introduced HIS nose to the floor mat.

"Excellent," Michael said, and the birds sang and the sun shone.

I shrugged. No prob. Piece of cake. And when he motioned for me to join him again, I most certainly did NOT run.

"You've been working very hard, Re-be-cah," he told me, still smiling. "I think it's time you had a night out."

A night out? A NIGHT OUT?

Only twice in my entire life have I been left speechless. The first was the time my father presented me with my gold badge in a ceremony in front of the entire squad. The second was the time I had one too many tequila shooters at Derek and Elaine Wilmont's pool party and ended up . . .

Well. No need to go into that. Suffice it to say, that for someone to leave me speechless is quite an accomplishment.

"Madeline can provide you with something appropriate to wear," Michael said, apparently taking my open-mouthed silence as acquiescence. (Yeah, like I'd really say "no.") "I'll pick you up at seven-thirty."

He smiled again, and left me to scrape my chin off the floor mat.

Part Five

Madeline. What a work of art she was. So elegantly duplicitous, so fluidly evil. I fluctuated between loathing the woman and longing to be just like her.

It had been a year since our first meeting, but the event was seared into my memory. I'd gone into her office expecting, I don't know, some tyrannical Victorian governess, or some boarding-school field-hockey matron, or some ballbusting supercareer woman. I'm not proud of my assumptions, mind you. They reek of sexist stereotypes. But nothing could have prepared me for what I found when I walked into that room.

The walls were carved out of rocks, the only touch of the natural world I'd seen in this hermetically sealed environment, and the color scheme was warmly golden and red -- not a strip of chrome to be found anywhere. An inviting room. A kick-off-your-shoes-and-have-a-brandy room.

Seated at a desk to the side was the woman who quite clearly was the room's sole occupant: she was suited like an executive, but her dark hair was long and full and feminine and her smile was gracious and welcoming. She gestured for me to have a seat on the sofa, and after a final tap or two on her computer, she joined me.

I stiffened, waiting for the sting, but she just smiled again. "You're Rebecca," she said.

"Most call me Becky."

"Becky." She nodded. "I'll remember that. I'm Madeline."

"No Maddie for short?" Or Mad, I added to myself.

She shook her head, still all ease and grace. I relaxed a bit. This wasn't so bad. I'd certainly had worse job interviews.

And then she hit me with her opening gambit. A doozy.

"You miss your family," she stated as an absolute fact.

Uh. Right to the gut. Worse even than Michael's right hook.

"Yes," I said, more an involuntary reaction than an answer. I was mortified when tears sprang to my eyes.

"It's understandable," she said. "In fact, we had serious reservations about recruiting you because of your closeness to your family, especially your sister and niece. I understand your sister -- Elizabeth, right? -- visited you every week, and wrote to you almost every day."

"She felt guilty about what happened."

Dark eyebrows rose. "Why should she feel guilty?"

I had no answer that wouldn't open up the old wounds, so I just shrugged.

"If it were up to me," Madeline csaid, "you'd be given a medal for what you did."

"A medal for murdering my husband in cold blood?"

"A medal for murdering a child molester who was about to be set free. The fact that you were married to the man, and that the molestation occurred in your own home, is incidental." She frowned slightly. "Are you saying you don't believe what you did was right?"

Oh, God. She hit the target with that one -- a dead-on bullseye. "I think," I said, controlling my voice with great effort, "what I did was necessary."

Madeline smiled. "Good," she said, patting my hand. "You should do just fine, Becky."

She rose and returned to her desk, which I took as a sign of dismissal. Gathering my wits about me, I aimed for the door, for escape and the relative freedom of my little white box of a room.

"Of course," Madeline said, stopping me in my tracks. "if at any time in the future you attempt to contact a member of your family, you and the person you contacted will be cancelled immediately."

Ba dum dum.

I couldn't walk into her office without remembering those words, the cold, clinical, iron-fist-in-velvet-glove smack she'd delivered with such precision. The threat underscored our every encounter, adding shades of meaning to the most innocuous turns of phrase. The only way I'd found to deal with it was to confront it, head on, as often as I could.

And so, when I walked into Madeline's office after Michael's earth-shattering invitation, the first thing I said was "What the hell is going on?"

Madeline looked up from her computer. "You're going to dinner with Michael," she said evenly.

"Why?"

"Because."

I had to laugh. My mother used to say that, in just that tone of voice. "Because you said so?"

"Exactly." She logged off neatly and stood up. "And now let's find you something fabulous to wear."

Part Six

"Something fabulous" turned out to be something black and itty-bitty, not unlike the oversized tube top I'd seen Nikita wearing that first night. Fortunately, my muscle tone had improved drastically since my arrival in Section One, so I wasn't too self-conscious about showing so much leg. In fact, I was rather pleased by the result, turning this way and that to see the different views in the mirror, like the babe in the Special K commercial.

Madeline wasn't so pleased. She stood behind me, shaking her head. (And some little devil of a voice in me kept chanting, "Mirror, mirror, on the wall . . . ") "Something's not right," Madeline said.

"How about a diamond necklace?" I suggested hopefully. "Or maybe some emeralds or rubies or --"

"No, that's not it." She grabbed a handful of my long thatch of hair. "THIS is the problem."

I kept my eyes closed through the entire ordeal, cringing in pain at every snip snip of the evil Section One hairdresser Armand's scissors. You have to understand, my hair was my pride and joy. Not to mention my weapon and my armor. A little flip of the head, instant shield against green eyes.

But now it was being stripped away. I would be left open and vulnerable.

It's just not FAIR, I wanted to wail. They already took away my life and my family. Why should they be allowed to take my HAIR?!

After what seemed an eternity of agony, I heard Madeline the Mean Witch say, "Much better, Armand. Thank you." And then I heard the sounds of the torture tools being packed away.

I didn't want to look. I didn't have to look. They couldn't make me loo--

"Becky, open your eyes."

Yes, ma'am.

I opened my eyes. And, like, WOW. I mean, WOW! What a change!

It was short, really really short. Gamin short, sultry supermodel short.

But what was the most amazing was the revelation that I had a FACE! And EYES! And they looked (if I might indulge a brief, glorious moment of vanity) GREAT!

I grinned at the Good Witch. "You like?" she asked. "I like," I said happily. Look out, Dreamboat.

I saddled up with my stilettos, my elegant little beaded bag, my just-a-touch of peach lipstick, my waft of Chanel, and my new killer `do, and I rode right out of Madeline's office and ran right smack into . . .

Nikita.

"WOW," she said.

Have I mentioned that I believe Nikita and I are actually twins who were separated at birth? Have I mentioned that I feel closer to her than to my own sister? Have I mentioned that she's the one person (well, and Walter) who has made this hellhole almost liveable for me?

Have I mentioned that I'm a traitorous wretch who deserves to be cancelled by the most horrible, painful, and tortuous of the cancellation methods offered by Section One?

"Beck, you look INCREDIBLE," said the beautiful and unwitting victim of my romantic malfeasance. "What a difference!"

"Yeah?" I said. Speechless again. A banner day.

"What's the occasion?"

"Uh, well, uh, I'm, uh -- " Oh, God. "I'm going out. To dinner."

