---

"Who's that?"

Walter sighed quietly, mentally shaking his head at his hyperactive new recruit. He looked up to see who the young man meant.

The person in question strode purposefully by, dressed head to foot in solid black.

"That's Michael. He leads Red team during hot ops." Walter pointed with his chin as his hands were busy loading a clip with ammo.

"I've heard the name-- Hey, isn't he the guy they've nicked-named the Killer-Angel?"

Walter pressed his lips together, "That's one of his names, I suppose." He said with a bit of disapproval in his voice. Women operatives had hung the nick-name of ‘Archangel' on Michael several years ago; male operatives had changed it to suit themselves. Walter thought jealousy had a big part to play in their choice of ‘killer-angel', however.

"Yeah! I've heard some stories about that guy! I heard he nearly let his entire team get killed. . ."

"Look!" Walter's patience had hit the flash point. "You're new here, so I'm going to give you some good advice. We all have pasts we'd rather not have discussed. It's rule number one--I don't talk about what you did to get here, and you don't talk about what I did to get here. And rule number two, if you want to get along, don't discuss other operatives' and their work. What ever else you've heard, Michael is the best at what he does!"

"Okay--it's cool!" The young blond man put up his hands mockingly in self-defense.

Walter noticed the home-made tatoos on the recruit's fingers--'kiss-kill' and wondered what kind of ‘talent' had landed the close-cropped, teenaged, recruit into section, but wasn't going to break the rules himself to ask.

"Ohhh shit! Who's that bitchin' babe?"

Walter sneered, gave a huff of a sigh and looked at who the recruit had commented on.

"That--that's Nikita," Walter had caught her eye and she smiled and waved briefly as she passed by. As soon as she was out of ear-shot, Walter turned on the recruit once again.

"Look--what's your name?"

"Brandon." Brandon murmured, still watching Nikita as she walked down the hall.

"Brandon--" Walter repeated with a steel-edge to his voice. "I forgot to tell you, Rule number three."

"What's that, man?"

"Rule number three is, Nikita is a friend of mine and I don't like the word "bitchin'" attached to her name or her person--so unless you want me to serve up your balls with spaghetti sauce and parmesan, I suggest you shut the hell up!"

Since Walter emphasized his anger by popping the clip he'd finished loading into a nearby Mac 10, Brandon thought it wise not to comment further.

"Nikita."

Nikita took a deep breath, and slowly turned around. "Yes, Michael?"

"Madeline would like to see you in her office."

Nikita looked a bit confused, "Now?"

"Yes. Now." His voice was quiet as always, but there was a hint of agitation in his expression, Nikita noted. His eyes were like green ice.

"But what about this morning's briefing?"

"I'll back brief you in my office later."

Nikita nodded slowly, her expression guarded. "All right." She slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder and pushed out of her chair. Michael stepped back reluctantly, or so it seemed to Nikita, but if he had anything he wanted to say to her, he hesitated too long.

"Nikita, good! Have a seat." Madeline gestured to the empty chair in front of her desk, and smiled that "I-have-something-for-you-to-do-and-you-aren't-going-to-like-it" smile she was famous for.

"We haven't spoken for a while. How have you been?"

Nikita slipped her sunglasses down her nose just enough to look over the top of them and pinned Madeline with a look that suggested she should "cut the crap" and get to the point.

It was enough to cause Madeline to chuckle, "All right Nikita. I have an assignment for you. A cold op--for now."

Nikita slipped off her sunglasses and held them in her lap to await the details of the assignment. It had been three months since her near fatal mission in Iraq, and she had found the long down time a strain, more so, since she'd spent it alone.

Madeline turned the screen of her computer around so that Nikita could view the contents of a personnel file.

"This is Brandon Meyer, age eighteen."

"Wait! Didn't I just see him. . . ? " Nikita started to gesture towards the door.

"Yes. He's here, in Section."

"Am I supposed to train him?" Nikita asked, with some puzzlement.

"My, aren't we eager this morning?" Madeline folded her arms, and smiled again. "Something like that. Actually, he needs a girl friend and I've recommended you for the job."

Nikita regarded Madeline with a "please tell me you're kidding" look, but Madeline continued unfazed.

"Mr. Meyer was lately a member of the Colorado Order of Neo-Nazis, also known as the Aryan Brotherhood. He's been cooperating with Section since his arrest and sentencing for murdering a black police officer, but not as much as we would like."

"Lovely! A cop-killer!" Nikita said with a derisive snort.

"Odd that you should say that, considering that's how you ended up here."

Nikita flashed her with a hurt frown, as if to say ‘you know I didn't do it.'

Madeline stood and moved to sit on the corner of her desk, and continued, "But yes, a cop-killer--or to be more precise, a black cop killer. Which is why you have been chosen for this assignment. You and Brandon have something in common-you are both here because you killed a policeman. You are also fair skinned, blonde and blue-eyed--just the type of Aryan womanhood that should attract our young Nazi Romeo."

"And once I become the love of his life--then what?"

"We want you to get him to talk about the CONN to verify whether or not they have a stolen nuclear device."

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

"A bomb?"

Madeline nodded. "NSA contacted us four days ago. The Army is missing one small tactical nuke from their inventory. They believe it was an inside job, but they can't prove anything. Their main suspect has turned up missing. Ironically, the man in question is Brandon's older brother, Ross. The NSA is extremely upset over this, as Ross is a high ranking non-commissioned officer with NATO clearances--and access to tactical nukes. It seems, they missed his affiliation with the Neo-Nazi's while they were renewing his clearances two years ago and now they've come to us to clean up their little mess."

Madeline reached over and picked up a PDA on her desk. "Take this with you and study the mission profile. I will be your team leader for the duration, and you are not to discuss the details of this profile with anyone else in Section."

"Then, you mean I will not be reporting to Michael?" Nikita sounded surprised

"No. Michael's busy on another assignment. Besides this is woman's work," She tossed Nikita a grin and sat back down at her computer. "Before you leave Section, stop by to chat with Walter and get an introduction to Brandon. Flirt with him a little--just enough to peak his interest. Your profile contains a script outline to follow along with an in depth history and psyche evaluation of Brandon--as far as we have been able to compile in such a short time. We know he can be violent and he is absolutely distrustful of authority--another area where you two are made for each other." It was a joke, and both women smiled.

Nikita stood up and replaced her sunglasses. "Madeline, has anyone ever told you, you have a sadistic streak a mile wide?"

Madeline gave Nikita a wistful smile, "A few. It's a job prerequisite. Report back to me in the morning and let me know how the introductions went."

"Hi, Nikita."

"Hi Walter. Who's your friend?" Nikita reached behind her head, unclipped her chignon, and shook loose her hair. It fell to her shoulders, glossy as spun sugar and made her look much younger than her twenty years. Young enough to interest an eighteen year old boy.

Walter pressed his lips together, to keep his opinions to himself. "This is Brandon. He's been temporarily assigned to ‘help' me."

Nikita heard the slight emphasis on the word help and realized Walter had already formed an opinion of the young blond at his side, and it wasn't a positive one.

"Hello Brandon. I'm Nikita."

"Yeah, I know." Brandon bit his lower lip as he inspected Nikita up and down.

"So--you know about guns?"

"Yeah. Born and raised with them." He popped a clip into a 9mm with a macho flourish and grinned at her. ‘And proud of the fact,' Nikita thought with disgust, but she forced a radiant smile and replied, "Cool!"

Walter shot her a look of total disbelief then frowned. "Uh, Brandon--I need another banana clip. There's a box in the store room--bring me one."

Brandon rolled his eyes and stepped away to do as Walter asked. When he was out of ear shot, Walter grabbed Nikita by the elbow.

"What the hell was that all about?"

"Well, he's kind of cute, don't you think?"

"No! I don't--and you have better taste. What's up?"

Nikita sighed, Walter was too astute to be fooled, and could easily ruin things unless she clued him in. "It's in the mission profile," she whispered in his ear, hoping he'd take a hint to let things alone. Walter grimaced, instantly understanding the situation and not liking it a bit. "Be careful, sugar." He said quietly through gritted teeth. She nodded, then the brilliant smile returned. Brandon had reappeared.

"Nikita."

It was a relief when Nikita heard Michael's voice. She was quickly running out of gushy things to say to Brandon. This mission was going to be harder than she first thought.

"Yes, Michael?"

"If you are through, I have time to back brief you on this morning's meeting."

"Yeah, okay, sure. Be right there." She turned to Brandon and forced a sigh, and a smile. "Gotta go to work. See you around?"

