Her blood was pounding in her ears, lungs burning from strain and smoke. Gunfire was everywhere. She and Ted ran between the buildings in the weapons compound, following Solange. A tearing pain slammed into her arm, knocking her off balance but Ted grabbed her other arm, yanking her up and dragging her along.

"Run Nikita, stay close to the walls!"

Solange disappeared into the smoke for a few seconds, emerging again as a gust of wind blew a gap in the haze, only to fall to the ground at their feet. Nikita and Ted tripped over her body, falling as a hail of bullets flew overhead. Solange was dead, her blood soaked into them, the metallic smell of it filling their lungs.

Struggling up they continued to run. Nikita couldn't hear Michael behind them any more, only the pounding in her ears, the rasp of Ted's breath, and the constant roar of gunfire. They tore around the corner of a building and she saw the evacuation helicopter dropping into a clear space. Operatives from the chopper laid down a cover of gunfire. As she raced towards them, Simon and David appeared beside her, struggling towards escape. Blood poured down the side of David's face and Simon limped badly. Ted fell heavily against her; she half dragged him onto the helicopter. Zach and Maria struggled up, carrying Alex. Oliver, Gina and Anthony were already on board, all wounded. Nikita turned, looking for and not seeing Michael.

"Where's Michael?!" She asked, yelling over the roar of the rotor blades.

"He was behind us, I didn't see him." Ted replied.

"Phillip and Thomas ?"

"They're dead." Simon told her, "We saw them go down."

"We can't wait! They have anti-aircraft batteries and now we're detected!" The pilot yelled, lifting off even as he spoke. Nikita strained to see out, looking for Michael.

"There!" Ted shouted, pointing. They saw Michael's body curled on the ground, he was not moving but as they pulled away she saw him roll to the side, under a small building.

"He's alive! We have to go back!" Nikita yelled, but she knew they wouldn't; couldn't. They wouldn't stand a chance.

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

Birkoff sat on his bed, studying his copies of the debriefing statements. Michael had been alive when last seen. Nikita, Ted and Zach had all seen him move. He was wounded, however and by now either dead or captured. They would not go back for him. He was essentially dead. On the back wall of his quarters, behind a video screen, Birkoff had a small safe. Section documents from missions currently running were kept there as well as sensitive experimental hardware. In addition he had a few personal items stored there. Disengaging the electronic lock took only a moment. He reached in and shuffled through some papers, pulling out an envelope.

Michael had given it to him, showing up at his, Birkoff's, station late one night when he was working alone and handed it to him, casually, the way he would have given him any Section document.

"Hold onto this Birkoff, keep it somewhere safe and private." He'd said quietly, his voice low enough to avoid the Section's ubiquitous surveillance equipment.

"What is it?" He'd asked, taking the plain, letter sized envelope.

"Don't worry about it. Just remember this, if anything should happen to me, I want you to open it and read what's inside."

Birkoff had stared at him, baffled for a moment. "Sure Michael."

"Thanks." And he'd strolled off to his office as if nothing unusual had occurred. Just like that. Birkoff had thought of it occasionally in the months since then, wondering what it was about. Why would Michael give him such a thing? Why not Nikita? Or Madeline? It didn't seem likely that he'd ever find out, Michael was indestructible. Or so Birkoff had thought.

Now Michael was gone. Dead or as close to it as hardly mattered. The note was printed of course. Michael would never use his own, identifiable, handwriting on something private like this. It was brief:

Birkoff, if you are reading this I am dead or lost. Let The Sniper know.

Followed by a phone number.

He knew instantly what it meant. The trouble was how to go about it. A call from The Section was too risky and he hardly ever left the Section. 'Hardly ever' were the operative words there though. He had been going out occasionally, Nikita had made him at first but now he went on his own, although not often. He needed a plan. Why would he leave the Section now? What would be convincing?

"Nikita." The voice hissed in her ear. Waking her.

"Birkoff?"

"Listen, I need you to do me a favour."

"Now? In case you haven't noticed I'm kind of tied up at the moment." She gestured to the various tubes and IVs attached to her.

"You need something from your apartment." He whispered

"No I don't."

"Yes, you do. Think of something."

"What is this about?" she hissed at him.

"I can't tell you, but I need a reason to get out of the Section for an hour or so. You asked me to get you something. A favour."

"I want details."

"Nikita, I can't."

"Yes you can."

"It's about Michael." Birkoff admitted.

"What about him?"

"Something I need to do for him."

"He's gone, what can you do now?"

"I can't tell you. Please Nikita? Just do this?"

"Will this help him?"

"I don't know. It might."

"All right. You can get me my laptop, that should make sense."

"Thanks Nikita."

There was a phone booth right down the street from Nikita's apartment but Birkoff didn't use it. He knew the Section well enough to suspect it might be tapped. He walked several blocks further, carrying the laptop and trying to look like he was just getting some air before returning to the Section. He didn't see a tail but that didn't mean there wasn't one. There was a phone booth right in front of a big Barnes and Noble: he stopped and dialed a number.