Her face stilled. "Already?"

"What do you mean, already?"

"It's only been a year."

"And?"

She looked away. "And nothing. Just, uh --" She took a deep breath and smiled. Sort of. More like she clenched her mouth in an upright position. "Have a good time," she finished, and walked away.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. She knew. She knew and she thought I was betraying her. (And that little voice in my head hissed, and aren't you, you little weasel?) I couldn't stand it. "Nik," I called out and she turned back. "It's just dinner."

"I know," she said. "Enjoy. And -- uh -- be careful. OK?"

Part Seven

"Be careful." I would remember those words for the rest of my life.

I would remember them as Michael was proposing a toast to my first night out, his gaze so soft and warm and caressing that I truly thought I would melt inside. I would remember them as Michael handed me a gift, the gesture so unexpected and touching that I nearly cried.

I would remember them as I opened that gift and found a nine-millimeter with two cases. I would remember them as I listened to his brief, oblique instructions to take the briefcase from the man at the corner table and to escape through the ladies' room window in the back of the restaurant.

I would remember them as I held the gun to the man's head and demanded the case. I would remember them as his bodyguard pulled a gun on me, and as I shot him right between the eyes.

Between the eyes. Like Sam.

I would remember them as I ran for the ladies' room, under the blaze of gunfire, the sounds and smells and heat of gunfire, the redhot sting of gunfire grazing my arm.

I would remember them as I opened the ladies' room window and found nothing but a brick wall.

I would remember them as I cowered in the ladies' room, thinking I'm going to die, I'm going to die, my life is going to end here and now, and I'm alone and no one, no one will care, they will bury me again and no one will care no one will come and Mama Mama why oh why is this happening to me I just tried to do the right thing to be a good person to take care of my family . . .

I would remember them as the training kicked in, as the instincts gained from my father and the skills learned from my teachers kicked in . . .

As I slapped in the second case of shells.

I would remember them as I fought my way out of the restaurant, as I took the sonsabitches out who would have killed me, as I watched them fall one by one in a terrible, terrible bloody mess.

I would remember them as I slid into the limousine and handed over the case and the gun and the rest of my life to a man with long hair and cold green eyes.

Part Eight

In the south, where I grew up, there comes a day every fall when summer's blanket of heat and humidity would finally lift. Although it happens gradually, you notice it suddenly: one morning you walk outside and realize the air is cleaner, the sky bluer, the world sharper in focus. It is always a relief.

As I wandered around my new apartment, touching my new things, I felt that relief keenly. My summer of infatuation had passed; I now saw everything clearly. Everything and everyone.

Across the room, Michael was detailing my new life, but I was only half-listening as he spoke of new identification cards and check-in procedures and code names --

With the last he got my attention. "You're kidding, right?"

"No," he said mildly.

"My code name is--" This was too bad to be true. "Elspeth?"

"Yes."

"Wait, don't tell me," I said. "The Section picks code names the way the weather service names hurricanes. I had the bad luck to graduate when you reached the E's."

He shrugged ever so lightly. "Something like that."

"So why not something like Emily? Or Elaine? Or even Esmerelda?"

"Actually, the original choice was Elizabeth."

"Oh." OH. "Well, in that case --" I looked out the window and nearly choked on the word, "Thanks."

I saw his reflection in the glass as he came up behind me. "It's good to have you back, Re-be-cah," he said.

"Back?"

"You haven't said a word since we left the restaurant."

"Yeah, well, the only word I could think of couldn't be printed in a fanfic."

He laughed softly. "I'm glad that's back, too."

"What?"

"Your, shall we say, nonserious attitude."

"Spoken like a true Orwellian," I said with a tired sigh. Wasn't it time for him to leave?

He got the hint. "If there's anything you need, call the Section and they'll put you through to me as soon as they ID your cell phone number."

"Okey dokey," I said, stunning even myself with my brilliant repartee. I really was very tired.

I was wearing his jacket (not my choice, he just put it on me -- instinct, I suppose), so before he left he slid it off my shoulders. I tried to stifle the wince, but he saw it, and the reason why. "You're bleeding," he said, surprised.

"It's nothing. A flesh wound. I've had worse."

But, of course, he was the boss, so I had to sit still while he tended the wound: cleaning it, dressing it, wrapping it in gauze. His face while he worked was still, absorbed in the task, but his eyes when he looked up were concerned. "Is that all right?" he asked.

"It's fine," I said, looking back at him steadily. And he understood.

He understood that things had changed, that something inside me had turned a corner. He understood that my heart no longer went pitter pat at his smile, that my pulse no longer heated at his touch, that my head stayed clear of confusion when he gazed at me.

He understood that I now understood how seduction for him was a tool, a weapon, maybe even a defense, much as my wisecracks were all three for me. He understood that I understood I was his "material" -- but that he would have to find another method to deal with me.

And, to his great credit, he shifted his approach as neatly as Ferrari shifts gears. "Was it bad?" he asked, in the voice of a colleague, not a lover.

"Yes," I said, plainly, and he listened patiently as I described the scene in the restaurant, stopping me only once or twice for a clarification.

When I finished, he said, amused, "I can tell you were a cop."

"Oh?"

"You recount events as if you were writing a police report."

Telling the story had been something of a catharsis for me. With the energy of my second wind, I countered: "What, am I too `just the facts, ma'am'? If you want, I could break out the thesaurus and sprinkle in a few adjectives and adverbs. `The suspect advanced' -- no -- `the suspect speedily advanced' -- no -- 'the suspect speedily scampered through the charred ruins of the --'"

A hand on my arm -- just a touch, quickly removed -- stopped me. "That really won't be necessary," he said drily. "Really."

"Why, Michael, you do have a sense of humor after all," I said, and then added silently, and for Nikita's sake, I hope you have a heart.

Part Nine

My second thought on waking up was that I was free. Freeeeeeeeeeee.

My third thought was that I should have had Michael stop at the grocery store last night for coffee and bagels.

And before you dismiss me as a cold-hearted sociopath, let me reassure you that my FIRST thought on waking was about how my recent experience in fine dining had changed the landscape of my nightly nightmare. Instead of seeing Sam on the courthouse steps, grinning at his acquittal and running a hand through his hair, instead of feeling the gun in my hand and then the rebound of the shot, instead of staring in horror as Sam's bloody face transformed into that of my sweet, terrified, traumatized niece -- instead of these, I'd seen Sam in the restaurant, in the face of every man I'd gunned down, and I'd watched as each man transformed into Sara, bloodied by my hand.

Change is good for the soul, or so they say. I wasn't convinced of it myself.

On my new bedside table sat my new cellular phone, and I found myself staring at it. Lizzie and Sara were just eleven numbers away -- and there was no guard outside my door, no bars on my windows, no one in the immediate vicinity to stop me or even slow me down.

I only wanted to hear their voices, make sure they were all right. I wouldn't actually say anything. After all, what could I say? "Hi, this is your dead sister, only I'm not dead I was kidnaped by an international espionage organiza --"

The phone rang, and my newly shorn hair stood on end.

"Hello?" I said, my heart thumping in my ear.