She got a cocky grin in return, "Sure thing, babe." Brandon said. "Maybe you'd like to come watch me shoot tomorrow. Walter's having me doing some weapons testing."

"Sure. Love to! What time?"

"1400 hours."

"I'll be there. See ya!"

Nikita turned to find Michael still standing there waiting, his face like cold marble. He waited until she stepped out of Walter's area to follow, then turned and walked towards his office. He was already seated at his desk when Nikita walked inside. She shut the door out of habit, and went to sit in the chair opposite Michael's desk. For a moment they looked at each other in an uncomfortable silence, then Michael opened his lap-top, "How have you been, Nikita." He spoke, but to the computer screen.

Nikita noticed that he wouldn't make eye contact. That in itself was unusual. How many times had he looked at her in the past and lied so prettily with the straightest face? She'd lost count.

"I'm fine Michael. What happened at the briefing this morning?"

He ignored her question, opened his drawer and tapped in the code that would block any surveillance to their conversation.

"I'll be leaving in the morning. We have a cold op in progress--infiltration and intel gathering." There was a slight pause, then he continued, " What did Madeline want?"

For a moment, Nikita was taken aback that Michael hadn't been at least informed as to her mission, even if he wasn't running it. But since Madeline had emphasized she wasn't to discuss it with anyone in Section, Nikita looked Michael in the face and lied, "Oh, nothing much. She kind of welcomed me back, and brought me up to date on what's been happening since I've been off-line. I think she wants me to take over training some of the new recruits, but hasn't decided which material will be mine yet. What's the cold op all about?"

"It's classified--need to know only."

"Oh. Okay. So is that all?"

"I see you have met Walter's new assistant."

"Yeah. It's nice to see a new face once in a while. His name is Brandon. Have you met him?"

"No."

"Seems to be a nice guy--relatively speaking."

Michael gave no comment, but his eyes searched her face.

"So, is that all--about the briefing I mean?" She scooted forward in her chair as if to get to her feet to leave.

"Yes. That's all."

"Well, thanks for the back brief--I have some errands to run. Good luck on your mission." Nikita stood and walked to the door. Some sixth sense made her turn around and she caught Michael's muttered, "Be careful, Kita." It was said so softly, Nikita wasn't quite sure she had heard it correctly. Michael had already dismissed her presence and was busily typing on his keyboard.

***********

Nikita arrived in Section at 0500 the next morning for her meeting with Madeline. The main assembly room was filled with activity as it usually was during an operation, but Nikita was puzzled. Cold operations were usually low-key, and while operatives were always armed, they certainly weren't as heavily armed as all the team members seemed to be that morning.

She walked over to Walter who was busy handing out clips of ammunition to someone with short cropped hair, dressed in camouflage pants, a black T-shirt and boots.

‘Must be somebody new,' Nikita mused as she approached the newcomer from behind.

"Hello Walter. What's up this morning? Michael said the next mission was a cold ops?"

"It is," came a reply from nearby.

Nikita turned with some shock to learn that the "newcomer" was Michael. All of his beautiful shoulder-length hair was gone, cut almost to his scalp. He wore a silver stud in his left ear, that upon closer examination was a tiny skull. Completing the ensemble was a tatoo of two stylized lighting bolts on his left bicep that looked like two letter "S's" side by side.

"Michael?"

Her shock at his severe change in appearance seemed to amuse him. A faint smile escaped him as he slipped an arm into a black flak jacket. "Yes, Nikita?"

"I thought you said your next mission was a cold ops--this looks like preparation for World War III."

Her remark seemed to sober him again, but Michael didn't comment.

"It could very well turn out that way," muttered Walter as he handed Michael one of the prototype automatic rifles he'd developed for Section. Michael took it and adjusted its black strap so he could sling it over one shoulder. Moen, Garrison, and Phillips approached, all as changed as Michael. One by one, Walter equipped them with the new prototype rifle.

The sound of a cellular phone got Michael's attention. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone that was barely the size of a audio cassette tape. It unfolded, doubling it's length and Michael put it to his ear. "Yes?" There was a few moments of silence, then, "It's been arranged. Contact has been made. We start the sequencing in two hours." That done, he folded the device and replaced it into his breast pocket. "It's time to go." He reached down and lifted a full, military-issue pack off the floor and slung it over his other shoulder.

Nikita watched him leave with the others, with a dull ache in her heart. It was fear, fear of never seeing him again. Despite all Michael had put her through, despite the lies, and the games, she still loved him. She couldn't help it. Feeling this way made her angry at herself. It wasn't in Nikita's nature to let anyone walk over her--and yet, no matter what Michael did to her, Nikita couldn't hate him. ‘Come back safe,' she said mentally, before heading to Madeline's office.

Somewhere in foothills of the Colorado Rockies. . .

The surrounding aspens had already begun to turn gold and their leaves shivered in the stiff September breeze that blew through the camp. The air was filled with the sweet wood scent of campfires and the malodorous stench of diesel exhaust from the many generators and military vehicles that were parked about the area.

Folding tables and portable gun racks displayed weapons and ammunition set out for sale and trade in the center of the camp. General purpose medium tents--called GP Mediums by the many ex-GIs, were pitched in several locations, to support training classes on everything from bomb building, to desert survival, to field surgery. Moen pulled the camouflaged Hummer under a tree, and turned off the engine. Michael pulled out a small set of binoculars and looked down the hillside into the camp, waiting for the signal. He watched as a small wooden podium was placed on a portable stage. Next to it was placed a large white cross, and on the opposite side, a red, black and white flag. The man who placed the flag staff into the ground, stood back and gave it a stiff-armed salute.

Michael nodded to Moen, "Let's go."

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

Section One - Madeline's Office

Nikita seated herself on the couch in Madeline's office. A moment later, Madeline came over and sat in a comfortable chair opposite her. "Have some tea, Nikita. It's fresh."

Nikita reached over and took the delicate china cup and saucer from Madeline's hand.

"Is this a test to see if my table manners are still good?" Nikita quipped as she took a sip. Madeline smiled and took a sip of her own tea. Teaching Nikita proper etiquette had been a struggle three years ago, but Madeline was quite pleased at how well Nikita had turned out.

Ignoring Nikita's question, she asked, "How did the introductions go?"

"Fine. I've been invited to watch him shoot this afternoon--does that mean we are engaged?"

"Not quite, but it's a step. Continue the profile this afternoon. Tonight we are having him taken to the off site location under sedation. You'll meet him there and suggest a trip outside. "

Nikita understood that the off-site location was an identical mock-up of Section One. It was used whenever the location of Section could be compromised by an untested operative. Brandon would fall asleep in his Section cubicle and wake up across the city in an identical room. When Nikita took him "out", if he could remember the way through the "maze"--the underground tunnels at the off-site location, and wanted to tell anyone the location of Section, all he would reveal was the location of the mock site.

"Where ‘outside' do you suggest I take him?" Nikita asked.

"I'd suggest a pizza place for dinner, then maybe one of the clubs downtown. His profile suggests a fondness for alternative and country and western music. Lead him, don't push him to talk. Birkoff will keep you under surveillance at all times. He'll feed you information if you need it."

"And later?"

"There's a gun show in town this week, along with a popular lecturer on the White Supremist movement. Ask him to take you. We also have a safe house that will double as your apartment, should he insist on getting intimate." Nikita's face went scarlet, then pale in a matter of moments. "Is that an essential part of the scenario?" "You know the answer to that question." Madeline's expression became hard. "There are innocents at risk here; weigh their lives against your virtue. And if that's not enough, Nikita, ask yourself this question: would you do it to save Michael and Red team?"

"What does this have to do with them?"

"A lot. We are running parallel missions. If we can't get our information through Brandon, Michael and his team will have to get it another way. The hard way."

Nikita stood, with arms folded, and watched as Brandon fired into the paper target at the end of the range. His skill was as impressive as he had bragged, and Nikita wondered how early his parents had started him in the use of firearms--before or after he was weaned?

"Wow! You are good!" Nikita said removing her ear protection and looking at the target and it's closely grouped holes.

"Do you shoot?" Brandon asked, pleased with her praise.

"Enough to get by--it's kind of expected here in Section."

"Show me." He ejected the clip from the pistol, popped another one in, and chambered a round.

"Okay. But don't laugh, okay. I have trouble with pistols." Nikita replaced her ear protection and took a standing firing stance in the firing lane. She popped off three rounds before Brandon stopped her.

