---

"This is the Kurdish village of Tamlar. Ten years ago, this was the first testing ground of the Iraqi military's biochemical arsenal." Operations clicked through the horrific pictures of the dead and dying on the viewing screen: visions of bloated bodies, of wide-eyed, dead children clutched pathetically in the arms of their dead parents, the young, the old--everyone and everything, captured in a snap-shot of grotesque horror and surprise.

Operations continued, moving through slide after slide of genocide, "They used a chemical and biological cocktail of mustard gas, nerve and blood agents." He paused, then nodded his head at the viewing screen. "And these pictures, were taken two weeks ago. Even ten years after the original attack, you can see the suffering of these people has continued," Pictures flicked past as he continued his narration, "—crippled, young men, their bones too soft to support standing or walking; children born with severe facial deformities; untreatable skin lesions; cancer, " Operations ended the slide show with, "and nine miscarriages out of every twelve pregnancies."

Nikita closed her eyes, sickened by the scene of malformed fetuses laid out on a table for viewing. She struggled not to cry at the sight. For once, even Operations seemed affected; his voice deepened with anger.

Madeline took that moment to interject, "And now, the Iraqi government has a new weapon to test. It's known as EB4, and is a man-made mutation of the ebola virus found in Africa. Its symptoms include high fever, swollen joints, internal and external bleeding. Death occurs in a matter of days, usually due to suffocation brought on by drowning--in one's own blood." Madeline's clinical detachment did little to lighten the mood.

Walter winced, folded his arms across his chest and turned his attention to studying the smooth black surface of the briefing table. Nikita, too, had dropped her eyes from the screen; Michael studied her face solemnly.

"Through it's not as potent as the original, the estimated death count from EB4 could be as high as 80 percent within one week's time." Madeline finished, deferring to Operations who clicked off the screen.

"At least, that's what the Iraqis are hoping for. Our job is to see they never find out. Mission parameter briefings will commence in two hours. You all have your assignments. Report to Walter to pick up your equipment."

***********

"Hi, Walter. What's up?" Nikita chimed as she, Michael, and the remainder of Red Team entered Walter's workroom. On his work table were nine neat piles of protective gear: black boots, bio-hazard uniforms, and masks, as well as the usual gadgetry everyone in Section associated with Walter's workshop. But Walter seemed to be out of character, standing there dressed in a white lab coat. At Nikita's question, he reached into a small brown box.

"Hi sugar. Just some prep for your mission." Walter picked up the first of two vials of amber medication and drew some of the fluid into a hypodermic. "Care to roll up your sleeve?"

"Shots? I've already had my shots for this year. And why are you giving them?" Nikita grimaced as Walter tapped the hypo with his index fingernail to dislodge an air bubble. She folded her arms across her chest and fingered her sleeves nervously.

Nikita had been in a playful mood when she had dressed that morning: her pale hair was French braided into pig-tails, and tied with red ribbons. Her candy-striped sweater was tucked into loose-fitting, white canvas jeans, held up by outrageously bright, red suspenders. She looked sixteen instead of twenty.

Walter addressed everyone in the room, "Those of you that argue, get to drop your pants, and bend over." He gave Nikita his best, lecherous grin.

Nikita pursed her lips at the threat and rolled up her left sleeve. "No, really. What are we getting this time?"

Walter's amusement faded a little as he swabbed her arm with an alcohol prep. "It's what the lab sent over. Supposed to protect you against EB4, if you're accidentally exposed during the mission." He quickly injected her, and dabbed at the pin-prick of blood with another alcohol swab. "And Madeline asked me to help out. Seems the "med-heads" are all tied up with some pet project."

"But the bio-suits," Nikita asked as she blew against the alcohol lingering on her skin, "aren't they supposed to completely protect us?"

"Sure, but what if you get shot, or tear your suit? Better safe than sorry." Walter carefully measured out a second dose of vaccine as he spoke.

"Why would that matter?" Nikita said with an edge to her sarcasm. "All Section would have to do is cancel us. End of problem." She addressed Walter, but her eyes castigated Michael. He returned her look without expression, as usual.

Walter set his mouth on a firm line and inoculated the rest of the team. There was certainly no need to debate Nikita on that topic. If anything, it made him wonder why Section was bothering with the inoculations at all.

Michael was last to receive his shot. He took it, like he took everything, quietly and without emotion. Nikita watched in silence. They had not spoken to one another for weeks, outside of section business. Both had chosen avoidance as the best way to keep from being hurt by the other, but Nikita still couldn't help being drawn to him. He was a dark angel--avenging and protective one moment, cold and unapproachable the next. ‘He loves me, he loves me not--'Nikita mentally chanted--only she had become the daisy and Michael was plucking her apart and flinging her in all directions! She plopped down in a chair near Walter's work bench and began to fiddle with a rubber band.

Finished with the last injection, Walter placed both empty vials in a plastic bag, along with all the syringes, and sealed it.

Michael rolled down his sleeve, buttoned the cuff, and asked, "How long until the vaccine is fully effective?" His clothes were a charcoal gray, tailored and neat--his armor against the world.

"The "med-heads" said we have to give it at least twelve hours to build up enough anti-bodies to be safe. Why?"

"Just needed the time frame to determine when we leave. Operations left it up to me." Michael replied.

"I don't mind telling you, Michael. This mission," Walter paused and shook his head, "This mission gives me the willies. I don't know what it is about bio-chem weapons, but it just seems to be the absolute, worse way to kill somebody. A bullet's clean, even a bomb--boom you're dead! But this,. . . this stuff is just plain hellish. Talk about man's inhumanity to man."

"Just one more reason--to get the job done," Michael said softly, as he slipped one arm, then the other into his jacket. He turned and addressed the room, where the rest of the team had lingered to collect their equipment. "We're on close quarters stand-by. Get some rest. Team assembly will be 0530 tomorrow morning. Dismissed."

The team members left in small groups, some engaged in small talk, others quiet and distracted. Nikita kept her seat next to Walter's work bench. Michael gave her a long, enigmatic glance, before he left for his office. Nikita returned it with a petulant twist of her mouth, before turning her back on him.