"Elspeth," whispered a French voice.

OK, we HAD to do something about that code name. "This is she," I grumbled.

"There will be a briefing in one hour. Be there," Michael said. And hung up.

"And top of the mornin' to you, too," I said to the dial tone. Disgusted, I tossed the cell phone onto the floor, curled into my pillow, and then . . .

PANICKED. One hour. ONE HOUR. Where the hell was the bathroom in this place?

Oh, there it was. Oh, boy, I hoped I had soap and towels -- and I did, of course, Section issue soap and towels, Holiday Inn white and lumberjack strong. (We'd have to do something about that.)

And clothes. Oh, no, not the itty bitty black thing. Couldn't wear that, besides it had blood on it and what would the neighbors think, please please let them have supplied me with some clothes, and they had -- cotton shirts and polyester pants and rayon dresses, everything the well-dressed elderly matron could want (We'd DEFINITELY have to do something about that.)

And transport. Did I have a car? Didn't Michael say something last night about my having a car? He did, he did, and he put the keys . . . THERE. On the coffeetable. Only, what kind of car? Oh, great, I'll just go through the parking lot trying all the car doors and hope a cop doesn't happen by . . . and then I saw the car alarm attachment and realized that all I had to do was push the button and see which car came to life. God, I hoped it wasn't a Ford . . .

Somehow, I found my way to the Section, even though I wasn't quite sure what city I was in, and amazingly no one stopped or even questioned me as I parked my new Taurus and hurried downstairs. Even more amazing was that I found my way to the conference room by asking directions of only six people, the last of which was Walter, who kindly escorted me the rest of the way.

I wasn't late, thank God. Seated at the table were Nikita, Michael, that nerdy kid Birkoff who made my computer class a living hell, and a couple of other operatives (goon types, muscle men). Nikita grinned on seeing me and indicated the empty chair beside her. I slid into it gratefully, and started to say hello when all the operatives, Nikita included, suddenly sat up straight, as if they'd picked something up on the internal radar.

In walked Operations.

Or, rather, in STRODE Operations. I hadn't yet met the man, but I'd seen him often enough from a distance -- hovering over the Mission Control Room (or whatever it was called) like Hades presiding over Underworld -- and what I'd seen told me all I needed to know. Military man, Nazi style.

He started the briefing without preamble, clicking on a viewscreen and detailing the specifics of this week's bad guys. Terrorist group supplied by funds by such-and-such a person, responsible for such-and-such a bombing, currently holed up at such-and-such a location, blah blah blah --

Something was tickling the back of my hand. I looked down. Under the cover of the table, Nikita was handing me a note. And a pen.

I almost laughed -- shades of junior high fourth period biology with my best friend Janie -- but gimme a gold star, I kept my expression Michael-impassive as I took the note.

"You OK?" Nikita had written.

Frowning earnestly at Op-Man's description of the big bad terrorists, I scribbled a terse answer. "I survived."

Birkoff conveniently asked a question that diverted the Silver Devil's attention long enough for me to slip the note back to Nikita. A minute later, she returned it: "Know what you mean. Want to have dinner tonight and talk about it?"

My response: "Dinner, yes. Talk, no."

Her response: "Understand. Rent a video? Call me 555-5038."

Huh. Her phone number was almost identical to mine (555-5030). Told ya we were sisters in the spirit. I nodded and gave her a quick smile.

When the briefing ended, I hoped I'd get a chance to grab some coffee with Nikita or Walter, maybe both, but as soon as the Commandant strode out of the room, Michael was at my side. "Rebecca," he said (and please note, if you will, the change in syllabic cadence. One more week, he'd be calling me Becky. Maybe even Beck.). "Operations wants to see you."

Gulp. He saw the notes. He read my mind this morning. I took the wrong car, attended the wrong briefing, wore the wrong polyester pants.

"Why?" I asked as I followed Michael to the elevator.

He pushed the "up" button. "All you need to remember is this," he said, and leveled a meaningfully severe look at me. "Yes, sir, and no, sir."

I tried practicing on the ride up, but it kept coming out, "Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full."

"Could I just nod and shake my head?" I asked Michael as the doors opened.

In response, he motioned for me to step out into the hall. I did, expecting him to follow, but he pushed the "down" button with far too much alacrity. The elevator doors closed (and to this day I SWEAR he was smiling!), leaving me on my own.

The Big Guy was standing at his usual post, overseeing the minions below, when I entered the observation deck. Without looking up, he barked, "Moran."

I came THIS close to informing him he'd just breached Section protocol by using my last name. But I figured the one Section One record I didn't want to set was "shortest time in service before cancellation."

"Yes, sir," I said. So there, Michael.

Herr Ops turned and I realized, dumbfounded, that he was smiling.

"I just have one question for you," he said. "How in the hell did you figure out that the murder weapon in the Gambello case was stashed in a box of Christmas lights?"

MAJOR time warp. We're talking a Star Trek kinda time warp.

"Uh, buh," I stuttered. "I, uh, well, the murder occurred on a Sunday. January 12."

"And?"

"And there was a notice on the kitchen counter from the city about Christmas trees being picked up the next day by the sanitation department."

"And?"

"So I figured Mr. Gambello took down the tree on Sunday morning and killed his wife on Sunday night and then hid the garrotte in a convenient place, like a box that he was about to store in the attic. The garrotte could have easily been missed in a tangle of Christmas lights, even by a well-trained CSU team."

The Bossman nodded his head. "Excellent deduction."

"Thank you. Sir."

I was soooooooo confused.

"So," the Sultan of Section One said, "have you settled into your new apartment?"

I was no longer confused. Clearly, the man was insane.

"Yes, sir."

"And how do you think you are going to like it here in the Section?"

"Yes, sir." Wait a minute. "I mean, just fine, Sir."

"Good."

Silence descended, broken only by the unmistakeable sounds of my stomach growling. (See, I still hadn't had breakfast.) Hurriedly, I said, "I did have one question, sir."

"Yes?"

Deep breath. "It's my understanding that the usual length of an operative's training is two years. I was curious about why my training only lasted one year."

He shrugged. "You were a cop. And a college graduate."

"And?" I said, not realizing until I said it that he might think I was mimicking him.

"Most of the prison population from which we recruit is in need of more than just combat training. In fact, half of our recruits are functionally illiterate, and so a great deal of time is spent the first year teaching them basic skills in reading, mathematics, geography, and so on."

"I see." And I did. And now all I wanted was to get the hell outahere.

He smiled. (COULD the man read minds?) "Well, good luck on your first mission, Moran. Be sure to dress warm. Buffalo's pretty brutal this time of year."

"Yes, SIR!" I said, very nearly saluting in relief as I hightailed it out..

It was on the way down the elevator that I got my idea.

BUFFALO . . . .

Part Ten

It WAS a good idea. I swear it was. There were just a few problems with execution . . .

I blamed Birkoff. I mean, he was the one Nikita went to for intel on the location. Granted, this particular location was not his usual area of expertise, and, granted, he was forced to use surreptitious means to gain the intel, and, granted, this was not a high priority in comparison to his other duties (i.e., tracking international terrorists), but STILL he should've known that the Bigelow Beer Distribution Company of Buffalo, Inc., employed a 73-year-old armed security guard with masochistic fetish.

