---

"Get out! I hate you! I hate you!"

Michael closed his eyes at the memory, then opened them again and surveyed the room. The mark had not yet arrived. Nikita sat languidly at the bar, dressed in an elegant, black-satin sheathe, with her long legs crossed at the knee.

It had been nearly two hours. Perhaps their intel had been faulty. Perhaps Ivanovich would not show. Another glance around the room, at the door, revealed he had still not arrived.

Michael let his eyes stray to Nikita. She sat with her back to him. It was almost symbolic of their current relationship.

"I hate you!"

"Michael."

Michael blinked back to the present, and waited for Birkoff to continue speaking through the comlink.

"Ivanovich has arrived at the hotel. If he follows his usual routine, he'll be there in about three minutes."

"Fine." Michael replied. "Nikita?"

He saw her back straighten slightly and knew she had heard, but wanted to be sure. "Get ready."

Two Weeks Earlier:

"This," Operations prefaced the holoslide, "is Anton Ivanovich. Some of you will remember Alec Chandler's operation that we dismantled two years ago." He looked pointedly at Nikita, before continuing.

"Mr. Ivanovich was Chandler's point of contact in Russia and continues to control 75 percent of the slave trade in the former Soviet Union and most of the Pacific Rim. It's taken two long years of searching to finally find Ivanovich-now that we have, we must shut him down. More so now, than before."

Operations changed slides. "This is Lena Popovich. She is the great granddaughter of Mihail Popovich, a leading moderate member of the Russian government."

The face of a young woman, with shoulder-length, strawberry-blonde hair and sky-blue eyes, floated above the ebony conference table. At first glance, her resemblance to Nikita was striking. Operations actually grinned at the reaction he received from those seated at the table. Everyone looked over at Nikita, who frowned and tried to act nonchalant. Operations grew serious again, and continued.

"Several days ago, she disappeared at a Sydney nightclub. Recent intel suggests she was kidnapped by one of Ivanovich's procurement cells."

Operations tossed down the holograph controller and whipped off his glasses. "For those of you who are wondering, 'so what?'-- Ms Popovich's grandfather has been a staunch opponent of selling nuclear weapons to Middle Eastern terrorist groups. It hasn't been an easy position to take, when you consider the terrorists are well funded and Russia is going through a near-depression. His greatest fear is that his great granddaughter has been sold to one of the terrorists in the Middle East. If this has happened, the terrorists will be able to silence Popovich, and that could entice the Russian government into a simple economic fix-'bombs for butter'."

"Are we sure the woman's disappearance is due to a terrorist motivated kidnapping?" Michael asked.

"No. It's possible she was just pretty, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and those who took her, have no idea who she is. The slave trade still flourishes and rich Arabs have a taste for blondes in their harems. Regardless of the reason, our job is to get Ms Popovich back safely, and destroy Ivanovich's operation."

Michael glanced at Nikita, then regarded Operations gravely. "Do we have a profile written?"

Operations nodded. "Study your PDAs. The mission leaves in three hours for Sydney. This meeting is adjourned. Michael, I need to see you in my office."

Michael stood to follow Operation, but hesitated a moment at Nikita's side. Nikita looked up at him, but could see no emotion behind those gray-green eyes.

"Nikita. . . ." Michael began.

"Yes?" Nikita was puzzled at his delay.

"Wait for me in my office." He left it at that and departed without waiting for her response.

SYDNEY, 2034 hours

"These are your old stompin' grounds, aren't they Nikita? Walter asked, climbing off the transport plane.

She gave a bit of a sigh as she followed him out into the evening air. "Yeah. It's been a long time. Almost four years." Nikita glanced around the tarmac, then raised her eyes to the constellation of the Southern Cross as it twinkled overhead.

"You ever miss it, Sugar?" Walter paused to wait for her, then linked his arm through hers.

"Naw," she smiled slightly. "Nothing worth missing."

"Still, it's home. There's always something about home." Walter said with a sigh that verged on sadness.

Nikita hugged his jean-jacketed arm a little tighter, but didn't speak. 'Yeah, it was home--whatever that was worth. For her it had been a mother who didn't give a damn, and a father who she'd never known. Big deal! Walter, for all his flirting, was more family than her own had ever been.'

"Where are we spending the night?" Nikita asked with a yawn, as she and Walter ducked into a waiting car.

"Section's pulling out all the stops- you're going to the Park Hyatt," chimed in the driver. Ken Stillman's smile shown brightly in the illuminated interior of the car as he answered.

"Ken!" Nikita smiled and tugged on one of Stillman's neatly braided dreadlocks.

"Yeah, I roped my way into this mission because I'm used to driving on the left side of the road! Always wanted to visit Down Under!" Ken laughed and pulled the car onto an airport service road.