A bland female voice answered, "555-9152"

"This is Birkoff, can I have the med-lab please?" He continued to play with the telephone buttons as he spoke.

"Med-lab"

"This is Birkoff, will you ask Nikita what book it was she wanted me to get? I lost her note."

A few moments later the technician returned, "Death by Chocolate by someone named Davidson."

He surreptitiously depressed the receiver lever and dialed a new number, trying to make it look like he was still just idly playing with the buttons. A man answered.

"555-6301"

"I have a message."

"I can take that sir."

"This is Michael's Italian cousin. I wanted to let her know that he's been in a terrible accident."

"I'll pass that on. Is there a number where she can reach you?"

"Yes, it's 555-555-2354" he said, reading it off the cell phone he'd taken from Nikita's apartment.

A cover established in case he'd been seen making the call he now went into the bookstore to get the book. It was an amazing place! He'd never been in a bookstore and found it fascinating. The mysteries were kept handily in alphabetical order so he was able to locate the book for Nikita quickly. The sci-fi shelves were overwhelming, lots of titles he hadn't read. The phone ringing in his pocket startled him and he almost dropped the books he was carrying.

"Hello?"

"Birkoff?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"He was on a mission, they were ambushed, he didn't get out."

"Was he killed?"

"He was alive when they left, but wounded."

"Where was the mission?"

"The Caribbean. An island. A chemical weapons plant run by Enrique Espinosa.""

"Cocaine cartel?"

"Yes."

"Get me the details."

"How? I can't take files out of the Section."

"Put them on a micro-disk and stash it somewhere that I can get to it. Do it soon; today."

"I'll try."

"Call me back at the same number."

"Okay."

"And Birkoff...Thanks for letting me know." She disconnected before he could reply.

He checked out of store, but not before exchanging Nikita's book for a different one.

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

"Birkoff, what is going on?" Nikita asked in a low, insistent, voice when he returned with the book. "How is this going to help Michael?"

"I can't tell you, just go along and don't push, okay? Here's the book." He handed it to her slowly, staring straight at her and holding the book back a moment as she took it. She glanced at it, then at the monitors.

"Birkoff, Death By Chocolate the mystery, not the cookbook! What the hell would I do with a cookbook in here?"

"You didn't tell me it was a mystery. I figured Chocolate it must be a cookbook. It's the same title, how was I supposed to know?"

She just glared at him.

"Okay, my shift doesn't start for hours, the bookstore isn't far, I'll exchange it for you."

"Thanks Birkoff. It's pretty boring in here."

Transferring the mission files to a micro-disk was a simple matter but it had to be done carefully, so the transfer would not be detected. Birkoff smiled to himself. He had designed the security measures, he knew how to cover his tracks. Using the pocketknife that Walter had given him for his thirteenth birthday he made a small slit in his glove and slid the tiny disk between the leather and the lining.

"Going back out?" The guard at the airlock asked him as he approached.

"Got the wrong book for Nikita." Holding up the cookbook he continued, "How was I supposed to know there's a mystery with the same title?"

The other operative laughed, opening the door, "Doesn't matter, if you'd got the other one it would have been wrong too, that's how women work Birkoff."

Birkoff heaved a small sigh as he walked down the street. The hard part of this task was over.

_________________________________________________________________

The roar of the chopper filled Michael's ears. His side burned where he'd been hit. He felt the warm stickiness of blood and knew his vest had been pierced. Playing dead wouldn't work much longer; he needed cover. Clenching his jaw against searing pain he turned his head. A thick pole was a few feet away. Raising his eyes slightly brought a small square shack into view. Like many island houses it was built on stilts, the pole in front of him was one of those stilts. Gathering his strength he forced himself to roll quickly under the building. His vision dimmed with pain and his stomach roiled. Gasping he forced his breathing to settle and his heart rate to slow. It was cooler under the building and as he wiggled slightly to get further under, the ground suddenly dropped out from under him. He landed on his back, knocking the wind from him and redoubling the pain. He'd fallen perhaps three feet into a pit under the building.

"God, finally a little luck." He thought to himself. He would now be completely invisible to any searchers. His strength was fading rapidly, his arms and legs too heavy to move. He barely registered the fading sound of the helicopter rotors as he slid into unconsciousness.

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

A lizard scurrying across his hand woke him. The tiny green creature eyed him from a few feet away, tongue flickering, bright red throat sack expanding and contracting. Sunlight was streaming under the building. It's low angle told Michael it was late afternoon before a glance at his watched confirmed it.