I think Nikita would have agreed with me, if she hadn't been laughing so hard. I wasn't quite sure what she was laughing about -- whether it was the pink feather boa, five-inch green-sequined high heels, and black lace bra size 44D that we'd just loaded into my half-brother's locker (along with Birkoff-created 8x11 photos of Brian wearing said garments), or the poor old security guard's face as he closed his eyes, dropped his gun, threw up his hands, and shouted for us not to hurt him.

Or maybe she was laughing at our smooth, professional, coordinated exit from the employee locker room -- the way she backed into me and I dropped the goodie bag of pilfered Section tools, or the way the security guard kept begging us not to hurt him even as we scrambled to collect our things and run for the door, or the way I ran into Nikita's back and she and I went tumbling over one another, again dropping the goodie bag, or the way the security guard kept following us, hands raised, beseeching us not to hurt him as we tripped down the stairs and across the warehouse floor (the guard practically running after us, still crying out "not" to be hurt) and finally into this room, whatever it was, where once again the goodie bag was dropped and all our goodies dumped onto the floor.

Finally, Nikita's hysteria subsided. "Oh, God," she said, leaning against the door and trying to catch her breath. "You think he's still out there?"

I looked up from my position on the floor, where I was trying to collect our things in between cursing Brian, Birkoff, and Bigelow Beer. "I think there are few things in life that I can call an absolute certainty, and that's one of them."

She put her ear against the door. "I don't hear him."

"He's probably getting the whip and chains from his locker," I said. Hoisting the goodie bag to my shoulder, I stood up. "We should get out while we can."

"Agreed," she said, and reached for the door knob.

Click.

"So let's go," I urged her.

Click click.

"Oh, my God," Nikita said.

"What?"

"We're locked in."

The thought was too horrible for me to grasp. "No, we're not," I said. "You probably just have to jiggle it."

"I did jiggle it."

"Well, let me try jiggling it. I was a cop, you know," I bragged, pushing her aside. "We had special classes in jiggling."

The door knob wouldn't budge. "Oh. My. God.".

"That's what I said," Nikita said from behind me. I turned, but she was nowhere to be seen. There was nothing but a stack of beer cases. Apparently, we had escaped into a storage room.

"Where are you?"

"Here." She popped out from behind a stack. I should've known. Being the good operative she was, she was casing the room for an alternative egress.

"Anything?" I asked.

"Nothing. Not even an air conditioning vent." She kneeled in front of the door to examine the lock. "Our key pad won't work on this model," she said, and then jerked the knob hard. "Nor will the pliers. And the lock works from the inside and outside."

"So what are we going to do?"

"Hey, you're the cop. You tell me."

"You're the senior operative."

"You wrote the mission profile."

"But you're the one who's running point --"

A phone rang. From somewhere. We both looked around. Surely, that sicko security guard wasn't --

And then we realized, to our extreme horror, that the phone that was ringing was in the goodie bag.

I dumped the contents onto the floor. Key pads, motion detectors, pliers, peanuts . . . and two cell phones, Section-issue identical.

I picked up the ringing phone. "Is this mine or yours?"

"I can't tell."

We stared at one another. Finally, bravely, I answered the phone. "Hello?" I said in my best fake cheery alls-right-with-the-world voice.

"Josephine," a voice said.

Whew! What a relief. "Sorry, wrong number," I said, and hung up.

"Who was it?" Nikita asked.

I shrugged. "Someone looking for a Josephine."

"Oh, no," she groaned and hid her face in her hands. And in that second I realized the voice was familiar.

"Don't tell me," I said. "Your code name is Josephine?"

She nodded into her hands.

"Your code name is JOSEPHINE?!" I repeated, nearly shrieking.

She looked up, obviously confused. "Yes?" she said.

"It's not important," I mumbled. And, fortunately, any further explanations were pre-empted by the ringing of the telephone in my hand again.

I tossed it to Nikita like a hot potato, and she dropped it like one. "What do I tell him?" she asked desperately.

"Tell him -- tell him --" An idea hit me. "Tell him he must have dialed the wrong number."

"He won't go for that."

"Yes, he will. Trust me."

I could see her debating, and I understood why. After all, I was the reason we were locked in a storage room full of canned beer with a sicko security guard salivating on the other side of the door.

She answered the phone, and I held my breath. "Yes, Michael . . . No, I didn't receive any other calls . . . Maybe you dialed the wrong number." Her eyes widened at his response. "Yes, I understand. I'll be there."

She hung up and grinned. "I don't believe it. How did you --"

She was interrupted by the sound of another phone ringing. My phone. I waved away her panic and answered calmly. "He-lloo?" I said blithely.

"Elspeth," Michael whispered.

"Yup?"

"Have you received any other phone calls this evening?"

I was the picture of poise. Or the voice of poise, at least. "Just one. A wrong number."

Silence on his end. Nikita's hands were clasped to her mouth.

"I see," Michael said finally. "The mission has been aborted. We will return to Section at 0900 tomorrow morning."

"OK," I said. "I'll be there." And this time I beat him to the "disconnect" button.

Nikita was shaking her head. "Girlfriend," she said admiringly. "You're something else."

"You really think he bought it?"

"Not in a million years," she said cheerfully. "But you gave us a way out."

I looked around the room. "Speaking of ways out --"

"The morning shift comes in at seven a.m.." She stood and ran a hand along a case of beer. "We can hole up here until then."

"What about the guard?

She opened a case, idly checking the contents. "You saw him. You think he's going to stay awake all night waiting for us to break out?"

"True," I said. "What are you doing?"

She lifted a can from the case and grinned at me. "I'm remembering our survival training class. How to avoid dehydration.

I caught the can deftly with my Section-0ne-trained eye-hand coordination skills.

Part Eleven

There's nothing quite as awful as warm beer, especially out of a can, but at some point during the consumption of the third can, one's taste buds begin to change their minds, and by the fifth can, one begins to believe that warm beer is as delicious and refreshing as Dom Perignon.

"You know," Nikita said, happily popping open her sixth and sliding to the floor next to me. "There's one good thing about this sichation. Umm, situation."

"Hmmmmm?"

"If we're lucky, we might get to see the look on Officer Brian's face when those pictures of him all dressed up in his Sunday best fall out of his locker." About to take a swig, she was hit with the giggles and collapsed on the floor.

Something clicked in my head. "Yeah, that'd be great," I mumbled without enthusiasm.

Still laughing, she raised her head from the floor. "What's wrong? Second thoughts?"

"Of course not," I reassured her. "My half-brother is an ass of the first order. What we did doesn't begin to even the score over what he did to you."

"Then what?"

"Oh, I dunno," I sighed. "I just flashed on something I'd forgotten."

"Yeah?"

"See, Brian was the son of my father's first wife. He was only eight when she ran out on them, and ten when Dad married my mother. Then I came along, and Lizzie. We were never close. Most of the time he was just obnoxious to us, but sometimes he was downright mean."

"You think he felt second best or something?"

"Maybe. But it didn't excuse his behavior. He was a real jerk, especially to my mother."