Nikita stood on the balcony of her hotel suite, overlooking Campbell's Cove and breathed in the familiar night air. Cool, salt-tinged breezes from Sydney Harbor, lifted the ends of Nikita's hair, then continued on to scatter wispy clouds over the face of the setting moon.

It was nearly ten. She looked at her watch for the third time in as many minutes. Michael said to expect him about this time.

Nikita hadn't spoken to him since he had briefed her on this assignment in his office. Even then, she sensed something was amiss. Michael had been agitated--glancing about the room, not making eye contact, rubbing his chin- all signs he was upset, yet he had told her very little more than had her PDA.

The mission was to decoy Ivanovich, draw him in, and gain his confidence, much as she had done with Alec Chandler. Like Chandler, Ivanovich was reported to be a lady's man with a fondness for models. Once inside Ivanovich's organization, Nikita might be able to learn where they were holding Lena Popovich. Failing that, Ivanovich was to be taken alive and returned to Section and Madeline's tender care.

Nikita pressed the tiny button on her watch. The blue illumination told her it was ten o'clock on the dot. She returned to the opulent suite, closed the curtains and turned out the lights.

There was a faint knock on the connecting door between her suite and the one next door. Once-twice-three times. Nikita unlocked the door and allowed it to swing inside the room.

"Mi-" Nikita whispered, only to have her words blocked by his hand pressed firmly against her mouth. She took it as a warning and remained silent as he entered the room and quietly shut the door behind him.

Just as quietly, Michael led her by the hand back onto the balcony and shut the outer door, effectively isolating them both from any surveillance equipment in Nikita's room.

"What's going on?" Nikita asked softly.

"Do you think you might still be known on the streets?"

"After four years? I doubt it. Why?"

"Good. Get changed into some street clothes and let's go."

"Has the mission profile changed?"

"No." Michael answered briefly. He stared off the balcony in the direction of the Harbour Bridge, his back turned towards her.

"Then why . . . " Nikita asked.

"Nikita, please," Michael begged, turning to face her. "Just do it."

With a sigh, she nodded and stepped back inside the hotel room to change.

Thirty minutes later, Nikita sat in a parked car on a familiar street corner in King's Cross. Her old neighborhood had changed, but only slightly. New buildings had replaced two dilapidated ones, and the grocery store had closed down, but nearly everything else was as she remembered. King's Cross remained the playful, gaudy, hedonistic, red-light district of her youth.

"Now what?" She asked Michael, seated to her right in the driver's seat of the car.

"Where would you go to get information?" He asked, carefully watching the streets.

"Several places-the shelter, Doyle's Pub-why?" Nikita asked with some trepidation. Michael was upset. All the signs were there-the lack of eye contact, the nervous stroking of his chin and mouth.

"We need more information."

"Michael, what's going on? The profile's been set and this isn't it." Nikita reached over, placed her palm against his cheek and forced him to look in her direction. "What's-going-on?"

"I told you, we need information. We need a contact within Ivanovich's operation." He looked away again, scanning approaching streetwalkers.

"Michael, that's what the profile is supposed to give us-damn it! Just once, would you trust me with the truth!" She shoved away from him and pressed herself against the passenger door. Angry tears sprang up as she gnawed her lower lip.

Michael looked away, then turned his face to hers, his green eyes solemn. "The profile has a backup profile-if Ivanovich takes the bait, you are to be traded for Lena Popovich."

He watched her face for understanding.

Nikita sat quietly for a long moment before asking, "What's my exit strategy?"

Michael's face was an emotionless mask when he answered, "There isn't one."

Stung by her impending betrayal, Nikita asked bitterly, "Then, why are we here?"

"To find another way." Michael said softly, reaching for and catching her hand in his.

* * *

Nikita shoved her hands in her pockets and kept her head lowered as she skirted around the noisy crowd on the sidewalk in front of Doyle's Pub. The fresh night air of Sydney's harbor had given way to the stale smells of the back streets. She wrinkled her nose as she passed unwashed bodies, clouds of cigarette smoke, and the sickening odors of old urine and chundered beer.

Getting information-finding Ivanovich through a "back door" was going to be difficult. While the streets remained familiar, all of the people she knew were no longer around. Four years is a long time for addicts, alcoholics, pimps and prostitutes to survive. Even before Nikita had been arrested, many of her friends had met unpleasant ends. It was going to take some time to reconnect to this world.

Nikita slipped inside Doyle's Pub, surreptitiously, trying her best to hide in the crowd. She needed time to think, and time to plan. A waitress offered her a stool at the bar; she declined in favor of a more private booth.

"What will you have?" The waitress asked, holding a small tray on her hip.