"Look, you aren't watching your breathing and you're too loose in your grip." He stood behind her and reached around to steady her hands. What surprised Nikita was how kindly he had spoken, and how gently he touched her. It seemed out of character for a Neo-Nazi.

"Okay, try again." Brandon stood behind her, helping to steady her arms. "Hold your breath and squeeze the trigger, don't jerk it--ease it back."

Nikita fired off another three rounds, showing great improvement, for which she showered credit on Brandon for his instruction.

"Ah, you did it yourself. You just need a little confidence in yourself." He smiled at her and two dimples bracketed his smile.

Nikita's heart skipped a beat. When he smiled, Brandon could be devastatingly cute. He had big blue eyes with long dark lashes. The only thing that spoiled his looks was the skin-head hair-cut.

"Hey. You want to go out for pizza tomorrow night?" Nikita asked.

"Out? Of here? How?"

"Oh, I can get us out. I have a level 3 clearance. Want to go?"

"I don't have any money to take you out." Brandon said seriously.

"You don't need it. It will be my treat."

Brandon shook his head. "Look, don't take this the wrong way. Where I come from, the man pays, the lady doesn't. It's just not right."

Nikita was stunned--he was old fashioned! At eighteen?

"Well, is it proper for a lady to make dinner at her house for a guy?"

"Yes, I suppose so." He sounded reluctant even then.

"Come on Brandon, please? I don't meet many guys around here that I like."

"Nikita," Brandon asked suddenly very serious, "how did you end up in Section."

"I, . . . uhmm, I killed a cop."

Brandon didn't smile, instead he looked almost sad. "I'm sorry, Nikita. It must have been terrible for you."

"Yeah. It was." Nikita didn't know what else to say. The profile of a cop-killing Nazi just didn't seem to fit the Brandon before her.

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

"Madeline, things just aren't following the profile. He's not the cold-blooded bastard that he's supposed to be." Nikita paced in front of Madeline's desk.

"Why are you surprised? I told you once that nothing is as powerful as your own femininity. Brandon's in love with you. Love changes people."

"But how can he be a cold-blooded killer one minute and suddenly change into Mr. Nice guy the next?" Madeline folded her arms and cocked her head to one side. "Does he sound like anyone else you know?" With a start, Nikita realized Madeline meant Michael.

"Just do the job, Nikita. Focus on the outcome. Brandon may know where a stolen nuke is hidden. Why steal a nuke unless you want to use it, or blackmail someone? As ‘sweet' as he may seem, he is still the enemy. Don't forget that." Nikita nodded absently, still bothered by the Madeline's comparison of Michael and Brandon.

"Have you discussed going out?" Madeline asked.

"Yes, but that's another thing--he won't go out because he says he doesn't have any money take me out. And he won't let me pay--"

"That's unexpected." Madeline commented.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too--but I have talked him into coming to my apartment for dinner. For some reason, that's okay."

"Can you cook?" Madeline asked with a smile.

"Well, sort of. . ." Nikita said with little confidence.

Madeline laughed, "Don't worry. That's easy to take care of. Find out what he likes to eat. Has the subject of the Nazi's come up yet?"

"Not yet--tonight for sure. I think he's ready to open up a little with me."

"Good. Don't push it too hard, but remember, time is the enemy here. We have to find that nuke before they use it against us."

"Have you heard from Michael and the team?"

"They are in place and are awaiting instructions." Madeline replied.

* * * Colorado

"Damn! It's getting cold out there!"

Michael was seated next to a small butane heater when two men pushed their way inside his tent.

"Hi! Sorry to intrude. Do you mind if we get warm a minute? It's starting to snow out there." The man laughed and rubbed his hands together.

"No, please, take a seat." Michael gestured to a couple of lawn chairs that were stacked in the corner.

"Thanks. I'm Joe Eastman, and this is my son Todd. And you are?"

"Michael Kenner." Michael reached out a hand and both men shook it, before unfolding the chairs and settling in.

"Nice to meet you, Mike. You're a new face. Is this your first visit?"

"Yeah, although I've been to plenty of meetings in Texas, Louisiana, and Alabama."

"Well I hope you are enjoying your visit. What do you do for a living?"

"I make and sell guns. I have a new prototype semi-automatic rifle that I've brought hoping I'll get some orders." Michael reached behind him, lifted the weapon, popped out the clip, and checked to see no round was chambered, before handing it to Mr Eastman.

"That's a nice weapon--you built this yourself?" Eastman sounded impressed. Michael smiled, "Well, me and my Dad built it. It has a laser sight," Michael pointed to the features as he explained them, "an adapter that will allow you to fire two sizes of ammunition, a built-in wire cutter, and I can build them to automatic specs, if the need arises."

"Sounds like an outstanding weapon. How come you haven't tried selling to the military? You could make a fortune." Michael snatched back the rifle. "The military is why I built these in the first place! I don't sell to the enemy!"

"Sorry! Look, just testing you a little. Ever since McVeigh screwed up, we've been kind of jumpy with new faces."

"That's okay. Sorry I lost my temper. You're right--everyone's been a bit jumpy lately."

"How much are you going to be charging for one of those?" Interjected Todd pointing at the rifle in Michael's hand.

"At the moment, about $400.00, but if I can get some backing to mass produce them, I hope to get the price down to about half that."

Todd's father added, "Well, if your rifle performs well tomorrow, I have connections with some folks that I know will be interested in investing. And there's are lot of white collar types out here--doctors, lawyers, and several pretty well-heeled businessmen, I'm sure if they're impressed, they'll put in some advance orders with you. I wouldn't mind having one myself." Joe chuckled.

"What do you do?" Michael asked putting away the rifle.

"I have my own business--started with a Chevy dealership in Pueblo, and ended up selling Hum-Vees. They are really hot ticket items lately."

"Yeah, I know, my friend David owns one. He drove us down." Michael smiled.

"Well, glad to meet you, Mike. You coming to any of the rallies tomorrow."

"If I'm invited." Michael smiled and reached out a hand.

"Consider yourself invited. I'll drop by tomorrow afternoon, and you and your friend can go with me." He shook Michael's hand and patted his son on the shoulder, "Come on Todd--if we run, I think we'll make it back to the cabin before we freeze to death!"

Once Michael was sure he was alone, he signaled Section that he had made his first contact. That accomplished, he lay back on his cot to wait for Moen and Phillips to return. The more mundane duties having been performed, he began to think about Nikita and her assignment. He drifted off to sleep with her in mind.

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

"Well, here it is, home sweet home." Nikita opened the door to the safe house and entered with Brandon in her wake.

"I hope you like fried chicken."

"It's a favorite of mine," Brandon smiled as he stepped into the kitchen. "It smells great."

"Have a seat."

"Need any help?"

Nikita shook her head. "It's all ready, all I have to do is heat it up a bit." At least she hoped so. But Madeline had performed as promised. An entire meal was waiting only to be served.

"Hey, you have a fireplace. Want a fire?"

"Sure. It'll take the chill off. You want some wine?"

"No thanks. Got any milk?"

Another surprise! Nikita made a quick check of the refrigerator before answering, "Yes."

They finished off the meal with cherry pie, another Brandon favorite. Seated on the floor, he sighed and rested his head against the back of the couch. "That was terrific. I've haven't eaten like that since I left home."

"Glad you liked it. I take it your Mom is a good cook?" Nikita asked finishing off her milk.

"Yeah, she was." Brandon returned quietly. "She died when I was twelve."

"Oh. I'm sorry." And Nikita was surprised that she really was sorry. Both fell silence for several minutes.

"Nikita."

"Yes?"

"Yesterday, you said you killed a cop." He looked up at her with vivid blue eyes. Nikita dropped her eyes, then nodded.

"But you didn't do it, did you?" Brandon, wrapped one arm around his drawn up knee and leaned forward, giving her his full attention.

Sudden tears flooded Nikita's eyes. His question had been more of a statement than a question. No one, not even Michael, had ever believed in her innocence, and yet, here was Brandon, . . .

Nikita shook her head to answer him, unable to speak for the tears. She looked over at him as if to ask how he knew and understanding, he answered, "You're too good to have done something like that."

It was too much. Nikita began to sob uncontrollably.

"Oh, Nikita. Don't cry, I'm sorry!" He scooted over to her and awkwardly tried to put his arms around her.

"No b-body would believe me! No one!" She sobbed against his shoulder. "He was already dead--t-this guy was there. He had the knife. . . .tried to kill me too. He heard the sirens. . .and I managed to get the knife. . . and he ran away."