"Kids, kids!" Muttered Walter, handing the bag of syringes to a white-coated lab tech who had arrived to collect them.

"What's that, Walter?" Nikita asked, stretching her arms over her head and sighing as the rubber band she'd fired at the overhead light, missed its target.

"You and Michael. Still not on speaking terms?"

"Never were. Why bother?" She avoided Walter's direct gaze by finding something terribly interesting about his flat-tip screw-driver.

Walter shook his head, and began to pack a camouflaged bag with equipment for the mission. He paused in his task to remark, "It's just, I hate to see you so damned unhappy, sugar." He held out his hand and Nikita obediently gave him back the screw driver.

"Me, unhappy? Nawww." She lifted her head, turned on her brightest smile and crinkled her nose. "Besides, you know you're the only man for me!" She stood, slipped her thumbs under her suspenders to straighten them, then bent to kiss his weathered cheek.

Walter's arm went around her in an affectionate hug, even as he teased her with, "If I was only a couple of days younger. . ." But his tone of voice was too serious and Nikita pulled out of the embrace and asked, "Walter, is something wrong?"

"I don't know, sugar. I just have a bad feeling about this mission, and I can't seem to shake it. It's probably nothing. . . maybe it's early senility." He tried to joke his way out of the conversation, but lost heart and cautioned, "Just be extra careful tomorrow, sugar. Okay?" He pressed the bio-suit and mask into Nikita's hands. She hugged the gear to her chest and gave him a bright and reassuring smile, "Course. Aren't I always?"

Walter watched as she had to dodge out of the path of the hastily returning lab-tech. "Now what?" Walter said in exasperation, even as he waved a pleasant good-bye to Nikita.

"Where is the log sheet?" The tech demanded.

"What log sheet?'

"The log sheet!" the man protested. "You were supposed to write down who was inoculated from each vial."

Walter threw up his hands, "I inoculated all of Red team. You've got nine on the team, and you've got nine expended syringes. Can't you guys count?"

"But which ones got inoculated out of the first bottle of vaccine, and which ones got the second?" The bespeckled lab-tech shouted angrily, waving about the bag full of empty syringes.

"What the hell difference does it make? It's all the same stuff isn't it?" Walter folded his arms across his chest to lessen the growing temptation to throttle the bossy little man.

The tech looked as if he was going to answer Walter's question, thought better of it, and left, clenching his jaw furiously.

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

As their transport helicopter made ready to land, Michael gave final instructions to his assault team. "Drop off-- in five minutes. Seal your masks, and check each others suits. As soon as the objective has been taken, immediately return to dust-off location for evacuation. I'll lead Alpha team. Bravo team is back-up. Anyone who breaks the seal on their suits for any reason will be returned in quarantine for 48 hours---no exceptions. We have a 15 minute window in which to acquire the target and return. Birkoff will begin sequencing on my mark." Michael looked at his watch, before he too, sealed himself into his bio-suit.

The sleek, black helicopter landed almost silently, it's curved rotor blades barely stirring the dust and sand, as it quickly disgorged the nine team members into the darkness and took off again. The team moved in a rapid, fluid line, until it reached the edge of a sandstone cliff that overlooked the target. Michael and the Alpha team continued into valley below, while Bravo team fanned out along the ridge line to provide them cover from above.

The biochemical plant was well hidden in a narrow, rocky valley in north eastern Iraq. Disguised to look like a common oil refinery, it sat like a miniature city on the outskirts of civilization. Steel towers, covered with white lights, and miles of silver- metallic pipelines cris-crossed themselves around the large, flat tanks that squatted in the middle of the site. The steep, sandstone cliffs that encompassed the plant on three sides, gave the backup team a good vantage point to locate the numerous Iraqi guards that idly walked their posts.

Michael led Alpha team down a rocky pathway to a position just north of the plant. High grass hid them as they made their way closer to the target, leaving Bravo team on the hilltop to target the Iraqi sentries in the compound below.

"Birkoff?" Michael waved a small electronic device along the ground ten feet outside of the perimeter fence as he spoke into his headset.

"I detect ground sensors, and a second security alarm system hooked to the fence itself." Birkoff reported from the comfort of his computer station half a world away.

"Can you disarm them?" Michael asked, cautiously searching the area for any sign that his team might already be detected.

"You'll have to do it on your end. But they've made it easy--both systems are tied in together. You disable one, the other will go down with it!" Birkoff gave a derisive snort of laughter as his nimble fingers tapped away on his keyboard. Michael waved over one of his team members and together they inserted two metal devices into the ground. A moment later, he contacted Birkoff again.

"Are we in?"

Birkoff was smug as he answered, "Yeah, you're in. Those guys must have stolen the technology and forgot to read the directions!" He shook his head as he took a bite out of his sandwich.

Michael's mouth turned up fractionally, but he resisted comment. He gestured to Nikita and Ryan to cut the fence. In moments, the chain-link fabric was rolled aside, and one by one the team breached the perimeter, with Michael in the lead.

Using a two by two, advance and cover formation, they stealthily inched their way towards the center of the compound. Only one guard had to be dispatched, a man unlucky enough to have nature call at the wrong moment. He died without a sound, as Michael cut his throat.

As Nikita passed by the body, she paused and looked over at Michael. It chilled her sometimes how unaffected he seemed by what he had to do. He killed without passion, with no more concern for cutting a man's throat, than he would carving a turkey on Thanksgiving day. It made him seem more machine than man; every movement, every action, was precise and by the numbers. He wasted no time on self-examination or compassion for the dead. This was his job--and he was very, very good at it. Four charges were placed, and armed. The plastique Walter had provided had been specially designed to create a fireball of extremely high temperature--hot enough to melt steel, and annihilate any living thing, including a deadly mutant virus. As each team member signaled, mission accomplished, Michael calmly ordered, "Fall back." It had been easy--too easy.