"He's still a jerk."

"Yeah, I know. But you want to know something weird? Every Halloween, every single one, it was BRIAN who took Lizzie and me around the neighborhood in our little costumes. Even though he was a teenager and all his friends were out partying, he insisted on taking us trick-or-treating. He even held our hands when we crossed the street." I slid to the floor. The world was spinning. "He was a lousy human being three hundred and sixty-four days of the year," I told the storage room ceiling, "but on that one night I knew what it was like to have a big brother."

Nikita was silent, although I could hear her fingernail tapping the can. "I don't have any brothers or sisters," she said at last. "I used to wish I did, but now -- I don't see how you can stand not to contact them."

"It's not easy." I smiled at her wanly. "But being friends with you helps."

Her eyes were wide and blue and sad. "You know, when I was first recruited, Madeline told me that Section One would become my family."

"Gag," I said. "The Addams family, maybe."

"Oh, I don't know," she said, the sadness lifting somewhat. "I'm starting to see her point."

"Well, thanks," I said tearily. "Sis."

We smiled at each other.

"So shall we sing a round of `We Are Family'?" I asked. I could never stand sentiment.

In response, she sat up and pulled her nine-mill from her shoulder holster. "Maybe later. For now, we should get that stuff out of Brian's locker and get to the airport before Michael cancels us."

She checked the chamber, and a thrill of fear ran through me. "Would he really do that? Cancel us? Cancel YOU?"

The chamber clicked into place. "You never know with Michael," she said obliquely, and then blew away the lock on the door.

A week later, I was sent to Budapest on a mission -- my first trip overseas -- and when I returned, I immediately sought out Nikita to tell her about it.

It was Michael who told me, without so much as a flicker of an eyelid, that she was dead.

Part Twelve

(FIVE MONTHS LATER . . . LIBERIA)

The compound sat in the middle of the clearing, like a medieval fortress surrounded by a moat. Mounted on the roof were searchlights, each manned by an armed dark figure, and patrolling the grounds were more armed figures. All in fatigues and carrying verry big guns.

"I count four on the roof, three on the ground," I told Birkoff.

"Are you sure?" His disembodied voice, echoing through my earpiece, was skeptical.

"I went to college, Brainiac," I said. "I CAN count."

"All right, all right," Birkoff said. "Don't have a cow."

"You need to get out more, Birkoff. No one says `don't have a cow' anymore."

"Our intel is that most of Bolt's men are in the Balkans."

"Our intel is obviously wrong." A searchlight turned my way, and I hunkered further down into the bushes. "Should we abort?"

"Hold position."

Great, I thought. We're outgunned and outmanned two to one, and he's gotta call a committee meeting to determine if we should commit suicide.

"Becky."

"I'm here."

"Pull back to beta position. Back-up team is en route."

"You got it." I waited for the searchlight to complete its next pass, and then I lowered myself as far to the ground as I could and ran for the cover of the woods beside the compound.

Just as I reached the edge of the wood, Michael stepped out from behind a tree, right in my path. I ran into him, head to chest. "Oww," I complained.

"Return to your position," he ordered. "We're going in."

Shaking my head to clear it, I said, "Birkoff's sending back up."

"A back up team won't be here until sunrise. We have to move now."

And without waiting for my sputtering "but's" he melted into the darkness of the forest. A moment later I heard the sound of an engine starting up.

"Birkoff?" I said. There was no answer. "Birkoff, confirm change in tactical," I demanded. Still no answer.

The sonovabitch must've cut communications. Muttering under my breath, I started toward the compound.

Gunfire. Shouts.

I broke and ran hell-for-leather toward the compound, reaching it just in time to witness an assault straight out of a "Die Hard" movie. A jeep was racing for the compound door. Joe, the third man in our detail, was hunched down in the driver's seat, ducking the spray of automatic weapons while shooting blindly out the window with his left hand. And as for Michael . . .

Michael was in the passenger seat. Michael was STANDING in the passenger seat, bracing himself with one leg on the door while two firing assault rifles, one in each hand.

The sonovabitch was going to get killed. And he was going to take us with him.

The jeep reached the door of the compound and rammed it. Michael jumped out, shot down a guard who had rounded the corner, and moved inside.

Another guard appeared from the opposite corner. I took him out cleanly, and a second man on the roof, and then ran for the door under the cover of fire provided by Joe.

Smoke billowed from the front of the jeep as we climbed over it and into the compound. Inside, Michael was at a computer terminal, as cool and composed as a breath mint.

I, however, was as hot as a chili pepper. "Are you out of your mind?!" I demanded.

"Find us another means of transport," he said, sliding a disk into the drive.

"Don't worry," I said sarcastically. "St. Peter will give us a ride for free."

Eyes like green ice froze the blood in my veins. "Do it," he hissed.

Joe tugged at my arm. "There's a truck behind the building," he said in a low voice.

Without breaking my standoff with Michael, I nodded. "Yes, there is. There surely is."

I heard Joe leave, but I stayed put for a long moment. "If he dies, you will answer for it," I told Michael.

"I already have," he said without looking at me.

The truck was parked just outside the rear door, an old pick up that looked as if it hadn't moved in decades. Joe and I ducked into it, and I watched for the enemy while he hotwired the engine.

The sound of the motor roaring to life alerted Bolt's remaining men to our position. As soon as Joe put the truck in gear, two men in fatigues rounded the building, yelling and shooting.

"Run them down," I said grimly.

Joe gunned the engine, and the truck bumped sickeningly as the bodies fell under the wheels.

We rounded the building to the front, where Michael was already waiting. I waved and yelled at him, but he just stood there, silhouetted by the smoke from the jeep.

"Michael!" I yelled again. "Get in!"

"What's he doing?" Joe asked.

"I don't know --"

Joe grabbed my arm. "Company," he warned. I looked in the direction he pointed. Another truck, this one considerably newer and loaded with men in fatigues, had turned into the compound drive.

"Damn it --"

I jerked open the truck door and ran over to Michael. He was standing, as still as a statue, watching the new arrivals racing down the drive. "Do you want to die?!" I yelled.

He looked at me, and in his eyes was something so awful, so terrible, I nearly cried out in pain.

"Yes," he said, in barely a whisper.

I grabbed his arm. "Fine," I said fiercely. "Do it. But NOT ON MY WATCH!"

And with a tremendous heave, I pushed him to the truck.

Part Thirteen

It was a long, cold ride back to the airport. Michael sat in one corner of the truck bed while I sat in the other, watching him and trying to understand.

I knew, we all knew, that Michael hadn't been quite the same since Nikita's death. It was becoming a standard joke around the Section that being on Michael's team was worse than being in abeyance. No one wanted to go out with him, but no one had the guts to say anything to his face. Not even Walter, who was still so angry about the loss of Nikita that he couldn't meet Michael's eyes.

I was angry, too, so deeply angry that I'd even considered taking advantage of one of Michael's stupid stunts to avenge what he'd done to Nikita. In Cairo only a month ago I'd come within a second of pulling the trigger on him.

Right between the eyes. Like Sam.