He rolled causing his little companion to flee and the pain in his side to flare. Gasping he ran a hand down his chest, seeking and finding the small first aid kit he kept in a pocket in his vest. He lay on his back, panting, gathering strength. Flipping open the kit he pulled out a pre-filled syringe of antibiotic and thumbed off the cap. It was supposed to be administered into a muscle, usually the shoulder or thigh but neither was possible at the moment so he plunged the needle into his forearm and depressed the plunger. That done he gathered strength, lying very still, his mind racing as he planned his next course of action.

The team had arrived in a boat and left in a helicopter. That meant the boat was still where they had left it; assuming it hadn't been found. That seemed unlikely though; it was well hidden in a rocky cove on the far side of the island, an hours walk if he was healthy. Wounded it would take him at least twice that, maybe more to cross the jungle terrain. There was no way he'd be able to make the trek without a painkiller. He had them in the kit but he might have to fight his way to the jungle. Given a choice he'd rather be hampered by pain than a drug. He could control the pain but he didn't want his judgement clouded by a narcotic.

As dusk fell Michael crawled out of the small pit that he was in and shimmied on his belly towards the back of the hut. From his limited vantage-point he couldn't see any sign of a patrol. He moved closer to the edge of the little building. His side felt like it was on fire and he felt the warm stickiness of fresh blood.

"Focus, Michael." He told himself, "just get to the edge of the jungle. There was about fifty feet of low brush and open ground between him and the jungle. To his left was another hut, on stilts, like the one he was under. To the right was a slightly larger building, one of those pre-fab sheet metal sheds. He was facing east and the setting sun was casting long shadows from the three buildings.

He leaned against one of the pilings supporting 'his' hut, resting and catching his breath. There was still no sign of anyone else in the immediate area. His wound was in his right side, just below the waist. While painful he didn't think it was too serious or he'd be in worse shape than he was. He'd lost quite a bit of blood though and he felt slow and weak. He had two side arms as well as a submachine gun. He didn't have the strength for the larger weapon and drew a 9mm from the holster on his left thigh.

Another look around still showed no enemies. He lifted his sunglasses from around his neck and replaced them, prepared in case he had to turn into the sun. Taking a deep breath he rolled out from under the hut and, bracing his back on the support piling, pushed himself to his feet. He stood, swaying, for a moment, leaning against the little building. There was a short area of clear ground in front of him and then an area of low brush. He decided to move upright across the clear area and then crawl through the brush. Sheer force of will kept him moving, one step after another. He had taken only a few steps when he heard a sound to his right.

Turning, stumbling, he saw a man step around the metal shed and raise his rifle. Michael lifted his weapon, knowing he wouldn't get the shot off. Braced for a shot he was astonished to see his would be assailant crumple to the ground, with a huge bloodstain blooming across his chest.

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

Catherine moved silently through the jungle, approaching the Espinosa compound. All was quiet. A few guards moved about the compound but there was no sign of a search going on. She knew that could mean several things; there was no need to search because they already had Michael or his body, or they weren't searching because they didn't know that he was there. She was hoping for the latter. Moving slowly she completed a full circuit of the area. Michael had last been seen on the east side of the compound and it was easy for her to pick out the two little stilted huts mentioned in the debriefing statements. She settled in to watch for a bit. She was in something of a dilemma. If Michael was alive, conscious, and under one of those huts, approaching would be extremely dangerous. He would be like a cornered animal. He'd try to kill her and likely succeed before he realized she wasn't the enemy. If he was not conscious, time was of the essence and she would need to get him out soon.

The sun was setting. She decided to move after dark, using night vision goggles. A quick scan of the area showed one guard moving in the distance, heading in her direction. As she glanced back at the huts a movement caught her eye. A figure in black rolled out from under one of the huts.

"Michael," she muttered to herself, "your timing sucks."

The guard was approaching as Michael stood leaning against the building. Even from a distance it was clear to her that he was seriously wounded. She lifted her rifle, checking to be sure that the silencer was in place before using the scope to get a better look at him. He was sheet pale and sweating. She swung the weapon to the left, training it on the enemy. The man came around the edge of a metal shed and stopped. She saw the look of surprise in his eyes at seeing Michael just before she squeezed the trigger.

____________________________________________________________________

Michael turned, lifting his weapon. A small figure emerged from the tree line and ran towards him. He wondered if he was hallucinating. She ran up to him and handed him a huge rifle, her weapon of choice he knew.

"Hold this, we have to hide the body."

He watched as in a fog as she dragged and pushed the heavy body under the hut.

"Push it further," he told her, "there's a pit under there."

"Sure Michael he only weighs a thousand pounds." She muttered, heaving the body far enough to roll it into the pit.

Standing she took her rifle back and wrapped her arm around his waist, bracing him.

"Come on, there aren't any more in the area but they have patrols. How badly are you wounded?" She could feel the stickiness of his blood under her hand, smelled it on him, though it wasn't visible on his dark clothing.

"Catherine."

"Right, it's me, come on." She got him moving towards the tree line, forcing him to a fast pace. Once in the trees she slowed their pace.