"I know, it's okay." Brandon stroked her hair.

After several minutes Nikita stopped crying, suddenly feeling very foolish. She was here to get Brandon to talk, not the other way around. Madeline was going to kill her!

"I'm sorry," she sniffed, "I don't know why I did that." She quickly wiped her eyes on the backs of her sleeves.

"I do." He let her go and scooted back to where he had been sitting.

"I didn't kill a cop either." He said dully.

"What?" Again Nikita was surprised.

"My mother's brother Joey did it. I don't know if he meant to, or it was just an accident. They were out drunk one night, Uncle Joey, and a couple of others. My cousin Todd begged me to say I did it. I was only fourteen and he told me since I was a kid, they wouldn't do anything to me."

"And your Uncle let them believe you did it?"

"He had a family, Nikita, a wife, a son. He was my Mama's only kin. I thought it would be all right--I thought I'd get to be with my Dad."

"Your father?"

"Daddy's in prison for killing the men who killed my Mama."

"What happened?"

"Mama came home from shopping and walked in on a burglary--gang members looking for stuff they could hock for drugs. They raped her and cut her throat."

"Oh, Brandon. I'm so sorry." Nikita reached out and took his hand.

"It's over and done with. I know Mama's in Heaven. That makes things easier for me."

"But now you're in Section. They won't ever let you leave. They think you did it, and you've acted so tough, everybody just assumed. . . "

"My brother told me to act tough if I wanted to keep from being--you know. . ." His face flushed red. "He's in the Army and he taught me Tae Kwon Do."

"What's your brother's name?"

"Ross."

"Didn't you tell your brother you were innocent?"

"Yeah, but not until after they put me in prison."

"Brandon, what about being a Neo-Nazi? Is that true?"

"Yes." His sad expression changed to grim. "But I'm not proud of it."

"Why did you join, then?" Nikita felt him pull away from her.

"I joined because the men that killed Mama were black. They were scum!" His voice broke before he could regain control of it. "They had been arrested before--more than once, but they always got off, because they were "black"! They should have been in prison! If they had, Mama would be alive, and Daddy wouldn't be on death row!"

"Brandon. . . "

"Nikita, I have to go back to Section now." Upset, he pushed himself to his feet.

"It's late. You can stay here, if you want to." Nikita stood up beside him.

"No. I have to get back. It wouldn't be right for me to sleep here. You might get into trouble. You're the only friend I have, now." He hesitated for a moment, "You are my friend, aren't you Nikita?"

Nikita answered him by wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close. "Yes. For as long as you want me."

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

Madeline was furious, as Nikita knew she would be.

"We got a nice life story last night, Nikita, but very little else! I told you to focus on the problem at hand!"

"I couldn't figure a way to turn the conversation to the Nazi's, I'm sorry. Maybe tonight."

"There won't be a tonight. It's perfectly obvious this isn't going anywhere."

"What are you going to do?"

"Brandon's a liability we can no longer afford to waste time on."

"You mean you're going to cancel him?"

"That's always been the case."

"No! Madeline--you are overlooking an opportunity here. Why not just ask Brandon to help us? I think he would, if approached right."

"You have a suggestion?"

"Madeline, give me one day to figure out how to approach him. Twelve hours--and if I get him to help, I want your promise that he won't be canceled."

* * *

While Moen and Phillips set up the weapons table, Michael took a walk around the site.

"Pan left Michael," Birkoff requested through Michael's ear-com. A tiny hidden camera built into Michael's sunglasses gave Birkoff a close-up of several men dressed in military camouflaged uniforms. Using the Section computer, Birkoff scanned them for possible police or military records.

"Man, . . ." Birkoff muttered aloud as he looked at the data.

"What is it, Birkoff?" Snapped Operations, standing nearby.

"Everyone Michael's scanning is coming up--there's ex-military, doctors, lawyers, ex- cops,--a few blue collar workers, some bikers--" Birkoff frowned, "I thought these guys were all Joe-Six-pack types."

Operations frowned and leaned down to get a better look at Birkoff's screen, "It's part of their cover. They let the media think they are all disgruntled high-school drop-outs, with beer- belly mentalities. Reality is much scarier. The truth is, most of these men, at one time or another, would have willingly died for their country. For reasons that are quite complex when examined, all of them feel betrayed by the nation they loved. Actually, I take that back. They still love their country--but they hate its government."

"But why?"

"Why?" Operations sighed, and sat on the edge of Birkoff's desk. "The world's changing and they don't like the direction it's headed in. They grew up in a time when ‘Duty, Honor, Country' meant something, only to be spit on when they returned from a war defending those same ideals. Some fear their country is losing its sovereignty, others fear the ideas of other countries are subverting the traditions they grew up with. Fear begets hatred, which begets violence." Operations sounded wistful, and Birkoff lifted his head to look at him.

"Sir? You talk as if you know these guys?"

Operations removed himself from Birkoff's desk. "I served with a lot of them, in Viet Nam." He pocketed his hands and walked away, but not before tossing over his shoulder in his usual, menacing tone, "Get me a list of all the men you identify on site."

"Brandon?"

"Hmm? He lay on Nikita's couch watching television.

"If I could get you out of Section, where would you go?"

He cocked his head at her, "What makes you think I want to leave Section?"

"You like Section?" This boy was full of surprises! She rested her head on her hand, her elbow propped up against the couch near Brandon's head.

He shrugged, "It beats prison."

"But what about life on the outside?"

"What about it? I've been in prison since I was fifteen. I don't know what "outside" is like any more."

"But you have a brother. Wouldn't you want to be with him, if you could?"

"He has his life. He doesn't need me hanging around."

Nikita fell silent for several minutes. It had never occurred to her, or anyone--she realized, that Brandon might not want his freedom. This supposed easy assignment was turning into anything but! Nikita began to worry. If she couldn't get

Brandon to give her something soon, his life would be over.

"Brandon, what do you see as your future in Section One?"

"What do you mean?" He asked, turning his entire attention to her face.

"Well, you said you prefer it to freedom."

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

Brandon sat completely upright, crossing his legs Indian fashion. "I hardly know how to explain it, but being in Section, even this short while. . . . it's like being part of something important. When I was on trial for the murder of the policeman, his wife asked the judge if she and her two children could address me in court. She stood in front of me, and I was expecting her full hatred. I was prepared for being screamed at, but she didn't."

His blue eyes were tear-filled and regretful as he explained. "She forgave me. She said she'd pray for me."

"But there was nothing to forgive, Brandon. You didn't do it." Nikita reminded him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder..

"But there was, Nikita. I helped kill her husband by agreeing to cover for the man who did. I helped kill him, because I was silent. Sure my Uncle has a wife and son, but that cop had a wife and kids too. I used to justify what Uncle Joey did, because of those men who killed Mama, but I can't do that anymore. So the cop was black, so what? His kids cried for him, just like I cried for my mama. And now, I'm in Section One and I have a chance to do something about stopping stuff like this from happening to other people. Can you understand that?"

Nikita let out a long sigh, "Yes, I can. Brandon, . . ." She paused to choose her words carefully. "I need to tell you something important, and I hope it won't upset you--I asked you here tonight to test you for the Section. It's something all operatives have to go through."

Hoping she wasn't going to face cancellation herself for what she was about to reveal, Nikita moved to sit next to Brandon on the couch.

"What kind of test?" He asked in surprise.

"A loyalty test--and it's over and you passed."

"You mean I'm a full operative now?"

"Well, not yet. There is a mission, and very important mission ongoing at the moment that you've been chosen by the Section to help with."

"What is it?"

"It has to do with the Neo-Nazi group you used to belong to." Nikita paused to let that sink in and gauge his reaction.

"What do you need to know?"

"Was your group interested in obtaining a nuclear device of any kind."

"Nukes? Well, it was talked about, but that's all it ever was."

"What if I told you. . . " Nikita sucked in a breath, knowing without doubt that Madeline was on-line listening and having a bout of apoplexy, "that the group you belonged to has stolen a tactical nuclear device and is planning on using it."

Brandon frowned, "Where would they get . . . " He stopped mid-sentence, his face a mask of horror, then answered his own unfinished question, "Ross."

"We don't know for sure, but is it possible? Could Ross be involved?"

"Yes, . . . no. . . I don't know!" He was flustered at the question.

"Brandon, this is important--yes or no?"

"He used to talk about it sometimes. Ross said the militia would never make anyone listen to them unless they had an advanced weapon, either nuclear or biological."