The calm of the desert evening suddenly erupted with the pop-pop-pop of small arms fire, followed by the pounding rattle of a machine gun. Three green flares ignited overhead, illuminating the team as they sprinted along their escape route. Bravo team opened fire from the hillside, drawing attention away from Michael's team, but a shoulder-fired missile exploded against the hillside, killing one of the Bravo team and scattering the rest. Moments later, a white mist oozed a serpentine course upon the evening breeze.

"Withdraw!" Michael's voice ordered firmly as he fired into another plume of white smoke that exploded on their right flank.

One retreating Alpha team member cried, "I'm hit!" and fell, as bullets skipped over the ground all around him. Nikita ran back to cover him, shouting into her headset, "Michael! Ryan's down!"

Michael arrived, dragged the wounded man to his feet and helped him get to the narrow opening in the perimeter fence.

"Nikita! Withdraw! Now!" Michael shouted as he turned, and transferred the injured man through the fence to another team member. She scurried to do as he ordered, ducking under Michael's arm as he held back the fabric of the chain-link fence, only to snag her right sleeve on the jagged metal half-way through. She tugged, then shook herself free.

Michael followed close behind, pushing her along in front of him, while keeping his full attention on those who were in hot pursuit. He emptied a clip, ejected it, and slammed in another all in the space of a minute, as he, Nikita and the remaining Alpha team members fled up the rocky hillside.

As soon as they reached the crest, the entire team hit the dirt, as Michael set off the explosives. Behind them, the night sky went up in a roiling, gaseous ball of red- orange flames and acrid black smoke.

Nikita cried out as the scorching heat rippled the air around her. Momentarily disoriented in a shroud of thick, black smoke, she crawled forward, frantically trying to feel her way, when she was suddenly jerked to her feet by the scuff of her neck. Michael shoved her in the general direction of the waiting helicopter, before shifting the weight of one of the injured men, that he carried on his back.

As they ran towards the landing helicopter, Michael counted his survivors. Of the eight, one was dead, and two were wounded--but the mission had been a complete success.

Ten minutes over the Turkish border, the copter landed and Red team was transferred to a waiting C-130. Walter, dressed in a bio-suit, was there to meet them. He helped each team member aboard, spraying their bio-suit with a fine mist of chemicals-- the first step in the decontamination process.

The last to board, Michael followed a weary, dust covered Nikita into the plane's cargo hold. At the same moment he met Walter's wide-eyed look of dismay, Michael noticed the jagged tear in Nikita's right sleeve. Instinctively, he grabbed the material around the tear and squeezed it tightly together, but even as he did so, he knew it was too late. Nikita had been exposed.

Michael's grip was so tight that Nikita tried to pry him loose, before she realized what had happened. Then for a brief moment, panic set in. She screamed, and her eyes went wide with terror, until Michael's arm curled around her, pulled her tightly against his chest and held her there.

"Nikita." Michael's voice was gentle but authoritative. The sound of it calmed her and held her together, while Michael ordered Walter to prepare her for isolation, along with Ryan and Lester, the two operatives that had been wounded on the mission..

Walter looked past Nikita, glimpsed Michael's expression behind his mask, and shuddered at the emotion he saw hidden behind those gray-green eyes. If there was a hell, then Michael was surely standing in it.

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

Nikita picked fretfully at the tape that held the IV needle in her right arm. Despite a stream of visitors over the last seven hours, that waved at her through the large picture-window of the isolation ward, she was bored. Forty-one more hours to go--forty- one more hours of needle pokes, examinations, and sphinx-like lab techs scribbling notes as they paced around her. She kicked the sheets down to the foot of the bed in disgust, and sat up cross-legged. Propping her left elbow on her knee, and balancing her chin upon the heel of her unencumbered hand, she indulged herself in a pout of pure self-pity.

"Hello, Nikita."

Nikita raised her eyes and saw Madeline staring at her through the observation window, and listlessly wiggled her left pinky at her in greeting.

"I can see you're enthusiastic," Madeline noted, smiling her standard Mona Lisa-smile, beneath the penetrating gaze of her sherry-colored eyes.

"Oh, very! It's not bad enough to be on display like a guppy in a fish tank, but you'd think I could at least have some air-conditioning--it's hotter than hell in here!" Nikita snapped, swiping the back of her IV-entangled hand clumsily across her forehead.

Madeline's expression changed fractionally, as she folded her arms, and leaned a shoulder against the glass. She concentrated entirely on Nikita's face, like a Peregrine Falcon examining its next meal. "How are you feeling?"

"Bored, tired, hot,--fed up! Look, I'm fine! I'd like to go home, have a shower and crawl into bed." Nikita's face flushed red.

Madeline nodded, then turned her head to speak with someone in a white lab coat, who seemed engrossed with whatever Madeline had to say. It annoyed Nikita to be ignored, so she picked up a well-read magazine and tossed it forcefully against the window.

It got Madeline's attention, but only for a fraction of a second. The conversation with the man in the white coat continued unabated, but Nikita couldn't hear what was being said.

"Hey!" Nikita shouted as loud as she could, but Madeline turned away, accompanied by the lab tech, and disappeared from view.

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

It was 1 A.M. and Michael stood watch as Nikita slept. The room lights had been dimmed, and he could barely make out her features in the stark green glow of the monitoring machines that surrounded her bed.

She was restless, feverish.

Michael pressed his forehead against the cool glass and closed his eyes, but he couldn't close down his mind. It tried to tip-toe around what was happening, because the reality of it was too crushing to bear.

He tried to console himself with the knowledge that the mission had been a success, and many potential lives had been saved, but nothing could counter the anguish he felt, as he watched what remained of his soul, slip away.

Michael remembered the rush of desire he'd felt the first time he'd held her-- dancing with her, wooing her to stay in Section--to stay alive. But what began as cool manipulation had ended ensnaring him in emotions he had thought long dead. Her response to him had been so trusting and tender. He had been unprepared for it--and so terribly unworthy.

Michael hated who and what he was. For Nikita's sake, he had tried to remain distant--to save her from the darkness that was his existence, but she always drew him back again. She was the breath that kept him alive—and now they were both dying. A door opened into Nikita's room, one dim light flickered on, and two bio-suited figures entered. Temperature and blood pressure were taken, with Nikita sleepily protesting. More blood. More tests. More tears.