"Michael, you didn't answer me, how badly are you wounded?"

"I don't know, it hurts like hell."

"Is the bullet still in there?"

"I think so."

"There's a clearing about a mile from here, can you make it that far?"

"Yes."

"Stay in front of me and just keep moving."

She followed him, covering his back. Her hands were shaking a bit. What incredible luck that he'd emerged from hiding while she was watching.

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

It took almost an hour to walk the one-mile to the clearing.

"It's this way Michael." She told him, taking the lead and moving down an almost invisible path. Michael followed her, using every bit of concentration just to place one foot in front of the other.

The undergrowth cleared and they found themselves in an open area on a bluff overlooking the ocean. A low crumbling wall and the remains of a foundation explained the presence of the clearing. Catherine lifted a pack from behind the wall where she had hidden it on her way in, and spread a groundsheet on the grass.

"Sit Michael, we need to do something about that wound."

He sank to the ground.

"Why are you here?" He asked her.

"Birkoff sent me."

"Birkoff?"

"Well he told me what happened. I knew the Section wouldn't go after you."

He didn't disagree with her, he knew that it was true.

"I thought I was seeing things for a second when I saw you back there."

"I'm really here. Let's get you out of some of those clothes. I need to see the damage. Have you done anything for it?"

"Took an antibiotic." He tried to assist her but his hands were clumsy and in the end he sat quietly, leaning against the wall while she removed his body armor. Setting it aside she efficiently opened his trousers, folded back the waistband and lifted his shirt. She bit back a gasp. He was covered with blood. The wound was small and neat and a quick check confirmed that there was no exit wound. There was extensive bruising and swelling but no sign of infection.

"When did you take the antibiotic Michael?

"I'm not sure maybe two hours ago? A little less."

"We have to keep moving. I'm afraid if I take the bullet out you'll bleed even more and you're weak already. Do you have anything for the pain?"

"Morphine."

"I think you should take it. We still have four miles to walk."

"It's in my vest."

She rummaged through his pockets and pulled out the small first aid kit. There were a number of pre-filled syringes in it.

"Which one?" she asked him.

"They have red tape on them, and an M."

"For 'Michael?'" she asked him, removing one from the kit.

"Male, the women get a smaller dose."

He eyed her as she rolled up his sleeve and applied a tourniquet.

"Do you know what you're doing, or are you faking it?"

"Of course I know what I'm doing," she said, rubbing an alcohol pad on his skin. "I watch ER every week." She told him sliding the needle into the vein.

"You live in Europe."

"And let me tell you, George Clooney is even sexier in Italian."

"You're a real comfort Catherine."

"Give that a few minutes and you'll be feeling some comfort." She held a bottle of water to his mouth, "Drink."

Catherine gathered up the pack and their weapons, giving him a chance to catch his breath and for the drug to begin to take effect.

"We have to get moving Michael. There's no time to do anything for the wound, I'm just going to put a bandage on it. When we get to the boat we'll see if we can get the bullet out."

"'kay." He replied, head back against the wall, eyes closed.

"Drug kicking in?" she asked him.

"Yeah."

She applied a thick bandage to his side, securing it with gauze straps around his torso. She helped him back onto his feet and into the body armor. Handing him his weapon and a pair of night vision goggles she said,

"I'll take the point Michael. Stay close, I don't think there will be any patrols but try and keep an ear out."

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

They moved silently through the jungle, making better time now that Michael had some relief from the pain. Catherine checked constantly to be sure that he was still right behind her. Michael concentrated on moving quietly, following Catherine's small figure through the dense foliage. The morphine had taken most of the edge off the pain. The dose that Operatives carried was fairly low but still enough to give him a buzz. He didn't know how long they walked before she stopped, every step was an effort.

"How are you doing Michael?" she asked, offering him the water bottle.

"J'suis creve."

"Je sais. Ce n'est pas loin."

"Bon."

Another 30 minutes saw them standing on a coral ledge overlooking the hidden cove where Michael had arrived twenty four hours earlier with the Section team. The boat that they had used was still anchored there visible in the pale moonlight. In addition there was a fast Cigarette boat and a small runabout.

"Where did the third boat come from?" He asked Catherine.

"I was spotted by a patrol on the way in." She told him. He didn't ask what had happened to the crew.

"We'll take the Section boat." She continued, "They might check on whatever story we come up with and it will have to look like you got yourself to Miami."

"What about the other one?"

"We'll leave it."

"Did you steal it?"

" 'Steal' is such an unpleasant word, lets just say I borrowed it. Come on, let's get going."

She helped him board the sleek motor yacht and settled him on the bridge.

"Wait here, I need to get some stuff from the other boat." He closed his eyes and rested until he heard her return. She had an armful of weapons and a duffel bag. He eyed the weapons,

"Going to war?"

"I took them off the patrol boat." She took a long look at him. He was slumped in the corner of the cushioned bench, pale as a ghost. He looked exhausted.