Maybe it was the memory of Sam that stopped me. After all, what good had my act of vengeance accomplished? It had landed me here, and the only ones who ended up being punished were my family.

Plus, I'd learned a few things about life in the Section over the last few months. Things like the nausea of futility, the bitterness of restraint, the leaden weight in the bottom of your soul when you realize that nothing you can do will change things. Maybe I could never excuse what Michael had done, but I could somehow understand it.

And, besides, I could now see that, for Michael, living was the worst punishment.

His face was turned away from me, staring out into the darkness. I slid over to him and put my mouth to his ear so he could hear me in the wind.

"Just tell me one thing," I said. "Is this about penance? Or grief?"

He jumped slightly, so I knew he heard me, but instead of answering he just covered his eyes with his hand.

I took out my gun and wrapped his other hand around it. "Because if it's penance," I said, "here's your chance. You can exact your justice without endangering me or Joe or anyone else."

His hand clenched on the gun, so tight I could see the white of his knuckles. I held my breath.

And then, he thrust it away and, without a word, turned into my arms. I felt his tears on my neck as I cradled him, telling him over and over that it would be all right, that everything would be all right . . .

The sky was streaking with the first rays of sunlight when we reached the airstrip. The back-up team was waiting for us, bored and impatient. Joe hopped out to join them, but Michael and I held back, watching as they all boarded the plane, Joe telling the tale of our adventure with animation.

"Becky," Michael said.

"Yes?"

"That night in Buffalo. You were with Nikita."

"Yes."

"What were doing?"

I smiled. "We were trying to get my brother."

"Your brother."

"Yes," I said, reaching for his hand. "My brother."

Part Fourteen

(ONE MONTH LATER . . .)

Madeline met me at the door as I was leaving the mission van. "How was the stake-out?" she asked.

"Boring beyond belief."

She smiled her Enigmatic Smile. "Well, as soon as you've checked in, meet me in my office. I have an assignment that should provide you with a little more excitement."

"Oh, did you think that was a criticism?" I said. "I happen to like boring."

This time I received the Indulgent Smile. "I'll see you in five minutes."

Great, I thought. So much for the hot bath, hot chocolate, and hot book I'd been longing for. Not in the best of spirits, I made my way to Walter's Weaponry Warehouse.

Walter entered from the back room as soon as I arrived. "Hey, Doll!" he cried on seeing me.

"Hey, Hip!" I countered.

He was grinning like a man who'd won the Lotto. "Did you hear the news?"

"We're getting a raise?"

"How can we get a raise if we don't get paid?"

"That," I said, shrugging off my holster, "is an excellent question. Why don't we get paid?"

"Doll," he said, stopping me as I unloaded the nine-mill. "She's alive!"

OK, so sometimes I'm a little slow. I'd spent the afternoon in the Section van, listening to a terrorist's chippy listen to Days of Our Lives.

"Hope? I know already."

"Who's Hope?" he asked, confused.

OK, so sometimes I'm a little slow. But, after all, I had just spent an afternoon listening to a terrorist watch "Days of Our Lives."

"She's --" I stopped. "Who are YOU talking about, Walter?"

He beamed. "Nikita."

I was halfway to Medical on a dead run when I ran into Michael. He grabbed my by the elbow just as I was about to pass him, and I swung around.

"Where is she?" I panted.

He was frowning. "Aren't you supposed to meet with Madeline?"

"That can wait."

"No." He neatly stepped in front of me. "No, it can't wait."

"Michael --" I grabbed him by the forearms to shake him. "SHE'S ALIVE!"

"I know." And there it was, the smallest glimmer of a smile, fading as fast as it came. "But you really must go see Madeline."

"Oh, all right!" I gave my best imitation of a bear growling. "But tell Nik I'll come by as soon as I get free of the Dragon Lady."

Resisting the urge to stomp like a two-year-old, I headed for Madeline's office.

And it would be a very long time before I left.

Part Fifteen

At two a.m., my doorbell rang. I muted the video I was watching and answered it right away. I knew who it was without even looking through the peephole.

"Did I wake you?" Michael asked.

"No." I stepped aside to let him, noting without interest that he was carrying a small box.

He set the box on the coffeetable and made a casual survey of the room. I curled on the sofa again, wrapping myself in an afghan, and watched him.

"All clear?" I asked when he came to a stop.

Sitting beside me, he answered my question with a question. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, just peachy." The bitterness in my voice hung in the air, like a piano note that resounded on and on.

"Do they really expect me to do this?" I asked tersely.

He looked at his hands, the coffee table, the window, everything but me. "Yes."

Michael, Master of the Monosyllable.

"What are you watching?" he asked suddenly, noticing my television was on. "'North by Northwest'?"

"It's appropriate, don't you think? The lady spy seducing the bad guy, pillow talking all his secrets out of him, even double crossing the good guy who loves her to protect her own cover. I figured I'd watch it to see if I could pick up a few pointers, especially about how to sleep with a slimeball without puking my guts out." Michael was staring at me, but I couldn't stop. "You know, I tried to convince Madeline to give me the name Eve Kendall, like in the movie, but she wouldn't go for it, even though I made a very convincing case that it was highly unlikely our target would have seen a Hitchcock movie, since Hitchcock surely personifies all that is immoral in Western civiliza --"

He stopped me by clicking off the VCR and ejecting the tape. "I think you should watch something else."

"Well, I also have `Notorious,' `Psycho,' 'Shadow of a Doubt' -- if it's Hitchcock, I'll watch it. Well, anything except `The Birds.' That movie gives me nightmares, and if there's one thing I DON'T need, it's more nightmares."

From the box he'd brought he took out a videotape and replaced my copy of North by Northwest in the VCR.

"Michael," I said, sighing. "I'm really not up to a Section training video."

The image on the screen brought me up short. It was my sister Lizzie. My niece Sara. They were sitting in some kind of office.

God, how Sara had grown! I might not have recognized her. She was so beautiful -- her hair curling around her face, like mine used to, her freckles sprinkling her cheeks like dark snowflakes.

And Lizzie! She must have dropped thirty pounds! And lightened her hair. It looked great, soft and gold and shining. And the business suit was definitely a good look for her.

"What is this?" I asked, hardly breathing.

Michael hit the "pause" button. "We've had them under surveillance since you were recruited, mainly to ensure there was no contact. The office that they're in is that of a therapist they started seeing shortly after your death. This video was part of the therapy. It was made a few months ago."

He hit "play." I drew the afghan to my chin, as close and tight as I could.

Lizzie was straightening one of Sara's curls, and Sara was squirming and rolling her eyes. "Mom, this isn't the Academy Awards," she said impatiently.

Sara? The little girl who could hardly say two words when last I saw her?

A voice off camera, probably the therapist, spoke. "Are you ready?"

Lizzie sat forward. "I just speak into the thing here?"

That was my sister for you. She could still break a piece of machinery by just looking at it.

"Yes," the therapist said.

"All right." Lizzie cleared her throat, started to speak, but then stopped. "Oh, I don't know. This just seems silly."

"Give it a try."

"OK." Once more, she harrumphed, sat up straight, and then spoke right into the camera. "Becky."