Madeline looked up just as Michael slipped away.

"At 3 P.M., this afternoon, Ryan began hemorrhaging from his nose and ears. We are transfusing him for the time being. Lester, meanwhile, seems to be completely unaffected." Madeline read from her notes to Operations as they sat together in his office.

"And Nikita?"

"She's still in stage one, high fever, night-sweats. . ."

"Will the three of them be enough for the test?"

"I think so. However, we have run into a problem," Madeline sighed softly.

"What kind of problem?" Operations asked, his eyebrows drawing into a frown.

"When Walter gave out the injections, he failed to note down which members of the team got vaccine from which vial. We aren't sure which ones were given the vaccine and which ones received the placebo."

"Will that invalidate the test?"

"No. It simply complicates things a little. We know that three members of the Red team were exposed to the virus. Since Nikita and Ryan show signs of the fever and Lester hasn't, I think we can safely conclude they received the placebo, and Lester received the vaccine. I am running a blood screen on all three of them to verify those conclusions. I'm confident everything will be fine." Madeline assured him.

Operations nodded absently, before dismissing her with a gentle, "Keep me informed."

The 24-hour clock that hung in Nikita's isolation chamber showed the hour to be 2045. For the two that stood watching through the glass, Nikita's suffering was more than they could stand to witness. Walter stood with his forearm pressed against the glass and his face buried in the crook of his arm. He'd look, then hide his face away again, as Nikita sobbed and thrashed against the medics that were trying to hold her still.

Burkoff stared mutely from around the corner of the window. He swallowed convulsively, and swiped at his nose, but was unaware of doing either. Neither had spoken, or moved in the past three hours.

Madeline entered Nikita's room, clothed in a medical-blue bio-suit, and went to Nikita's bedside.

"Nikita. We're trying to help you--stop fighting us!" Madeline's voice was raspy coming from behind her face-mask.

For several seconds, Nikita relaxed. She gazed up with fever-bright eyes and spoke with perfect lucidity, "Don't let me die like this--I don't want to die like this! Please, God,. . . please, Madeline! Cancel me, but don't let me die like this." Her words were all the more terrible in the softness with which she spoke. Her voice was a whisper that could be heard throughout the room.

"Nikita, we've found out what went wrong. Do you understand me? One of the bottles of vaccine--it was a bad batch. You and Ryan were injected out of the same bottle. Lester got the other--and he's perfectly fine." Madeline nodded at the nurse who injected medication into the IV tube in Nikita's arm. "You must lie still and rest."

Nikita looked at Madeline with heavy-lidded eyes, "Where's Michael?" She asked wearily, "Where's Michael?"

Two drops of crimson fell. Then another. Nikita wrinkled her nose, and wiped the back of her wrist across a tickling sensation. Something was warm, and wet. She rubbed at it again, irritated, then drew back her hand--covered in blood.

What it meant, registered in Nikita's fevered mind and she began to scream and fight anew. The nurse struggled to keep her from pulling loose her IV line.

"Michael! Michael! Where's Mi-chael!" She cried with the last of her strength, before curling into a ball on the blood splattered sheets. Her weeping softened even as her body began to tremble.

"I'm here, Nikita," came his soft answer.

No one had noticed Michael's entrance. Dressed in a blue bio-suit like Madeline's, he approached Nikita's bedside, and leaned over her.

"Michael. . ." Nikita sighed. It was a whisper, neither a question or a statement. Someone was pushing her hair away from her tear-stained cheeks and pressing a warm, damp cloth to her face; Nikita strained to lift her head. A figure in blue, stood in the center of a darkening tunnel. She reached up to touch his face, but touched plastic instead, smearing it with her bloody fingertips.

"Michael? Michael, where are you?" She whimpered hopelessly, reaching and searching blindly with her fingers, but couldn't see beyond the bloody smears amid the gathering darkness. "Mi-chael," she pleaded like a child, "I'm so c-cold. . . please, Michael. . ."

"I'm here, . . . ‘Kita." Michael paused to reach behind his head. Then he calmly unsealed the mask of his bio-suit and peeled it from his face, even as Madeline and Walter both shouted, "Michael, don't!" to try and stop him.

Ignoring everyone, Michael tossed his mask on the floor. The rest of the bio-suit soon followed. Freed of the barrier between them, he stroked Nikita's face with both hands, smoothing away tears with the pads of his thumbs. "It's okay, now."

Nitika's red-rimmed eyes fixed on Michael's face as he stood there, and she quieted instantly. He slipped one arm beneath her shoulders and lifted her higher on the pillows, then shifted her over on her side, and lay down next to her, face to face. She was trembling violently, so Michael pulled her close and cocooned her tightly within the sheets and blankets.

"Michael," Madeline said with quiet urgency, "you've fully exposed yourself and we don't know which vial you were inoculated with."

He didn't answer. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered now.

Instead, Michael pillowed Nikita's head on his right arm, and pressed the wet cloth against the blood that still oozed down her face, with the other. He never took his eyes away from Nikita's face, nor she from his.

With a soft word--"please?" Michael asked that the room be cleared. Madeline nodded with resignation and waved everyone away. She closed off the room to give the two some privacy. Section owed Michael that much.

"Michael?" Nikita's voice was a bare whisper. She was too weak to open her eyes. Her lashes fluttered as if making one last attempt, before Michael felt her entire body completely relax against him.

"Yes, Kita?" Michael refolded the damp cloth and carefully dabbed at the blood that continued to drip scarlet.

She smiled a half-smile against his shoulder, "You'll cancel me, won't you?" She whispered, ".. . . you won't let me die like this."

"You're not going to die, Kita." I won't let you. I won't let you!

She chuckled for a moment, giddy from the loss of blood, "You said row 8, plot 30. . ." Just as suddenly, she grew serious and in a child-like voice wondered, "Will my mama come, this time?"