"Did he ever say how he'd use such a weapon?"

"If I tell you, will the Section kill him?" Brandon asked, fearfully.

"They'll kill him if he tries to use the bomb, Brandon. You can save him, if we can get the bomb back before he uses it."

"He talked about a place called Crystal Palace. He said it was the key to the national defense. He said a well-placed nuke could put it out of business."

"Crystal Palace?" Nikita repeated aloud.

Almost instantly, Birkoff's voice replied, "He's referring to NORAD at Cheyenne Mountain, in Colorado. Operations says to ask him where they intended to place the bomb."

"How was Ross going to place the bomb? Walk in with it?" Asked Nikita, obeying.

"No. He said he'd place it in an old mining shaft nearby. If the explosion was big enough, Crystal Palace would either be destroyed or irradiated so much that it could no longer be usable."

"Birkoff! Run me a plausibility scenario! Then get in touch with Michael!" Operations ordered before running up to his office.

"Nikita. Can't we go find my brother and stop him, before Section does?"

"We can try. Where do you think we could find him?" It was a lie--but Nikita had to keep him talking.

"He's stationed at Ft Carson, Colorado--or he was last time I heard from him."

Nikita sighed again, "He's missing, Brandon. He's been AWOL for several weeks. Everyone's been looking for him. The bomb disappeared at the same time. Is there any place he might go, to be safe?"

"If he's done this, he's probably with the Aryan Brotherhood--but that means they could be anywhere in Colorado, Wyoming, or Montana."

"Brandon, I hate to say it, but Section might be the only way to stop your brother from doing something terrible. There's already a team in Colorado--if he planned to bomb Crystal Palace, wouldn't it make sense that he might be there?"

"Yes." Brandon replied quietly.

Nikita felt him withdrawing, and went to him. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him close. "I know. You don't want to betray your brother--but you have to tell me where we can start looking for him, before the worst happens."

"They'll cancel him!" Brandon pulled away.

"Brandon, they'll cancel you--and me, if you don't tell them what they want to know." She sat down on the couch, feeling sick at the manipulation she was having to perform, but continued. "Do you know what Crystal Palace is?"

"Some kind of missile control station."

With Birkoff telling her the details in one ear, Nikita recited: "It's not a missile control station--it's the command and control center for the entire air defense network of the United States. If it's destroyed, computers at missile silos across the US might interpret its loss as an enemy attack and automatically initiate retaliatory launches against all known enemies. We are talking about World War III, Brandon!"

Even as she heard Birkoff say the words, it took a moment for their import to filter down. Michael would be dead--everyone would be dead! "Your brother will be killed, and it won't have to be by Section." Nikita added on her own.

Brandon covered his face with his hands briefly as if trying to make sense of all she'd told him. "All right." he said finally,

"There are at least three meeting places in Colorado he could be at."

"Let's go." Nikita said grabbing her car keys.

"Go where?"

"To Section. You have to give the information to Birkoff and Operations!"

***********

Brandon told Section every meeting place of the Aryan Brotherhood that he had access to, as fast as he could get the words out. When he had exhausted every bit of knowledge he had, he turned to Operations.

"Sir. I want you to know, I'm sorry about my brother--and all of this. I'd like to go with one of the teams to Colorado. If we find Ross, I might be able to talk to him--make him listen to reason."

When Operation's face remained hard, Brandon asked again, "Please? I want to help."

Operations looked over at Madeline, who nodded, then at Nikita, who echoed Madeline's gesture, and finally at Brandon. "All right. Nikita--you are personally responsible for him. Three teams have assembled and are ready to depart--go with one of them."

Nikita gave Operations a rare smile of thanks, before grabbing Brandon by the arm bolting for the assembly area. They found Walter scurrying around passing out equipment and weapons.

"Suit us up, Walter." Nikita said upon their arrival.

"Where you going?" Walter growled at Brandon.

"To stop my brother, if I can." Brandon replied firmly.

Taken aback, Walter looked to Nikita for verification. She gave him a faint smile and nodded.

"Hmmm. Turns out, you're not such a bad guy after all." He grinned and rubbed his knuckles atop Brandon's head affectionately. "Here's some more advice--grow some hair!" he growled. Then switching gears, Walter became more serious. "Get your uniform over there-- they're broken out by sizes--come back here for your weapon and ammo." Brandon rushed off to get dressed and Walter turned to Nikita. "You too, sugar?"

"Yeah. Me too."

"Guess you were right about him." He commented, pointing a thumb in Brandon's direction.

"And know what? He didn't even kill the cop that got him sent to Section."

Walter gave her a sad smile, "Sounds like you two have a lot in common."

"What do you mean?" Nikita asked, unsure of his meaning.

"Hell, sugar, you didn't kill anybody to get in Section, either."

His words earned him a quick hug from a misty-eyed Nikita, "Thanks Walter."

Somewhere near Colorado Springs, Colorado

"And that, gentlemen, is what the Aryan Brotherhood stands for!" The speaker paused for applause before turning the podium over to two men in khaki uniforms.

As Michael applauded from his position in the rear of the tent, he nodded to Moen, who was stationed near the tent opening. Moen returned the nod and left the tent. Michael lingered briefly, then followed.

"How many have we sold, so far?" Michael asked, as he and Moen strode back to where Phillips and Garrison sat at their table selling Walter's prototype-rifles.

Moen grinned, "All of them, to some guy named Eastman," then he chuckled, "You think Operations will let us keep the cash?"

Michael smiled faintly before asking, "What about orders for more?"

"About twenty-three so far."

"Make sure you download the names and addresses to Birkoff. Meyer could be hiding out with any of these men. We'll need to check everyone."

"Already done." Moen answered briskly. "Birky should be sending out teams as we speak."

Michael nodded, and both men disappeared into their tent.

* * *

"Try and sleep. It might be your only chance for a while." Nikita said, leaning over to speak in Brandon's ear as they sat side by side inside a Blackhawk helicopter.

"Can't," he replied, "too nervous. Besides, I've never been in a helicopter before. This is fantastic!" Both of them had to shout over the noise of the rotors.

Nikita grinned at him with the indulgence of an older sister and shook her head, "Suit yourself." Then she shivered and folded her arms, "It's always so cold on these things."

"Here, take my jacket," Brandon unzipped his parker and slipped his arms out of the sleeves.

"Aren't you cold?" She asked, with some hesitation.

"Naw--take it. I'll let you know if I need it back." He wrapped it loosely about her shoulders.

"Well, don't be shy about asking for it if you get cold." She smiled and snuggled happily against the lingering warmth from Brandon's body.

Watching Brandon as he stared out of the helicopter's window. Nikita thought how much a boy he seemed one moment--excited over a helicopter ride, and how much a man he proved himself to be, the next. Although she was only two years his senior, she felt so much older. Brandon was still innocent, as innocent as Nikita herself had been, only couple of years ago. It saddened her to think that he would loose that innocence--and if things happened as Section hoped, he might have to lose it that very day. The thought wearied her and she closed her eyes to sleep.

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

Brandon slipped an arm around Nikita and carefully repositioned her until her head came to rest against his shoulder. At first he feared she'd awaken, but Nikita had long since learned to nap whenever and wherever she could. He watched her sleep for nearly an hour, his heart beating like a drum in a rock band. She was the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen and he couldn't believe she was actually asleep in his arms! He examined her minutely, taking in each feature and savoring it. He'd been fourteen when he'd been arrested. He'd never had the chance to hold a girl, much less kiss one and he wondered, with some excitement, if Nikita could ever feel for him what he was feeling for her.

Looking at the others on board the helicopter with them, Brandon saw that they were all occupied. He looked back at Nikita, her mouth, pink and sweet and only inches away. The desire to kiss her, to know what she tasted like, became a magnet drawing him closer. ‘Just once.' He thought and hoped, ‘just once.'

Nikita awoke as Brandon's mouth covered hers ever so gently. She'd been dreaming, dreaming of Michael. The kiss brought her to tears and Brandon seeing them, pulled back, embarrassed and started to apologize. Nikita stopped him by finishing the kiss that he started, wondering as she did so, who needed it more--Brandon or herself. When she finished she smiled at him.

"Thanks--you can have your jacket back now." She moved away to have enough room to slip it off her shoulders and return it to him.

Brandon could only nod mutely, wide-eyed with the intoxicating realization that Nikita had kissed him back!

Neither of them had time to contemplate what had occurred. Immediately afterwards, the pilot shouted over his shoulder at them, that they were landing.