"Oh, no," I cried out, the pain knifing through me. Michael's arm was suddenly around me, pulling me toward him.

My sister continued: "It's me. Liz. Lizzie. You're the only one who ever called me that, and I never told you how much I hated it. Frizzy Lizzie, they called me at school, even though your hair was much frizzier than mine ever was."

"Mom," Sara protested.

"Yes, yes," Lizzie said, sighing. "That's not what I wanted to say. What I wanted to tell you, Beck, was, well, how much I miss you." Lizzie's face squinted, and tears welled in her eyes. "And how much I wish you were here. You were right, you know. You always said that we'd get past this, that everything would be all right. I only wish I'd listened to you. Maybe if I had, you wouldn't have felt it so necessary to be strong for us, to take care of us, and maybe you'd have had enough strength left to take care of yourself."

Sara mutely handed her a Kleenex box, and then leaned against her shoulder while Lizzie wiped her eyes.

"That's very good, Liz," the therapist said. "Now, Sara? What would you like to say to your aunt Becky?"

"I can't -- please stop --" I whispered to Michael.

"It'll be all right," he said. "Watch."

Sara was talking. "Aunt Becky. Well, um, I guess I'd like to tell you that I'm OK. That I'm doing OK. I'm on a Little League team now. I'm a pitcher. The boys gave me a hard time at first, but I won my first two games and now they like me."

Lizzie smiled through her tears and ruffled her daughter's hair. "She's just like you," she said to the camera.

"Mom, it's my turn."

"Sorry," Lizzie said, still smiling.

"What else did you want to say, Sara?" the therapist asked.

"Well," Sara said with a quick look at her mother. "I wanted to say thank you for what you did. I know a lot of people think it was wrong. And maybe it was. Maybe he should be in prison instead of dead. But I'm glad he's gone. I can sleep a lot better, knowing that he's gone and he's not coming back."

She stopped and stared at her fingernails with a fierce frown. "But, you know, if I had a choice of you being here and him still being alive, I'd wish you were here. I really, really miss you."

And with that, I lost it. All the pain and anger and grief came out in a huge rush, threatening to drown me and everything around me. I thought it would never end, this fathomless geyser of grief.

But it finally did subside, and I fell asleep on Michael's shoulder, a deep, dreamless sleep.

And when I awoke, he was still there. He waited until I showered and changed, and then he saw me off on my assignment.

Part Sixteen

(ONE YEAR LATER . . . JUST AFTER "END GAME")

The place hadn't changed much in a year -- still the same underground bunker decor, the same hustle and bustle of spies on the move, the same subtle scent of fear. I supposed I should find it comforting, in a sick sort of way, that there was such a thing as permanence.

Birkoff was still running the joint from his captain's chair. "Hey, squirt," I said. "Bit any good bytes lately?"

"Becky!" he said, surprised. "I thought you weren't due in until tomorrow!"

"Is tomorrow your day off?"

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Then I guess I should've stuck to the schedule, huh?"

He turned crimson. "I didn't mean --"

I'd forgotten how much fun it was to tease the little geek. "Don't worry, Seymour," I told him. "I've overcome my phobia about computers, which means I won't be giving you any more grief. Well, not as much grief."

He grinned. "It's good to have you back."

"Wish I could say I'm glad to be back." I looked around. "Is Madeline in?"

"She's with Operations." Birkoff cast a quick glance around and lowered his voice. "Things have been kind of hinky around here."

"Hinky? That's a good word. I think I'll add that to my crossword puzzle list." I started backing away. The last thing I wanted was to get caught up in some Section intrigue. "But first I want to go re-introduce myself to Walter. Let me know when Madeline's free, all right?"

"You got it. Hey, Becky --"

I stopped.

"Get a haircut."

I laughed and waved good-bye, then went in search of Walter. I found him in a back room, engrossed in the assembly of some ominous-looking device.

"I was going to say `boo' but maybe I better not," I said.

"Doll!" Walter dropped his tools and stripped off the visor he was wearing. "When did you get in?"

"Just now," I said, relishing the big hug he gave me. "Got off the plane an hour ago."

"And you came straight here?"

"Well, I did stop in the ladies' room to powder my nose. I wouldn't want my favorite hippie to see me with a shiny schnozz."

"Doll," he said, "I'd want to see you any time, any way." Then, like Birkoff, he lowered his voice to "under the listening device" level. "And I'm especially glad to see you today."

"Why? Is it the anniversary of the Beatles' break up?"

"And that's exactly why I'm glad you're back. Things around here have been pretty grim. We need someone to lighten the mood a bit."

Something caught in my throat. "Well, I don't know how light I can be these days."

He sat me on a stool opposite him and took both my hands in his. "It got pretty bad, huh?"

"Yep."

"I heard some of it. You and this Kasim got pretty close."

I shrugged. "He wasn't -- he wasn't the sociopath Madeline made him out to be. He was just a guy with a cause."

"And a gun."

"And a gun," I admitted. "And a lot of guns." I groaned and let my head fall forward against Walter's shoulder. "Why can't the good guys be good guys and the bad guys be bad guys?"

"Doll, if I had the answer to that, I wouldn't be here."

The speaker crackled, and Birkoff's voice came over it. "Becky," he said. "Madeline says to come in tomorrow for debriefing. She can't see you today."

"Really?" I stared open-mouthedat Walter. "I can't believe it."

"Take the reprieve, doll," he said. "You don't need to be here today."

As it turned out, I didn't need to be there the next day, either. Or the next. On the third day after my return, I was finally admitted to the sanctum of Madeline's office, where she listened to my final report with an almost distracted air.

"Good work," she said when I finished. "I'm going to recommend you for promotion to Level Two status immediately."

"Gee, thanks," I said sourly. "I guess that beats getting a gold star."

She nodded, her mind still elsewhere. "And I think you should take some time off. A week should be sufficient for you to recover fully from such a long time out in the cold."

Was she kidding? One lousy week?

No, of course she wasn't kidding. If there was one thing Madeline never did, it was kid around. And I supposed I should be grateful for ANY down time.

"Thanks," I said, my tongue firmly planted in my cheek. She nodded, turned back to her computer, and didn't even look as I scurried out.

In the hall, I took a deep breath. A week. A week of nothing but sleeping late, watching TV, eating junk food. No missions. No guns. No dead bodies.

No lying to a man with warm brown eyes . . .

"BECKY!"

The voice, echoing down the hall like the voice of God, scared the daylights out of me. I turned, my heart in my throat.

"Nikita?" I said, stunned. And then, laughed. "Nikita!"

God, how I loved a good hug.

Part Seventeen

The mall was crowded with Saturday afternoon shoppers: families, teenagers, retirees, and, after our arrival, spies. After three circuits, my fellow espionage agent and I finally found a table in the corner of the food court and dropped our trays gratefully.

I dug into my lunch immediately. "Oh," I moaned, not caring my mouth was full, "how I've wanted this. Jimmy Buffett was right."

"About what?" Nikita asked. "Cheeseburgers are paradise."

She grinned. "They didn't serve a lot of cheeseburgers in Tehran, I take it."

"No, not many," I said. And swallowed.