Michael squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw against the grief he could not let escape. He curled his body around hers, pressed his face against her pale hair and held her close.

‘Ah, don't go. . . my love. Don't go. . . and leave me all alone. . .' Michael spoke French against her lips in the darkness. Told her things he'd never told anyone. Poured his love over her with words, because he had no more tears.

He was past tears. Past hope.

He kissed her once, so carefully, as she slept, then closed his eyes and prayed to sleep as well--and never wake up again.

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

Operations turned his head, then pivoted in his chair when Madeline walked in. She answered the question she saw expressed in his eyes:

"Nikita's improving. The transfusion of anti-bodies, we harvested from Lester, has been quite successful. Her fever's down, and the hemorrhaging has stopped completely. As for Michael--just as a precaution, I've had him treated, sedated and placed in isolation. I'm fairly sure he got the vaccine and not the placebo, but he could use the rest. He hasn't slept for days."

She paused and gave Operations a wink of a smile before continuing, "It's too bad Ryan didn't make it. His blood would have provided us with more anti-bodies, but once Nikita is well, we'll be able to harvest some from her."

"All in all, a successful operation from start to finish." Operations smiled as he sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "You do excellent work."

Madeline inclined her head with a tiny bow, and smiled at his compliment before leaving.

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

"Bad batch, my ass!" Walter exploded on arrival in Operation's office.

Operation's sighed impatiently, "What is it now, Walter?"

"Is that all you have to say? This was all part of the mission profile, wasn't it? You used the team like a bunch of lab rats and made me an accomplice!" Walter's fist thumped once against his own chest in anger.

"And what of it?"

"What of it? Ryan's dead! Nikita's barely alive! Why them? If you were going to pull this kind of crap, why didn't you pull the team from abeyance? You risked some of our best people--Michael for one!"

"Although I don't owe you an explanation, I'm feeling charitable today." Operations gave a semblance of a smile. "I couldn't pull from abeyance because the mission to destroy the bio-weapons plant was too important to leave to second-stringers. You don't need me to tell you why we're all here, Walter. Ryan was an acceptable loss, as was our other casualty on site."

Operations leaned across his desk and laced his fingers together. "The mission profile was to destroy the weapon's plant, and to test the vaccine in real world conditions. The deal here, was to save lives, Walter. To take away the weapon, and to find a way to defend against it in the future. Are you going to tell me the risks weren't worth that?"

Walter pressed his mouth into a thin line. He hated it when Operations was right. He folded his arms. "Fine! But next time, do your own dirty work! Leave me the hell out of it!"

Operations held any comment he might have had to himself, allowing Walter the last word as a balm to soothe his righteous anger. Only after Walter had slammed the door behind himself, did Operations indulge himself with a smile.

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

Michael's consciousness seeped back slowly. When he finally became aware of his surroundings, he made no attempt to move. His eyes drifted open and told him what his arms already knew--that he was alone. Nikita was gone.

He stared at the ceiling, studying its blankness and feeling as empty as the flat expanse of whiteness, that served to hold the four walls at bay.

"Michael? How are you feeling?"

Michael blinked once, twice, before slowly turning his head towards her voice. Madeline stood at his bedside, dressed in a dark blue suit, her fingers clasped together in front of her.

Gray-green eyes blinked again, and looked away.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question." Madeline said quietly.

Michael didn't care and didn't attempt to answer.

"Michael, Nikita is alive." Madeline gave him a half-smile; it was almost tender.

"Alive." He said softly. It wasn't even a question, because he knew better than to believe. This was just another test; another psychological probe into his emotional state of mind. It was Madeline's job and she was doing it. But he had no emotion left, not even a thimbleful of anger.

"Michael. The vaccine works. Ryan didn't make it, but Lester and Nikita did. She is alive."

He nodded his head, agreeing, just to agree.

"Walter knows you pretty well," Madeline quipped, drily. "He said you wouldn't believe it. Not without proof."

She raised her hand, which until that moment had concealed a television remote control and aimed it at a small screen on the wall. A closed-circuit picture flickered to life on the screen. On it was Nikita, still abed, but giggling at Walter, who had made a playful, lecherous attempt to peek under the bed sheets.

"The doctors are releasing her this afternoon. And if you're a good boy--you get out tomorrow morning." Madeline lay the remote in Michael's hand. "I expect to see you in my office immediately afterwards. You seemed to have developed a problem with violating section procedures. You deliberately exposed yourself to the virus, Michael. Suicide is not a viable option. You die only when Section authorizes it and not before." Had Michael taken his eyes away from the screen, he would have noted a flash of seriousness in Madeline's face. But it went unnoticed, as did her exit.

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

Nikita perched on the edge of Walter's desk, her fair complexion still pale from her week-long ordeal, but her eyes were bright as she watched him work. Her mind wandered a little, down a melancholy road. The entire time that she had been ill, Michael never came to see her. She cried devastated tears, alone in the bathroom, into towels and pillows, so no one would know. Not once, had Michael come. Not once had he called. It hurt so much--her eye's blinked back tears, as she tried to maintain her composure.

Walter had visited, daily, dragging an embarrassed Birkoff in with him in the late afternoons. Even Operations had visited. Twice.

No one mentioned Michael, and Nikita had been too proud, too hurt, to ask about him. ‘So what?' She asked herself. ‘Big deal. Why are you even surprised?' She hated him! Hated the rush she felt whenever he spoke or walked by. Hated knowing, she'd gladly make a fool out of herself for one kind word from him!

"Good morning. How's everything?"

Nikita steeled herself against the rise of hope and joy that came as she heard his soft voice. She drew her chin up and pressed her lips together, "A lot you care!" She ground out bitterly between her teeth.

She couldn't look at him. If she did, she'd go to pieces. She'd never give him that. Never. She looked at Walter instead and was shocked to see the anger in his face. There was a long pause, during which Walter stared past her, his face brick-red.

He witnessed Michael's expression a fraction of a second before Michael nodded and turned to leave. A flicker of gray-green eyes was the only sign that her words had wounded.