* * *

"Ken, this is Brandon." Nikita made the quick introductions as they climbed into the back of an awaiting HumVee.

Ken Stillman held out his hand to Brandon, who after a microsecond's hesitation, took it and shook it firmly.

"Glad to meet you." Brandon added politely. Ken returned his words with a smile and a nod. It was a big step, Nikita thought to herself, knowing that Stillman's race was once an issue with Brandon.

"Where are we in the sequencing?" Nikita asked as she donned her flack jacket.

"Michael and his team are in place awaiting our arrival. So far we haven't had hard contact with the target, but Birkoff has some leads."

Nikita looked to see if Brandon was upset at having his brother referred to as the "target", but Brandon's mind seemed to be elsewhere. He smiled wistfully at her and Nikita blushed at what she saw in his eyes. Stillman saw the exchange and pressed his lips together to hide a smile. Nikita had yet another conquest!

* * *

Brandon lay on his belly next to Nikita and Stillman and cautiously peered over the hill through a pair of night-vision binoculars. The ground was cold and damp and a thin layer of frost crunched beneath his elbows as he shifted to look in another direction.

"There," Brandon said quietly, pointed off to the far left, "see it? The smoke?" He flexed his numb fingers on his left hand, before looking through the glasses again. Nikita looked through her glasses at where Brandon had indicated. "Yes. I see it. But how do we know they aren't just campers?"

"We don't, not for sure, but this area is off limits after Labor Day for camping and it's awfully cold--not much fun to be camping out in this mess." Brandon commented soberly.

"He's right, Nikita. But if you want me to, I could go down and knock on their door and ask for directions." Stillman offered blandly.

Both Nikita and Brandon looked at him with wide-eyed, "are you nuts?" expressions on their faces. It took a moment for Stillman to get the point.

"Oh. Yeah." He said sheepishly. "I forgot. I'm black." He tossed his braided dreadlocks over his shoulder for effect.

To trap their laughter, Nikita and Brandon had to slap hands across their mouths. Stillman bit his lips to keep from joining them.

* * *

"Shouldn't I go and see if my brother's down there?" Brandon asked as they got back to the Section base camp.

"Not tonight. It's too dangerous." Nikita answered.

"If Ross is down there, he wouldn't hurt me."

"But what if he isn't? And how are you going to explain coming back from the ‘dead'?"

"Another bureaucratic mistake?" Brandon quipped, knowing how both he and Nikita had been victims of such errors in the past.

"Funny." She said dryly. "Besides, we have to wait until all our teams are in place and we've got the go ahead from Section."

"Well, what do we do in the meantime?" Brandon asked with the impatience of youth.

"We'll find something, I'm sure." She said taking him by the hand.

"We will?" He answered with a quirky grin of anticipation.

"Are you hungry?" She asked, leading him in the direction of one of the command and control vans.

"Ah, a little." He sounded disappointed.

"A little? Don't forget, I've seen you eat!" Nikita joked as she pulled him along.

"Nikita, hang on a second."

"What for?"

"I. . . uh, " Brandon stopped in his tracks so suddenly, Nikita grew wary.

"What's wrong," she asked looking around them.

"Nothing. I'd just like it if we could talk for a minute."

She looked up at him. It surprised her for a moment to realize that he was taller than she was. She hadn't noticed that before.

"About what?"

"Not over there, here," he said cryptically, pulling her behind a nearby tree.

"Why here?" Nikita managed to get out before Brandon pressed her against the tree.

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

"Because, I don't believe in kissing in public," Brandon murmured before pressing his mouth to hers. His kiss was gentle, almost timid at first. Realizing that, Nikita didn't push him away. He was in the throes of his first crush and Nikita didn't have the heart to hurt him. Instead she looped her arms around his neck and held him.

"I, I think I love you, Nikita." He mumbled against her neck.

Nikita could hear the red in his face, even if it was too dark to see it. "Brandon, you hardly know me." His admission upset her because she knew that sooner or later she'd hurt him, because she didn't feel the same.

"I know enough." He said. His voice sounded strange--like someone suddenly older. "It's okay. I know you don't love me back."

Nikita felt tears prick her eyes--Damn! What was it about him that made her so emotional? She felt his fingers comb themselves through her hair, and braced herself for another kiss--this one, however, fell lightly against her forehead. "It doesn't matter." He said with a sigh. "I just had to tell someone how I felt. Are we still friends?"

Nikita buried him with a hug. "Always. Always." Michael watched from the shadows in silence, before a voice over his com-set called him away.

* * *

"All right." Stillman muttered as he pressed the tiny tracker against Brandon's rib cage, just below his armpit. "We can find you with this, where ever you go, and we can listen in as well. Just try not to sweat--it can mess up the circuits."

"Great time to be without an anti-perspirant," Brandon grinned, tugging down his t-shirt.

"Just be careful. This isn't a game, Brandon." Nikita said, feeling fearful for the first time.

He sighed, "I know. But it's just as easy to laugh as it is to cry--Mama always used to say."

"We're going to see if your brother is there. You know what to say. Stay with the script." Nikita smoothed his t-shirt across his shoulders. "We have teams in the area--all you have to do is verify whether your brother is on site or not."

"Why don't you stay here? I can do this on my own." Brandon said with some concern. "Ross won't hurt me."

"If you vouch for me, he won't hurt me either." Nikita replied. "Besides, I'm you're alibi--you've been living with me for the past two years, remember? I helped you escape----"

"All right. So, why am I just now making contact with Ross?"

"I'm Canadian--remember? You've been laying low in Canada, waiting for thing to die down." Nikita sounded exasperated.

"Okay, I remember. Wait!"

"What now?"

"Uh, I can't tell Ross we've been living together."

"Why not?"

"It's immoral. We have to be married." Brandon reached down and tugged on a slender silver ring on his little finger.

"Let's see if it fits," he said pulling it free. He reached for her hand and carefully slipped the band on her finger. It fit--perfectly, and Brandon's smile was brilliant. "Okay, Mrs. Meyer. Let's go."

Brandon linked Nikita's arm through his and knocked on the cabin door. For a moment they thought no one was home, then they heard several voices inside.

The cabin door slowly opened and a man peeped his head out.

"Yes? Can I help you?" He sounded nervous.

"Hi. My name is Brandon Meyer and I'm looking for my brother Ross. I was hoping. . ." The door was suddenly flung wide open.

"Brandon?" Ross stood in perfectly pressed camys, looking like he was fresh from a parade field--not an Army deserter. "Brandon? It can't be you--they sent word. You died in prison."

"Hi, big brother. Do I look dead?"

His brother engulfed him in a bear-hug of an embrace. "But how?"

"First--let me introduce you to Nikita, my wife."

"Your wife?" Ross laughed through tears. "Little brother, you can hardly shave, what do you mean, your wife?" "She's the reason I'm here. She helped me escape. I've been living in Canada waiting for things to cool off a little."

"Welcome to the family, Nikita." Ross hugged her as tightly as he had his brother.

"Well, come in out of the cold! How the hell did you find me?" Ross pulled them inside and shut the door. "Oh, before I forget--" there was an embarrassing pause, "Your Uncle Joey is here with Todd--and that's Mark Lister." He said, referring to the man who had opened the door, "-- and Craig Holloway."

Nikita politely shook hands with all of them; Brandon did as well.

Brandon's Uncle had the good graces to be ashamed, and hugged his nephew as he asked for his forgiveness. "I'll never forget what you did for me, Brandon." He blubbered as he pounded on Brandon's back with his open hand. "Your brother and I --well, we were planning on breaking you out of prison--then we heard you had died. . . " His voice broke and he hugged Brandon again. "I'm sorry we put you through what we did."

"It's okay, Uncle Joey. Really. I might never have met Nikita, otherwise." He looked over at his ‘bride' with true affection in his expression, and Nikita realized he had meant every word.

"So, why are you here?" Craig Holloway folded his arms across his brawny chest, and Nikita sensed that he was suspicious.

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

"He's my brother, Craig." Ross answered. "He's my blood. He should be here."

"Well, excuse me---but I don't like coincidences! Today, of all days, your ‘dead' brother shows up in the middle of nowhere, with a wife and a wild story of escaping from prison instead of dying there?"

Ross got between Brandon and Craig. "If he says it's true--it's true."

"How long has it been since you've seen him? Since he was what, fifteen? People can change a lot in three years."

"Maybe we should leave, Brandon." Nikita said, taking him by the arm.

"I'd say it's a hell of a lot more believable that he's free because he's turned State's evidence, in return for setting us up!" Craig's anger boiled over and he made an attempt to grab Brandon's arm.