"Listen Michael, we need to take that bullet out before we leave here. It will be too rough on the open ocean."

"Can you do it?"

"Yes, it didn't look too deep. Your vest almost stopped it. The only problem is that there is no way you could do it yourself. When you get back they'll take one look and know that someone helped you. Will you be able to come up with a credible cover?"

"I have sources in Miami."

"Good, we have to cover Birkoff's ass too. He really went out on a limb."

"He's a good kid. A good operative."

"Come on, let's do this inside." She helped him into the cabin of the boat. The windows were blacked out so she was able to light some lamps. There was an extensive medical kit and she found everything she needed in it.

"This is going to hurt." She told him after helping him undress and settling him on a bunk. "I don't dare give you an anesthetic. I don't know about drugs and I don't want to overdose you or something."

"It's okay, just do it."

Biting her lip she set to work. The bullet was not at all deep and she was able to remove it quickly and with minimal bleeding. She put in a couple of stitches and re-bandaged the wound.

"How are you doing Michael?"

"Okay, that wasn't too bad."

"You must still be feeling the morphine. Thank God for your vest. Just some muscle damage and blood loss." She gave him another dose of antibiotic and covered him with a blanket.

"Rest for a bit while I get us out of here."

"You'll need me topside if there are patrols." He reached out and brushed her hair off her face. Her dark eyes were shadowed and her cheeks hollow.

"You look as tired as I feel."

"I am tired but we need to get out of here. I'll get you if I need you, just lie here for a while okay?"

"Okay."

He lay listening to her move about, hearing the engine come to life, feeling the boat begin to move. He fought to remain alert but slid into sleep. Lulled by the hum of the engine and the gentle rocking of the boat.

He awoke to a clatter. She was rummaging in a drawer in the galley.

"What is it?" he asked her.

She pulled out a pair of scissors and walked to him, hacking the legs off of a pair of jeans.

"I need you on deck if you can manage it."

"Sure."

She helped him up and handed him the cut-offs.

"Put these on, they'll hide most of the bandage." She started pulling off her own fatigues when she realized that there was no way that he was going to get the shorts on alone.

"Sorry about that," she smiled, taking them back and crouching so he could step into them without bending over, "I'm more used to taking your clothes off."

"That would definitely be preferable. What are we facing?"

"One of Calderone's patrols. We'll try and pass as vacationers but if it doesn't fly it will be better to have two shooters." She slid the jeans over his hips, careful not to bump the wound.

"These are pretty loose. I think that you'll be able to button them." She handed him a loose white shirt. "Put this on but leave it unbuttoned. We're supposed to be on vacation."

Michael buttoned the fly on the jeans. She was right, they were too big. He was pretty sure that they were Teds. He watched in amazement as she stripped off her black fatigues, revealing a tiny bikini underneath.

"That's quite an outfit."

She scooped her hair up and tucked a few pins in it, resulting in a sexy, disheveled look.

"It's my 'bimbo on vacation' outfit. If we were on land I'd add spike healed sandals."

"Oh go ahead, who cares if you scratch the deck."

"I'd break an ankle and you're in no shape for gymnastics; so get over it."

"Oh sure." He replied as she turned, revealing that the bikini was a thong. He decided that he must be feeling the morphine. It was the only explanation for the rush of arousal that he felt. He was tired, hungry, in pain, and about to fight. Sex should be the last thing on his mind; though Catherine would get a rise out of a dead man in that outfit.

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

The sun was still low in the eastern sky when they went up to the fly bridge and Michael saw no sign of a patrol.

"Where are they?"

"Radar shows them approaching from directly astern."

"Can we outrun them?"

"Maybe, but I didn't want to give them a reason to think we were hostile."

"I'm more comfortable standing so I'll take the wheel." He told her.

"Okay, I'll cover your back."

"Are you going to use that monster rifle?"

"No, if we're outnumbered I'll need to get more shots off fast. I'll use one of the Uzis I got off the patrol boat. It's smaller and easier to hide too."

"Here they come." He said, as the sound of another engine came over the waves. She positioned herself right beside him, facing backwards, holding the gun down at her side and slightly behind her, where it was hidden from view. Michael watched the patrol boat approach in a mirror placed above the wheel.

"I see three, no weapons visible." Catherine said. She made sure that she was posed provocatively and flashed a smile as the small boat came closer,

"What do you think Michael?"

"They don't care who we are. They'll try and get rid of us. Be ready."

The three men in the other boat were leering appreciatively as they approached, making Catherine's skin crawl. Michael turned, just in time to catch site of one of the men lifting a weapon. Catherine had seen it too and they fired simultaneously, efficiently dispatching the enemy.

"Lets get out of here." Catherine said, taking the wheel.

______________________________________________________________________

The phone brought him out of a deep sleep. He rolled, grabbing the receiver.