Walter got up from his work bench and reached into a nearby drawer. When he returned, he slapped a video tape down on the table in front of a startled Nikita. It was one of the surveillance tapes that Madeline had made to chart the effects of the EB4 virus on Nikita and the others. He had taken it meaning to erase it, as a favor to Michael. No man needed his guts spread out for everyone to see, especially not someone as private a person as Michael. Recorded there for everyone's analysis was tenderness, and grief, and a love so genuine that Walter had been touched at its depth. Nikita needed to know. For her sake, as well as Michael's. Hell could take the consequences!

"Take this home tonight, pop some corn, and watch it! It's time to grow up, Nikita." Walter took off his glasses and tossed them on the work table in disgust, before leaving her bewildered and alone.

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

Nikita stood for a long moment at the door to Michael's office, her hand pressed against it. She closed her eyes, heartsick and heartbroken. She had cried when she saw the tape, and again when she returned it to Walter. He had given her a fatherly shoulder to saturate with hot tears, along with words that sought to comfort, but Nikita could only see Michael in her mind's eye--hurt, haunted and alone. So awfully, and terribly alone. She wiped away tears with both hands and forced herself to calmly open his door.

Michael sat absorbed at his keyboard, tapping letters into words, then paragraphs and finally into reports. He kept his eyes on the computer screen, fully aware of the electricity that entered the room with Nikita. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to crush the ache, the longing that burned through him.

He hated her/wanted her/needed her/loved her. Now, more than ever. Having held her innocence in his arms; having nearly lost her and himself forever. He fought to focus on the blurring screen, pleading with God in silence, to make her leave.

"Yes. What is it?" His lips asked in a tight voice as his fingers continued tapping away. He got no answer, but could not lift his head to look in her direction.

He heard a sound, but the pounding of his heart was so loud he wasn't sure what it was he heard.

Nikita stood at the window in Michael's office, her back to him, as she carefully closed the blinds. She wished they had some place to go--away from section. For a mere moment, if they couldn't have a lifetime. A tear eased its way down her cheek. She brushed it away absently.

"Michael. . ." There was a sadness in her voice that cut into him.

Michael's fingers stumbled over the keys, paused, then typed even faster. He steeled himself before asking, "What is it, Nikita?"

"I want . . . I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. . ." She began, stepping slowly around his desk."

Michael stopped typing, but kept his focus on the lap-top's bluish screen. He didn't want to hear what she was going to say. Things couldn't change between them. He had to stop her before she gave him hope. He had almost lost her twice and the pain of that had been unbearable. He had allowed her to get too close. Too close.

Once, he thought she was fragile. Now, he knew if she so much as kissed him, he'd be the one to shatter like glass. He'd lived his life alone since Simone. He'd had his shields in place, until Nikita. . . .

He recoiled when her hand touched his shoulder.

"Please, Michael. I have to explain."

Michael stood and put his desk in between them, so she couldn't touch him again.

"If you are here about what happened in medlab. It isn't necessary. I was following mission perimeters. We lost Ryan and we needed you to pull through, in order to prove the we had the cure." His voice betrayed no hint of emotion. Years of practice had not failed him.

Nikita looked at him with huge eyes, on the verge of tears.

"Michael. . ."

"I have a meeting with Madeline in two minutes. Can we discuss this later? " He walked towards the door, opened it and left. Not once had he looked in her direction.

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

"Please Walter."

"Sugar--it isn't a good idea." Walter rubbed the back of his neck as he paced.

"You gave me the tape!"

"Yeah, well. . ." He shrugged, no longer sure he should have.

"Well what? Walter, I HAVE to talk to him! Afterwards, he can toss me out bodily. Please!" Nikita's eyes pleaded along with her words.

"All right--but you tell him you wormed it out of Birkoff."

Nikita hugged him tightly and kissed him. Walter wiggled out of her embrace sheepishly. "Wish you'd do that and MEAN it," he huffed playfully, and handed her the equipment she'd requested.

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

Nikita paced. And paced some more.

"Walter?"

Seated at his workbench, Walter yawned. "What?" he asked somewhat grumpily.

He had finally gotten comfortable enough to doze off for a few minutes, his head propped precariously on his hand.

"It's after 2 a.m. Michael's still here in Section."

"Look, don't blame me. I can't. . "

Nikita silenced him with a wave of her hand. "Wait! There he goes. Wish me luck."

Walter nodded, then shook his head as she tiptoed out to follow. "I do, Sugar. And you're probably going to need it."

Michael slung a booted leg over his motorcycle, adjusted his helmet strap, tugged on a pair of black leather gloves and reeved up the engine. The motor purred for a moment, then growled as he put it in gear and turned out into the street. Nikita waited until he was out of sight to pull out after him. The little sensor she placed on the bike's brake light would continue transmitting for about 45 minutes. Hopefully, Michael didn't live further than that.

So, she was going to find out where he lived.

Her stomach was tied up in knots. Once she was there, what would he do? What should she say?

For a moment she panicked, thinking she'd lost the signal, but when she reached the next intersection, she picked it up again. It began to beep faster--keeping pace with her heart. Michael was somewhere close by.

His was the house on the corner. Nikita parked three houses down, beneath a large tree and stared with some surprise at the house Michael had chosen for himself.

Under the street lights, it was difficult to make out what color the house was--but she guessed it was white, or perhaps a pale yellow. It looked to have been built at the turn of the century--a Victorian two-story, with a large front porch, and several large trees in the front and side yards. The trees obscured most of the house from view, but Nikita saw a light go on inside.

‘Now or never' she thought, pulling the keys out of the ignition. Nikita took a deep breath and got out of the car. Walking over, she debated on whether to ring the bell, or sneak in. Either way might get her killed.

She got to the porch, panicked, started to walk back to her car, then cussed at her cowardice and turned back around. Two timid knocks later got her no further to her goal.

"Michael?" She whispered.

He couldn't hear her; hell, she couldn't hear herself!

Carefully, she tried the front door. She was shocked when it opened, then paused to wonder if he kept his home booby-trapped. She pulled a pen-light out of her purse and ran it around the door looking for wires or electronic devices. It worried her to find none. In their business, this was almost like begging to be killed!