"Enough!" Ross interrupted. "Brandon's my brother; he's no traitor!"

"Look, Ross. He's scaring Nikita," Brandon spoke up. "Maybe we'd better leave. Why don't you come with us? We could go out for a bite to eat or something."

"Sure, little brother. Sorry, Nikita." Ross patted her on the shoulder. "Let me get my jacket." The three stepped outside, and Nikita could feel the hair on the back of her neck standing on end as Craig stepped out behind them, holding a MAC-10 in one hand, and a cell phone in another.

"Wait, Ross."

For the first time Brandon showed a little fear on his face. He pushed Nikita out in front of him. "Keep walking," he whispered to her.

Ross was a few steps behind them. He stopped and turned to see what Craig wanted.

"There's no answer at the outpost."

"Shit, Craig! He's probably taking a leak! Stop being so damned paranoid!"

"Tell them to stop where they are!" Craig leveled his weapon at Brandon's back.

Nikita felt Brandon's hand push her forward, at the same time she heard Michael's voice over her com-set. "Get ready--teams Red and Blue, prepare to fire on my signal. Hold your fire until our friendlies reach safety."

"Look Craig--stop this." Ross argued.

"Tell them to stop, until I hear from our sentry!"

Ross huffed out a disgusted sigh, "Oh, all right. Brandon--"

Brandon kept walking, and pushed Nikita along a little faster towards the nearby tree line. She realized he had begun to panic, but before she could do anything, Craig fired his Mac 10 over their heads.

"Get down, Nikita!" Brandon shouted, pushing her to the ground. He threw himself on top of her just as Craig sprayed both Ross and Brandon with bullets.

A second later, men in uniform came running from all directions--some of them belonging to Section One, and others, equally armed, belonging to the Brotherhood. The fire fight had begun.

* * *

"Nikita!" Michael suddenly appeared at her side. "Are you all right?" He knelt and ran his hands over her body, feeling for injuries. She was lying on her side, covered in blood, but Michael didn't know if it was her's or Brandon's.

"No! Oh no!" Nikita rocked Brandon's lifeless body in her arms and wept.

Michael looked across the field where two Section teams were crawling their way towards the entrenched members of the Aryan Brotherhood. The rapid pop and crack of gunfire filled the air with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

"He's dead, Nikita. Leave him!" Michael said urgently, pulling on her arms, while he kept an eye on the fire fight in front of them.

"No!" Nikita screamed in anguish and pulled Brandon closer. "It's not fair! It's not fair!"

There was no time for gentle persuasion. Michael stood, and grabbed her by the front of her jacket, then made a fist and slugged her hard against her jaw. A microsecond later, a bullet grazed his shoulder and he went down on one knee. The fire fight had suddenly intensified and Michael threw himself over Nikita's unconscious body, to shield her from harm. He grunted as one round hit him square in the back of his body armor.

"Moen! Phillips! I need cover!" Michael called out on his com-set.

A moment later, a third Section team arrived and opened fire, allowing Michael to drag Nikita and himself to relative safety behind some nearby trees.

Once there, Michael continued his probing of Nikita's body for wounds until Nikita jerked awake and shoved his hands away.

It only took a moment for her to remember where she was and what had occurred, but before Michael could say anything to comfort her, Moen's voice rang out over Michael's com- set: "Michael! We've flushed them. Two men have separated from the rest--they have the detonator!"

"I'm on it!" Michael shouted over the sounds of the battle. He glanced over at Nikita's pale, tear-stained face. "Stay here," he said softly.

But as Michael started to turn away, Nikita grabbed a fist-full of his jacket. With a steely glint in her red-rimmed eyes, she bit out, "I'm coming with you!"

He nodded, there being no time to argue the point.

As they ran, Michael handed Nikita a .45 out of his holster; he still carried one of Walter's prototype rifle's. They spotted the two men Moen had spoken of, running down the side of a ravine about twenty yards away. Between them they carried a two-foot square, metal box, painted olive drab. It seemed heavy; they staggered awkwardly with it down the slope.

Off to the right, Michael saw Moen and Phillips advancing forward, hoping to catch the two men in between themselves and Michael, but as Phillips got closer, his foot caught a trip wire. A claymore mine hidden along Phillips path, exploded, sending chunks of flesh and gore in all directions. Moen, while not taking the full force of the explosion, was too injured to continue in his pursuit of the men.

When the mine exploded, Michael grabbed the back of Nikita's jacket and forced her to her knees. "Slow down! Watch for trip-wires!" He ordered.

"You watch them," she shouted back, pointing to the men ahead, "I'll tell you if I see any more mines!" She pushed around him, moving on her hands and knees, watching for the nearly invisible wires in the brush. At a slower pace, Michael followed, covering her and watching in what direction the two fugitives were fleeing.

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

"Stop!" Nikita put out her hand, grabbed Michael's right thigh and pressed him to stop where he was. "See it?" Looking down, he nodded. Carefully stepping over the trip wire, he reached down and drew Nikita to her feet. A few yards away, their path intersected with their quarry's and they were able to concentrate on the chase, confident that no more mine's were in their way.

"Where are they going?" Michael asked aloud. It was a rhetorical question; he didn't expect an answer, but Nikita gave him one.

"Brandon--" she almost lost her composure for a second, before continuing. "Brandon said his brother talked about a mine shaft--putting the bomb in a mine shaft."

Three shots rang out and Michael and Nikita threw themselves on the soggy, leafy ground.

Barely able to lift her head, Nikita pointed out a place to their left. "There! It looks like an entrance to a cave--"

"--or a mine." Michael finished for her.

"Birkoff--we think we have the location. Send my coordinates to the rest of the teams-- time for the Trojan horse!" Before Nikita could ask what that meant, Michael scrambled to his feet and ran towards the mine. Nikita, nearly exhausted, got up, and stumbled after him.

It was dark, and dusty; Nikita had to stifle a sneeze as they entered the mouth of the mine. Michael pulled out a flashlight and pointed it at the dirt floor. There was only one set of footprints marring the powdery surface--alarmed he turned toward the cave's opening, just in time to see one of the men off in a clump of trees with a hand-held missile launcher--a LAW-- what infantry troops called a light-anti-tank weapon. With adrenaline enhanced strength, Michael shoved Nikita as hard as he could further into the cave before the concussion of the explosion knocked him senseless.

"Michael?" Nikita coughed and felt around with her hands. It was pitch black in every direction and her ears were ringing. The palms of her hands and both elbows stung from scrapes irritated by dirt and sweat.

"Michael! Answer me! Where are you?" She patted the ground around her, in a panic. She touched something hard--his flashlight! Clicking it on, Nikita used the feeble yellowish light to search her surroundings. At her feet, she found Michael, covered in dirt and debris from the waist down. She scrambled to him and felt for a pulse in his neck.

At her touch, Michael groaned and tried to lift his head. Nikita heard him hiss in pain at the slight movement. "Michael, are you all right?" Nikita tried to move some of the rocks off him. Michael tried not to cry out; but the pain of at least one broken rib, knifed through him and he grunted when she tried to touch him.

"Sorry," she whispered, upset because she had hurt him.

"Kita. . . take the light. Stop him." Every breath and every word was agony!

"I can't leave you like this."

"You have to." He gasped out.

"But. . . "

"No time. Take light!" He panted between words. "Has detonator--defuse."

"Michael, I can't! I'm not a bomb expert!"

"Talk you through. . .I'll. . uh!" Michael felt himself losing consciousness and fought against it.

"Michael!"

"Just. Do. The job, Ki-ta. We'll all die, if you don't."

Nikita's eyes filled with angry tears. Michael was right. It was up to her. She rubbed her eyes and runny nose on her sleeve and picked up the .45.

"Can you hear me on the com-set?" She asked Michael as calmly as she could, while chambering a round.

"Yes." He whispered back.

"Can anyone else hear me?" Nikita asked aloud.

Faintly, she heard Birkoff say, "Nikita? You're breaking up."

"It's all right Birky--" At least someone else knew they were alive.

"Kita--take this too." Michael painfully moved his arm towards her and opened his hand. Inside it was a small electronic device.

"What is it?" She asked, taking it out of his hand.

"If he has one of the prototype rifles--press the button. Be careful."

Nikita nodded despite wanting to ask questions and dropped the device into her left breast pocket.