"Yes." He snapped, none too happy at being awoken at 4:00am, though it wasn't unusual.

"It's Michael."

"Michael! Where are you?"

"I'm in Miami."

"Did you call the Section for transport?" He asked.

"No, I don't think I should come in yet."

"Why?"

"I had a lot of time to think crossing from the Islands. That ambush...they knew we were coming."

"A mole?" He asked.

"Either that or they broke our communications, which seems unlikely." Michael replied.

"You have a plan?"

"If there is a mole they probably think that I'm dead. I'm in a good position to look into it at this end."

Operations sat up, thinking quickly. "I won't be able to send you any support, it would be a red flag."

"That's why I called you at home. I trust Birkoff. If secure com. can be set up I could use his help."

"I'll arrange it."

"I'm going to lay low, I've been shot. It's not bad but I'll me more mobile in a couple of days and then I'll see what my sources here can find out." Michael told him.

"Do you need medical attention?"

"I can get it here if I do, but it's okay, the vest stopped it without much penetration."

"Take care of it. Where can Birkoff reach you?"

"I've got the yacht that we used for the mission. He can reach me on the secure radios there or on the laptop."

"I'll have him get on it." Operations hung up the phone.

"Michael?" Madeline asked him, sitting up against the pillows.

"Yes, he made it back to the mainland. He came to the same conclusion that we did. He's going to look into it from down there."

"How is he?"

"He's okay. He said he's been shot but not bad. He sounded tired."

"Can we send him any help?"

"Not right away but I have a plan if we need to. In the meantime we'll get Birkoff working on it."

____________________________________________________________

Michael hung up the phone. Sunrise was still some way off. He rose, moving to the aft cabin. He was feeling considerably better, though still bruised and achy. Catherine lay sleeping, curled on her side in the large master's bunk. He crawled in beside her and was asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow.

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

The sun in her eyes woke Catherine. She stirred and stretched, feeling Michael's warmth against her back His breathing was slow and deep. She turned her head, he was on his good side, apparently sleeping soundly, his hand on her hip. As she watched his eyes opened. He smiled slightly at her.

"Hi."

"Good morning." She rolled, facing him and his arm slid around her. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Better. It just aches."

"Did you talk to your boss?"

"Yes. I told him I'd look into it from here."

"Do you have a plan?"

"A vague one."

"Do you want help?" she offered.

"Can you stay?"

"Yes, I have nothing on for now."

"I didn't want to ask but I could use your help. I can't bring in anyone from the Section."

"What about Birkoff?" Catherine asked

"Operations is going to have him contact me and set up a secure com."

Michael thought for a moment, "I owe him. I never thought about that letter I gave him. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw you run out of the jungle."

"I was in Paris when he called. I thought" to her mortification her voice broke.

"What?"

To his surprise she reared back and belted him on the shoulder, "I thought you were dead! When I got Birkoff's message I though he was calling to tell me you were dead." She sat up suddenly, turning away from him, brushing away a stray tear with the back of her hand.

"I'm sorry. I'm just tired I guess."

"Come here," he tugged her down beside him, "I'm sorry he upset you. I told him to call you if anything happened to me."

"No. It's okay. Not knowing would be worse. It just scared me."

"You were in Paris?"

"Yes."

"How did you get here so fast?"

"Took the Concorde, picked up files that Birkoff left me and read them on a plane to Miami."

"Birkoff left you files?"

"The mission parameters and debriefing statements."

"You read the debriefing?"

"Yes. Solange, Phillip and Thomas were killed. Almost everyone else was wounded, some seriously. Your partner, Nikita, had a minor graze. She and Ted saw you move as the chopper lifted off. They described exactly where they had last seen you. That's how I found you. I have the disks, you can read them."

"Thanks for coming after me."

She smiled slightly, "I didn't want to lose my favourite lover."

He smiled, tugging her hair, "Your best lover."

"You'll have to prove it to me when you're feeling better."

"Deal."

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

Madeline looked up as Operations strode into her office,

"Birkoff has heard from Michael." He told her.

"And?"

"Michael's sources report that Espinosa is moving his set-up, starting tomorrow."

"Do we pursue?" she asked

"No. We'll be able to locate him easily enough later. We need to pin down how they found out about the last mission and clean up that mess. Michael has had no intel on that as yet."

"It was not a team member. It was someone inside with access to communications equipment."

"Birkoff has traced all transmissions." Operations told her, "There is nothing out of order. There were several transmissions to the Miami substation however. Normal in the course of setting up the mission."

"So the Miami substation had intel on the mission. Do you think the mole is there? Or maybe two, one here and one there, working together?"

"Two is unlikely, there is no indication at all of a problem at this end."

"Michael hasn't contacted the Miami substation, has he?" Madeline asked.

"No."

"Good. Let's set a trap." She said, smiling.

"With Michael as the bait."

"Yes."

"Do you recommend back up for him?" He asked her.