She gave the door a slight push. It swung in without a sound. Nikita peeked inside. It was too dark to make out much of the decor, but the house had a scent to it, aged and homey, rather what her best friend's, grandmother's home had smelled like.

The smell mingled with the scent of summer roses and honeysuckle from a nearby garden. Nikita breathed it in deeply. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach, she felt suddenly homesick. Not for her real home--there had been no happiness or love to miss in that place--but homesick for a home that she could belong to. The one of her childhood imaginings. She was sure, it would smell just like this house. And Michael was part of that longing.

Nikita stepped inside and quietly shut the door.

Michael stood under the steamy streams of water, letting them cascade off his shoulders and back. Here, he could hide the tears, even from himself. He was still numb from all that had happened in the past several days. Madeline had ordered him to go home instead of staying in Section quarters. What was he to do here for three whole days?

The loneliness of this house was oppressive. He and Simone had been happy here, so very briefly. His son's crib remained behind the adjoining bedroom door. He was tortured by the memories trapped inside this house, but couldn't let go of the only place where he had known a moment's peace. (Even though he was infrequently here.)

He tried to picture Simone's face--but could only see Nikita's. He felt disloyal one moment, and a terrible longing to hold Nikita again, the next.

Nikita stood outside Michael's bedroom door, and chewed on her lower lip with indecision before taking the plunge. She tapped lightly on the door panel. "Michael?"

There was a sound--of a round being chambered. "Michael--wait! It's me! Nikita!"

The door was snatched open with a violent suddenness that made Nikita flinch and stumble backwards against the adjacent wall of the hallway.

Michael stood with his gun pointing up at the ceiling, clad only in a damp towel wrapped around his waist. His eyes seemed huge but their expression was hidden by shadows. It took a moment for Nikita to realize the gun and the hand that held it, was shaking.

Michael whispered only one word, "What?"

But before Nikita could answer, she was pinned against the wall, her face held in Michael's free hand as he kissed her. It was a frantic, desperate kiss, and Nikita tasted tears and was shocked to realize they were his.

Then, as if he suddenly realized what he was doing, Michael pushed himself away.

"Go home!" He said with a viciousness brought on by pure fear.

"Michael," Nikita took a step towards him then stopped as he leveled the gun at her. His hand was shaking worse than before. She realized that she had caught him with his shields completely down, with nothing, not even the stark darkness of his clothing to hide behind. Here in this place, Michael was emotionally exposed, and while she watched, she saw that he was struggling desperately to pull himself back together. With dawning wonder, she suddenly understood that he needed her as much, if not more, than she needed him.

"Michael," her voice was tender, and his name fell on him like a caress in the dark. She ignored the gun and took another step closer.

"Don't!" He bit out the word, trying to keep the rest of the agony inside. He had to hold himself together long enough to get her to leave.

Taking a page out of Michael's own book, Nikita grasped the hand that held the gun and kissed the inside of his wrist with great tenderness. She felt him break inside as his arm dropped away and he allowed her to embrace him because he had no strength left to prevent it.

She held him tightly, feeling the tenseness in his body, wracked by sobs, that he stubbornly refused to allow her to hear. She kissed his neck and ran her palms along his back and shoulders. "I love you, Michael."

"Nooo." It was a moan from deep within him. Nikita smiled through tears when she heard the gun hit the floor. Both of his arms went around her and he held on like a man trying to save himself from drowning.

Nikita awoke to the caress of a cool morning breeze that fluttered the curtains in the window and rustled the leaves in the side yard trees. Somewhere a clock patiently ticked, and for the first time in a long time, she heard birds chirping to each other.

She opened her eyes, thinking for a short moment that perhaps she had died, and had made it into heaven after all. Michael was beside her, his face relaxed by sleep. He looked like a little boy, with his dark hair tousled against the pillow and his mouth slightly open.

Nikita propped her head on her elbow and indulged the simple need to just look at him. His beard shadowed his face, making him more handsome than ever. Nikita's eyes filled with tears as she smiled and mouthed his name.

His dark lashes slowly opened as if he had heard her call to him. He didn't speak, seeming content to watch her as she watched him. Finally, feeling a little shy at his close scrutiny, Nikita smiled and said, "Good morning,"and slowly sat up. With her arm braced against the pillows, she leaned over him.

Michael's left hand reached out and cupped her face. His fingers traced the smooth skin along her jaw, then entangled themselves in the pale softness of her hair. He still hadn't said a word.

Nikita's eyes drifted shut momentarily as his fingers wandered through her hair. It felt so good to be touched by him.

"You shouldn't be here." He said at last, but his tone belied his words. It was simply a statement of fact. Nikita knew he didn't want her to go. He looked at her as if trying to memorize her face.

She didn't agree or disagree with his statement. She just smiled down at him. Michael's hand slipped down the silky sleeve of her blouse, and Nikita noticed a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"What?" She asked at his expression.

"I wasted all of last night."

"No, you didn't," She whispered back, her expression tender and suddenly serious.

He didn't reply. His warm hand slipped between the buttons on her blouse, then beneath the cup of her bra, until he held her breast in one hand. Nikita's eyes closed and she sucked in a breath of air.

They hadn't made love last night. It hadn't been necessary. Instead they had held tight to each other, giving and receiving comfort. Just the touch of arms around them had been enough. Both had been starved for it for so long.

While she was still fully clothed, Michael hadn't a stitch on, except the towel, still wrapped around his lean hips.

"Take it off," he said softly, tugging the tail of her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt.

Nikita opened her eyes and looked into his face. The pupils of his eyes had gone dark as he watched her, and she swallowed in anticipation of what she saw there. She fumbled with the top buttons, as he helped with one hand undo the lower ones. She shed the blouse in a rush, her heart beginning to pound. She tried to unhook her bra but couldn't. He sat up on his knees, reached around her and calmly did it for her instead.