Other than the harsh rush of her breathing and the pounding of her heart, the mine tunnel ahead of her was dark, cold and silent. Michael's flashlight was her life-line, but also made her a target. Every few feet Nikita turned on the light briefly, looked ahead, then switched it off again taking her next few steps in the dark. Minutes passed like hours, with Nikita having no true idea of how long or how far she had traveled. Her only guide was the still fresh boot-prints in the powdery dust on the tunnel floor.

There was a sudden sound in the darkness and Nikita froze in place to listen, just as something scurried over the top of her boot. Terrified at the discovery that it was a rat, Nikita broke out in a cold sweat.

‘Don't think about it!' she argued with herself. ‘Think about something else!' Her thoughts quickly turned to Michael and almost as if he had heard them, she heard his voice in her ear: "Kita--if you can hear me--don't speak--use your code key." Nikita could hear him struggle for each word

In response to Michael's orders, Nikita pressed her index finger once--for yes--against the small transceiver in her right ear.

"See him . . . yet?"

Michael heard two beeps for ‘no'.

Nikita turned on the light once again to look around, then off again as she proceeded forward. The moment it was dark again she saw a small, blood-red light center itself on the middle of her chest. With a gasp of recognition she dropped and rolled, reaching for the electronic device Michael had given her as she went down.

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

One shot rang out, so close she felt the air rush by her cheek as the bullet passed. She fumbled in the darkness for the button on the device, pressing it just as the gunman had re- acquired her as his target. Holding her breath, Nikita looked at the light centered over her heart, and nearly fainted with relief when she heard a harmless click. She heard someone swear, took aim at the sound with her .45, and pulled the trigger. The shot shattered the silence and a muffled cry told her, her aim had been true. She low-crawled in the direction of her target, across the dusty floor of the tunnel, until she bumped into something lying motionless in front of her. She prodded the body with the .45 in the dark and received no response. Cautiously, she located the flashlight and turned it on.

Craig Holloway lay face down in the dirt, his vacant, blue eyes still open in surprised dismay. Nikita quickly felt for a pulse and finding none, turned her attention to looking for the detonator. She didn't have far to look, finding it only a few feet away from Craig's body.

"Michael?"

"Yes," came his faint answer.

"I've found the detonator."

"Check for bobby-traps---" he gasped from the pain of speaking.

Nikita searched and found nothing. "I don't think he had time to do anything--I don't see anything." She carefully opened the lid to the box containing the detonator and felt the blood suddenly drain from her face. Emerald green numbers glowed softly in the dim light as they calmly counted down the seconds. There was less than five minutes remaining.

"Michael! We have four minutes and forty-eight seconds! What do I do?" She made no attempt to hide the panic in her voice.

Michael struggled to understand the words in his head, but his ears were ringing and he could no longer feel his body. And Nikita sounded so far away. . .

"Michael! What do I do?" She called out to him louder. When she got no response, she called out to Walter with the same question.

"I'm . .. .. su-gar." Walter's voice broke up into static. ". . . .knob?"

"A knob? Yes, I see a knob. What do you want me to do?"

"Easy. . ." Walter's voice faded out completely.

"What?!" Nikita pressed her hand against her ear, desperate to hear better.

"Turn it counter. . .wise."

Nikita grabbed the knob and tried to do as Walter said, but it refused to move. More seconds ticked by. "It's stuck!

Nikita began to weep with frustration.

"Try again!" Walter ordered firmly.

But try as hard as she could, the knob wouldn't budge. With fifteen seconds remaining, Nikita went from weeping with fear, to screaming in rage.

"YOU-GODDAMN-SON-OF-A-BITCHING-PIECE-OF-SHIT!!" She took the rifle from Holloway's dead hands and used the butt of it against the detonator, smashing the box over and over, even as the numbers continued to tick by. She thought about Michael, lying alone and helpless in the dark, and of Brandon dying in her arms and tossed the useless rifle aside for her .45. She had three rounds left, and with a curse for each round, she fired them all. The detonator lights went dark at three seconds to detonation.

Nikita waited, her eyes clamped shut, to be vaporized, but nothing happened until she heard Walter's voice shouting in her ear: "Nikita! Are you there? Nikita!"

Slumping to her knees, faint from fear and exhaustion, she muttered into her com-set, "Detonation sequence. . . terminated."

Back in Section, a grinning Walter jumped to his feet and shouted, "Hey! She did it!" -- before fainting dead away atop Birkoff's computer console.

* * *

"Nikita?"

Nikita rolled her head away from the near blinding light.

"What?" She asked wearily.

"Are you hurt?"

Squinting up at the figure bending over her, Nikita recognized Ken Stillman, his cafe-au- lait face frowning with concern.

Nikita attempted to sit up but Ken pressed her firmly back again. "You've got blood all over you. Are you wounded?" His hands were gentle as they probed her arms and shoulders.

"No. Just some cuts and scrapes," she muttered, looking around in a daze, knowing something was missing.

"Michael!" she said suddenly alarmed. "He's hurt--buried!"

"Calm down,"Stillman said, "they're digging him out as we speak. Want some water?"

He unscrewed the top of his canteen and offered it to her.

Nikita nodded, realizing her mouth was as dry as the dust she'd been lying in. She took a long gulp, followed by several short sips, before returning the canteen to him, and blotting her mouth on her grimy sleeve.

"Is he still alive?" she asked in a fearful whisper.

"I don't know." Stillman answered honestly as he screwed the cap back on the canteen. "Can you walk? We've got a stretcher, if you need it."

"I'm okay," Nikita insisted, rolling on her hip to get to her feet. She staggered a little and Stillman had to catch her by the elbow to keep her upright. "Easy does it. You've had a hard day." Then he smiled with admiration. "You did a good job, Nikita, and I for one owe you more than lunch." He nodded over at the destroyed detonator. "That was a bit too close for comfort."

Together they walked to where Michael was being extricated from the cave-in. He had already been immobilized and strapped to a back-board, and was being carried down a connecting tunnel that led to a second opening above ground.

"How many did we lose?" Nikita asked, as Stillman helped her aboard the medevac helicopter that was sent in to take out the wounded.

"We got lucky. Two dead, Phillips and the Meyer kid." Ken reported quietly. "Plus four wounded, Michael, Moen, Roberts and Garrison. We would have lost a lot more if it weren't for Walter's Trojan Horses."

"What Trojan Horses? What do you mean?"

"The weapons Michael and his team "sold" to the Brotherhood. What they didn't know was with a flick of a switch, we could control the firing mechanisms. Once we got the two with the detonator to separate from the rest, we jammed their weapons and captured them. Of course, a few had other weapons, which is how Roberts and Garrison got it."

"Why did you have to wait? Why didn't you just capture all of them?"

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

"We needed them to lead us to the bomb itself. The Agency didn't want to take any chances of not finding the bomb, and nobody knew which of the men might know it's location. We had to let them show us where to locate it."

"What about the Brotherhood?"

"All dead except for fourteen and after Madeline's finished ‘debriefing' them, they're scheduled for termination."

"How's Section going to ‘house-clean' that many dead?" Nikita asked, knowing the Brotherhood's losses had to be numbered in the dozens of men.

" Fiery airplane crash in the Rockies during a practice parachute jump," Ken answered nonchalantly as if reading a newspaper headline, "-- no survivors. As far as everyone's concerned, today never happened." He patted her cheek affectionately before stepping back to close the door.

But it had happened, Nikita thought miserably as she sat between the two stretchers containing Michael and Moen on board the helicopter. The mission had been a success. The Army got back it's wayward tactical nuke, minus its battered launch controls, and no civilians were even aware of how close they came to annihilation. The NSA had its mess cleaned up with no one the wiser, and grieving families would bury their dead-- if they could find any parts to bury-- and everyone would chalk it up to poor judgement on the part of a group of skydivers.

Section had already counted the cost as cheap--only two lives lost--only two that mattered. But one had been her friend Brandon. She looked down at his ring still on her finger.

"Kita?" Nikita was jolted out of her thoughts by Michael's soft voice speaking her name.

Nikita leaned over him since he could not turn his head. "How do you feel?" She asked, stroking her fingers gently through the unfamiliar texture of his shortened hair.

"Sorry," he murmured. His lashes fluttered as he struggled to keep his grey-green eyes open against the pull of the morphine.

"Sorry for what?" She asked, laying one hand atop his forehead and caressing his cheek with the other.

"Wasn't there. . . when you needed. . . me."

"Shhh, go to sleep. You're always there for me, Michael. Always." Nikita watched his eyes close, unsure of whether he heard her or not.

********************TheEnd*******************