I'd forgotten how quick she was. She picked up on the change in mood immediately. "Hey," she said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to --"

"No prob," I said, shaking my head. "Stiff upper lip, right?"

"Cool as a cucumber."

"Don't let `em see you sweat." I gorged a French fry in glorious ketchup. "But speaking of sweating, there seems to be a lot of it in Section these days."

"Yeah, well --" she shrugged.

"What's going on?"

"Trust me, Beck," she said with a gravity I'd never heard in her before. "You don't want to know."

After a long moment, I held up a dripping French fry. "OK, then. Today it's nothing but the frivolous pursuit of the perfect shoes, all at the expense of the almighty Section One."

She held up one of her fries, and we saluted each other.

Two hours later, we hadn't yet found the perfect shoes, but we'd managed to find a few perfect sweaters, skirts, books, videos, and (in Nikita's case) lampshade. Overloaded with packages, we made our way clumsily toward the exit.

Nikita stopped just before the exit door. "Omigod," she said. "You know what I forgot?"

"What?"

"Tomorrow's Birkoff's birthday."

"Yeah? How old will he be -- twelve?"

She laughed. "Not much older than that. I have to get him something."

I didn't much care for the thought of lugging all my packages through a computer store. "Could you maybe just write him a letter?"

Nikita was looking around. "Tell you what," she said. "I'll go shop for Birkoff, and you can get your hair cut." She gestured with her head to the store behind me. I turned: Harriet's House of Hair.

"Oh, come on," I said, puffing a stray lock out of my eyes. "It's not that bad, is it?"

"Well --" she said, sounding for the world like Elizabeth Montgomery in "Bewitched."

"Oh, all right. But YOU'RE going have to tell the Evil Armand why I let someone else touch my curly mane."

"It's a deal," she said, and began piling her packages into my arms.

"What, do I look like a porter?"

"No, you look like someone who's going to be sitting in a chair." And with a cheerful wave, she headed off in search of a computer geek store.

Harriet turned out to be a very busy hairdresser, although I somehow doubted it had anything to do with the quality of her work. I gave my name to the harried receptionist, who told me with an aggravated sigh that I'd have to wait my turn.

"How long?" I asked.

She squinted up at me. "Oh, about shoulder length."

I had to laugh. Definitely Section One material.

Dropping the packages on the floor, I settled into a seat near the store window and flipped through a magazine filled with outrageously beautiful models sporting outrageously ridiculous haircuts. After twenty minutes, I got bored, tossed it aside, and glanced out the window.

That's when I saw them. Michael. And a little boy. Entering the mall.

I leaped over the packages spread around me on the floor, reaching the salon door just as they passed.

"Michael?" I said.

He stopped. Turned. And I saw, for the first and only time in my life, a look of panic in his eyes.

"What is it, Daddy?" the little boy asked.

Oh my God. In a flash, I understood.

Kasim, with his warm brown eyes, stroking my face lovingly and saying, "We should have a child."

Kasim, with his hurt brown eyes, slapping my face angrily and shouting, "You betrayed me!"

Michael was still staring at me, waiting to see what I would do. I glanced down the length of the mall.

There she was. Nikita. She'd stopped to look in a store window. In her hand was a small bag. Birkoff's gift.

Michael followed my gaze, then turned sharply away. "She can't see me," he said desperately.

Behind me, the receptionist called out. "Miss, Harriet can take you now."

I grabbed Michael and pulled him and his son into the salon, practically manhandling them over to the receptionist. "This man is taking my place," I said breathlessly.

"Becky --" Michael protested.

"She'll be here any second," I whispered.

He nodded.

"This way," the receptionist said, and Michael followed her to the back of the salon, explaining in a low voice to his son what Daddy was going to do.

I met Nikita at the door. "Find something for CyberBoy?" I said, desperately trying not to turn around to make sure Michael was out of sight.

"Yep," she said, and then frowned. "But you still have all that hair."

"They're really busy," I explained, and then began collecting our bags. "I think I'll just let Armand do his thing tomorrow."

"You sure? I don't mind waiting."

"But I do," I said grimly, and then added in a more normal voice, "especially in a salon named Harriet's House of Hair."

Nikita grinned. "I see what you mean."

She took her bags from me and headed for the exit. I risked one quick glance back: Michael was sitting in the salon chair, engulfed in a plastic sheet, his face impassive, as a hairdresser named Harriet wielded a shiny pair of scissors over his beautiful head.

Part Eighteen

"What is it?" Birkoff asked, pushing aside the wrapping paper littering his desk.

"It's a birthday present," I said, exasperated.

"I know that. But what is it?"

"It's called a BOOK, Birkoff. People used to read them in the olden days."

He turned it over to read the spine. "`David Copperfield.'" His eyes lit up. "Oh, it's about that magician guy! Cool!"

I laughed. "Enjoy, Seymour. Enjoy."

I was still smiling when I reached Michael's office, but it faded quickly on seeing him.

"I'm sorry," I said from the door.

He looked up from his computer, seeming to be genuinely puzzled. "For what?"

I stepped inside. "For -- you know --" I waved in the general direction of my head.

"Oh, that." He shrugged. "Don't worry about it. I rather like it."

"Good."

"If anything, I should thank you."

"Please don't."

"Why not?"

"Just --" I grimaced. "Don't ever thank me for lying. Especially to a friend."

He glanced away. "I understand."

Since his hands were still resting on the computer keys, I gathered he didn't want me sticking around and asking him a bunch of questions. And that was OK, I decided. I didn't need to know more than I already did, and I could pretty much guess it all anyway. "I guess I'll see you around," I said.

His hands slid off the keys, and for a moment I thought he was going to ask me to stay. But he looked beyond me, and when I turned I saw Nikita standing on the threshold.

"Am I interrupting?" she asked.

"No," I said quickly. "I was just checking out the Boss Man's new `do."

Nikita nodded, but her eyes wandered, as metal to a magnet, to the man sitting behind the desk.

I backed toward the door. "Uh, I guess I'll just --" I bumped against the door frame and re-oriented myself. "I'll just go, you know, find some spy stuff that needs doing."

Neither of them said good-bye.

For awhile I watched them through the window of Michael's office. It was still there, that thing I noticed the first time we met. That intensely personal thing, that connection. And I still envied it, although not for the same reason. Before, I'd been jealous of her beauty, and his obvious absorption in her. Now I was envious that they had someone to feel something for -- another human being in this godforsaken place who could remind you that you were still human.

"Excuse me," a voice said behind me.

I turned.

HOO boy. Another one to make the old ticker go pitterpat. This one had bushy dark hair, gorgeously thick, beeyooteeful blue eyes.

"Yes?" I responded eloquently to Blue Eyes."

"Are you Rebecca Moran?"

"In my last life, yes."

He smiled. (And a nice smile it was, believe you me!) "I'm told you used to be a cop."

"In my last life, yes." I repeated. "Why? Do you need a traffic ticket fixed or something?"

"No, nothing like that," he said. "It's just -- well, I used to be a cop, too." He held out his hand. "My name's Marco O'Brien."

And the sun shone and the birds sang.

"It's nice to meet you, Marco," I said. "Call me Becky."