Michael slipped her bra off slowly, and Nikita felt as if she were being unveiled rather than undressed. His fingertips barely skimmed against her skin as he touched her. Her eyes eased shut again only to fly open a moment later as his hot mouth closed over the center of one breast and gently suckled it. The sensation made her dizzy. She allowed herself to melt when she felt his arms go around her and lower her back upon the pillows.

She trembled as he continued to undress her, feeling cold and vulnerable, and so in much need of him that when he lay full atop her with his warm body, she clung to him and started to cry.

"Ki-ta," Michael's voice rasped against her ear as he kissed her there. "Don't cry." He covered her mouth with his own, shallowed the one sob she let escape, and kissed the rest of them away.

In the most perfect moment of her life, Nikita relaxed and let him slip deep inside her. She sighed at the sensation and felt an emotion so different and profound she had no name by which to call it.

Michael held himself still inside her, balancing his weight on his forearms, wanting to hold on to this moment in time, this sheltered freedom he had discovered in her arms. But her fingers began to trace a path down his back, then down even further, pressing and pleading for him to move again.

She was warm, liquid bliss beneath him, filling all his senses at once. He moved and she responded with a gasping sigh, which made him move again and again, just to hear that precious sound.

"Oh, Michael!" The words were a gasp caught up in a vortex of emotion and physical release, and the gentle spasms of Nikita's body pulled Michael down into it with her.

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

As Nikita slept peacefully in his arms, Michael stared at the wall of his bedroom. The old fear had returned and with it, self-hatred at his own weakness. Nikita was blissfully unaware of the danger she was in. She was so young and still so innocent, despite the damage done to her soul by the demands of the Section. If they were caught together. . . he closed his eyes at the thought.

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

At first, Section had ignored his relationship with Simone. They assumed, like everyone had, that it was purely physical and would in time, burn itself out. As long as it wasn't affecting the job, they weren't concerned.

Simone was a good operative and she made it a point to keep "the business"--as she called working for Section--very separate from their private lives. She was, in some ways, much stronger at keeping things separated than Michael was. Perhaps it was because her life had always been so hard, or because she was a little older--but occasionally, Michael felt Simone was more a mother to him, than a lover. And then, Simone got pregnant.

Michael's reaction had been one of reverent awe when Simone told him. He went to sleep that night with his head pillowed on Simone's breast, his hand pressed against her belly and his baby. He secretly married Simone two days later.

Michael blinked his eyes, remembering. He had been so hopelessly naive. They both had been. It wasn't long before Section learned of the marriage. Simone was too happy to keep it a secret for long. There had a been some uncomfortable moments in Operation's office, but even then, he had no inkling of how much trouble they were in. When it was discovered that Simone was pregnant, their situation turned positively grim. Simone had been summoned into Operations office, and told to have an abortion. She had vehemently refused--Michael heard that much through the closed door of Operation's office as he stood outside waiting for his turn. There was a short argument between Simone and Operations, but it ended quietly with Simone exiting with smug triumph on her face. Michael never learned what it was that Simone told Operations, but whatever it was, it allowed Simone to carry their baby to term.

For a few brief months after their son was born, Michael's life was almost normal. They bought the house and Simone stayed home, nursing their son, and becoming the atypical wife and mother. Michael would join her there whenever he wasn't out on assignment. It had been surreal at times--kissing his son's tiny toes, only hours after finishing an assassination--but it kept him sane and happy. He had been so very happy--for the first time in his adult life.

From that height, he had fallen into the depths of hell itself.

There was doom hanging in the air that morning. He felt it the moment he woke up and the house was so utterly silent. Simone wasn't in bed. He lay there a while, thinking she was still feeding the baby, but it was so very quiet. . .

He got up and went into the bathroom, washed his face, brushed his teeth. He remembered every moment of that morning, every detail of it was etched in his mind's eye.

It was raining outside the half-open, kitchen window. The spring grass was green; the air was clean and charged with the scent of ozone. Then he noticed. The coffee maker wasn't on.

It was a triviality, but now it stuck out in his mind as the first crack in the mirror of his happiness.

Simone was a creature of habit. Everything she did, she did as part of a routine. It had been her way of dealing with her life. When all else failed, she acted on auto-pilot, letting the patterns of her routine carry her through. And yet, the coffee wasn't on. He found her in the rocking chair, in the baby's room. Rocking.

"Simone?" He leaned against the door jam as he spoke.

She continued to rock, but she didn't look at him. She wasn't looking at anything, he realized suddenly. The blanket in her lap was empty. She kneaded the soft knitted material between her fingers absently.

Michael knew before he bent over the crib railing, what he would find there, and yet he picked up his son anyway. He held the tiny, limp body close against his heart and felt the entire universe collapse around him.

Simone was never the same after that morning. She went to work the next day as if nothing had happened. She didn't even go to the grave site.

But it wasn't until he'd thought he'd lost Simone to Glass Curtain, that the idea first occurred to him--looking back, perhaps Simone had suspected the same thing. That maybe, their son hadn't died of crib death, after all.

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

Nikita shifted in her sleep. Michael let her get comfortable before curling himself around her again. If he couldn't protect his son, how was he going to protect Nikita?

There was no choice and he knew it. He couldn't let this go on. For Nikita's sake, he was going to have to end it. She'd hate him and he'd hate himself for the role he'd have to play. But there was no other way.

Nikita's emotions were always out where they could be seen, like Simone's. It wouldn't be long before Madeline knew, if she didn't already. Operations had never liked Nikita, for reasons no one could fully understand. Ever since she had arrived in section he had been waiting for her to make a fatal move. All he needed was good reason to cancel her.

Michael wished he knew what Simone had known about Operations, that she'd used to blackmail him, to allow her to have their son. But he had never asked. Now, he had to think of some way to hurt Nikita, so badly that she would hate him forever. But he couldn't think of a single thing that he hadn't already done at least once--and every time, she had forgiven him.

But he had to. He had to!

Nikita snuggled closer to him in her sleep and Michael closed his eyes and cradled her close. He would have to make her hate him.

‘But not just now'--he begged heaven--'Oh, please, not yet. Let me have one more day. Just one more day. . .'

The End