"No. We cannot send back up without tipping our hand. If we are wrong about a leak at this end it would just put him in more danger. If half of his team wasn't in Med-lab we could send some of them. But as it is..."

"He's on his own." Operations concluded.

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

"Not exactly." Catherine said

"What do you mean 'not exactly'" Michael asked.

"There is no reason to get testy, I haven't poisoned you yet."

"Not for lack of trying." He muttered.

"Would you like to cook?" She asked him sweetly, pointing a large chef's knife in his direction. "I did suggest take-out."

"No, you suggested McDonalds. Which I suspect is even worse that whatever that is there that you have in the pan."

"It's chicken. It'll be fine. Blackened stuff is all the rage here now isn't it? That chubby guy from New Orleans has made it trendy."

Michael declined to comment that blackened had gone out as fast as it had come in.

______________________________________________

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine Michael, it's not that bad a burn. You were really quick with that fire extinguisher." She perused the menu, " what are you going to have?"

"The roasted salmon I guess. I'm not that hungry."

"That sounds good. So what time is the party?"

"I'm not sure. The invitation is going out tomorrow afternoon." He told her.

She looked out the windows of the restaurant, across the marina to the slip where 'their' yacht was moored. Even in the middle of the summer there was a lot of activity and their last several nights in the marina had not been silent, with people coming and going and parties going on (a few of which they had declined invitations to).

"This isn't really a good place for a party."

"Tomorrow morning we'll go find another place."

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

Michael looked over the scrubby razor grass and Palmetto. Catherine was peering in the windows of a run down concrete block building. The road behind him was empty and not a single car had passed in the hour or so they had been wandering around the grounds of the abandoned Sunshine Park Motel, (which could all be theirs if they would just phone "Larry McAlley, real estate agent. Financing guaranteed!").

"This is the place." He told her

"It's perfect. No traffic, dark, lots of cover."

"I'll set it up for here then. I just hope they don't wait too long to come after me. This does not look like a comfortable place to be for very long."

"No air conditioning. Probably bugs and various other creatures I don't want to think about."

"I've been in worse places...and so have you."

She sighed. "True."

"Come on then, we need to get some supplies and set up here before I make the call."

"They wont come until after dark. We have time to eat and I want a shower."

"Not as badly as I do." He told her as they walked to the car they had rented.

"You can't shower with those stitches."

"You'll be singing a different tune when you have to sit next to me in this place with no air conditioning."

Shopping with Catherine for stake-out food was an experience. Michael always just took whatever the section provided. Normally granola bars, trail mix, fruit, juices etc. Catherine bought a lot of that stuff too but she also added a few other choices.

"Twinkies?" He asked.

"Cupcakes would be better but the icing would melt in this heat." She told him.

"I see." He said, watching as she tossed a bag of Oreo's into the cart. No wonder Birkoff was half in love with her.

"Oreo's are good, non meltable chocolate."

"You'd be the expert on that." He acknowledged.

"Hey, chocolate is one of the staffs of life."

"Along with?"

"Bread, olives, and sex."

He declined to comment, agreeing with her on the former, having seen her devour a bowl of olives the way someone else would eat potato chips and knowing first hand her enthusiasm for the latter. An enthusiasm he was happy to indulge with her whenever possible.

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

Michael lay in the master stateroom of the yacht, going over possible scenarios for the upcoming ambush. The water was running in the adjoining head as Catherine took her shower. A luxury he envied her.

"Michael, don't forget bug repellent!" she called out to him.

"Got it."

She walked into the room, toweling her hair. "How many do you think there will be?"

"Not many, maybe only one." He managed to get past the lump in his throat. Other than the towel around her hair she was completely nude. She pawed through her backpack, pulling out underwear and the black clothes that she preferred when working.

"You want them alive right?"

"Yes."

"What if they see me?"

"Make sure they don't"

"Okay, what time are we going?" she asked

"If we leave here at 5:30 we'll be in place before the call is made. Birkoff is going to make the call at 6:00. Even if they panic and rush over there we'll be ready. We don't have to leave for hours yet."

She turned to look at him, catching a familiar tone in his voice. He was lying on his back, wearing the cut-offs she'd fashioned from Ted's Jeans.

"Are you feeling up for that?" she asked

"Oh yeah, I'm up for it." He assured her reaching to tug her down with him.

"Just don't blame me if you pop those stitches..." she warned him just before his mouth covered hers.

Her skin was damp from her shower and she smelled of soap and her own scent, which he'd have been able to pick out in any room blindfolded. She lay over him, her small tough body seeming even smaller against his much larger bulk. He ran his hands down her back, cupping her bottom and sliding further to stroke her. She sat up, straddling him and went to work on the buttons of his jeans. He slid his hands up, cupping her breasts.

"umm, that feels nice," she murmured, stroking him in return. "Take these off," she said, sliding off him and tugging on the cut-offs.

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

Catherine lay sprawled over Michael. He could feel her heart pounding against his chest. His arms rested loosely around her and he felt lazy and satiated. She lifted her head and smiled at him,

"That was fun. Did you pull out any stitches?"

"No, you did most of the work." He smiled and ran a hand through her hand. "We'll have to do this again soon. Are you going straight back to Europe?"

"I have a few things to tie up over there and then I'm not sure." He detected an odd note in her voice,

"What is it?" he asked.

She sat up, facing him and took a long drink from a bottle of Evian that was on the floor by the bunk.

"I'm not sure. The Agency was in touch with me last week with kind of a weird request."

"Weird in what way?" he asked, taking the bottle from her and drinking.

"They asked me to remain available for a job, sometime between September and February."

"What job?"

"That's what is so weird. No details, not intelligence, no nothing. It's July now, if they had a job to be done in that time frame I'd be working on it now. It takes months usually to set up those kinds of jobs, surveillance, planning. You know that. So what is it they want done and why are they keeping it so close to the vest? I wont do a job on someone else's advance planning so if they want me to do it they are going to have to give me enough time to do it right."

"Or?"

"Or I'll walk. Tell them to get another shooter."

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

The sun was beginning to set; though it would provide no relief from the hot Florida summer. The air was still and heavy, so humid it felt as though he was breathing through a wet rag. There had been some rumbles in the distance and some heat lightening but, for a change, they had not had one of Florida's huge summer afternoon thunderstorms. Michael shifted, raking the area for any movement. This was the most dangerous time, too light for night vision equipment and too dark to be certain of his own eyes.

Catherine waited off to his right. If he hadn't known where she was he'd never have been able to pick her out. She sat absolutely still, as she had been for over an hour and would, he knew, all night if need be. They had not spoken to each other since they had taken up positions, though they were close enough to hear one another. They both knew enough to avoid any distractions, including each other.

There was no sound, no movement to indicate that anyone was there but both were aware that something had changed. Senses attuned they scanned the area constantly, eyes sharp, weapons at the ready. A shadow, a wraith of darkness gradually became clearer, making it's way towards one of the motel room doors. The door behind which Michael supposedly lay wounded, vulnerable, waiting for a Section transport. Catherine glanced towards him and he indicated with a hand signal that he would be moving. She watched, intense, as Michael moved on silent feet towards his enemy, her own eyes scanning, looking for another shadow, another stalker in the darkness.

Michael was within 10 feet of the other man before he became aware of him. The dark figure spun but not before Michael had launched himself into the attack, easily using surprise to take him down and a stun gun to knock him out. Rising he whirled at the sound of a silenced weapon and the grunt of another man. A second attacker was writhing on the ground, wounds in both his arm and a leg effectively immobilizing him. Michael walked over and sparing the traitor not a glance applied the stun gun, rendering him unconscious as well.

Catherine moved out of the shadows,

"I don't see any more. I think it's just these two here."

"Thanks for getting this one...and for not killing him." He added.

"We were so close I could have taken him out with a rock." She said in disgust. And he smiled,

"Sorry not to offer you more of a challenge." He said wryly

"Oh well, all you section types have to get so close."

" 'All us section types?' how many of us do you know?" he asked, bending to hog-tie the two on the ground.

"Well personally only you and Birkoff but I've seen some of your mission profiles. You know I knew a Navy Seal once who would have fit right in there." she said almost to herself as she peeled the mask off one of their prisoners.

"How well did you know him?" Michael asked with a hint of curiosity

"Well enough." She replied with a smile. "But he wasn't as good as you darling."

Michael decided to let that pass as he shone a flashlight into the captive's face.

"Know them?" Catherine asked?

"Yes. They are from the Miami substation. I better call for transport."

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

Two weeks later:

Birkoff was startled at the knock on his door. He was deep in an on-line Quake tournament.

"Come in!" He yelled hitting the switch to disengage his locks. Michael entered holding a package. He glanced around curiously, it had been a while since he'd seen Birkoff's quarters. He barley controlled a shudder at the thought of living there. All that noise, and light and...white.

Birkoff glanced up and immediately logged off when he saw Michael. "Michael, what's up?"

"Are you under surveillance?"

"No."

"This is for you." Michael said, handing him the package.

"For me? What is it?"

"I have no idea. Catherine sent it. Since you don't exist and have no mail address she sent it to me."

Birkoff took the box and opened it, under Michael's curious gaze.

"Wow." He said when the contents had been revealed. "This is amazing."

Michael had to agree looking at the 15th century chess set. With it's inlaid board and fantastic carved men of various semi-precious stones.

"Why would she send me something like this?"

"I'm sure because she thought you would like it." Michael told him with a smile as he turned and left the room.

Birkoff lifted the board from the box and set it on a nearby table. There was an envelope in the box and he opened it,

Dear Birkoff,
Thanks for not giving up on him

No signature.

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