"Uh, Perrier with lemon, please." Nikita made a show of digging in her small purse for money. "Ah, how much . . . ?"

"Three dollars." The waitress pursed her lips, suddenly aware her customer was embarrassingly short of funds.

"Can you make that plain water, then?" Nikita asked, apologetically.

The waitress sighed, but nodded and went her way.

Michael found a seat across the room from Nikita and ordered a glass of wine.

He watched her remove her floppy hat, and rake her fingers through her disheveled hair. Dressed in denims and a tank-top that bared her midriff, she looked a little lost, and some what vulnerable--hopefully, vulnerable enough that someone might want to take advantage of her.

Michael took a sip of his wine, then scanned the room for possible marks. The bar was full of tanned, athletic types, both male and female. Several patrons were enthusiastically engaged in a drinking contest. Two of the men, both blond and well-built, claimed they were lifeguards from Bondi beach. They were on their fourth beer in as many minutes, and were spilling more on themselves than they were drinking. It was quite evident they had been at it for longer than four minutes.

One of the men finished his beer with a flourish, and held up his empty glass in triumph. The simple act of raising his glass made him loose his balance and he tottered backwards, nearly landing in Nikita's lap.

"S'orry-coo, you're a beaut! What's your name, sheila?" The drunk leaned one muscular elbow on the table and gazed at Nikita with rapt appreciation.

Nikita rolled her eyes, and pushed herself into the farthest reach of the booth.

"Oh? A bit of a Pom, are we?" The man laughed and reached out to grab Nikita by the arm.

Annoyed, Nikita started to resist until she spied Michael across the room, and remembered the purpose of their being there. She swallowed the mild obscenity she had planned to let loose, and did her best to act frightened.

"Please, I don't want any trouble." She began trying to pull her arm out of the man's vise-like grasp.

He released her and laughed, "No--no trouble. Just trying to be friendly, is all. "Oy! Paulie!" He shouted across the way to the bartender. "Bring us a couple a' Fosters!" The man made himself more comfortable in Nikita's booth, while she tried to look disconcerted rather than irritated.

"Hi, I'm Don Otway." He held out his hand and grinned with wicked good humor.

His butter-blond hair slipped into his blue eyes as he leaned forward. He shoved it back quickly with the hand he had offered, then took Nikita's.

"I'm . . . I'm Nikita." She made sure she shook his timidly.

Otway was well tanned and smelled of beer and coconut butter. His large jaw had a dimple in the center. It reminded Nikita of the actor Kirk Douglas.

"You're new around here, aren't you? I know I'd never forget your face." Otway scratched casually at his blond, five o'clock shadow.

"Yeah. Just got into town." Nikita shifted her glance to where Michael sat. Gray-green eyes met blue for a moment. Michael's expression told Nikita that Otway was not the person they needed to meet, and to get rid of him. Nikita's expression told Michael that she agreed, but wanted to know exactly "how" she was to accomplish that.

"You interested in a job?" Otway ran a finger down Nikita's forearm, drawing an invisible question mark on her skin with the tip of his fingernail.

"W-what kind of job?" She asked in return, suddenly alert.

Otway waited until the waitress dropped off the two bottles of beer he had ordered before continuing.

"Oy, well that depends what kind of job skills you have." He opened one of the beers and handed it to her. "Can you type?"

"No."

"Cook?" Otway raised an eyebrow and took a long swig off his beer.

"No." Nikita allowed some exasperation to peep through in her voice.

"Well, do you got a place to stay for the night?"

"Not yet."

"Tell you what-I'm a nice guy. If you want to bunk over at my Mum's house, I'll be glad to call her."

"Your Mum's?"

"Sure-I'm always bringing home strays. Last month it was a little Russian gal who was mad at her Dad."

Nikita glanced at Michael, hoping he'd heard and saw him nod ever so slightly. It could be a coincidence, but then again, maybe it wasn't.

Michael paid for his drink; it was the signal to bait the trap.

Nikita shook her head, not wanting to appear too easy. "I hardly know you-I don't think your Mum would appreciate you bringing home company this late at night."

Don laughed aloud and shouted to his friends across the bar, "Fellas-vouch for me, would ya?" A few shouted back good-naturedly.

"See? I'm harmless." Otway took another long drink of his beer.

"No, I'd better not."

Otway sighed, looked over his shoulder and shrugged at his companions.

"Suit yourself." He struggled to get to his feet, then sat back down hard.

Laughing, he leaned over. "I'll give you a fiver if you could as least get me to my car." Pulling his car-keys from his pocket, and the promised money, he waved them in front of her.

"All right. That I can do." Nikita took the cash from his hand, and stood to help him to his feet.

"I knew you were as sweet as you look!"

"Where's your car?" Nikita asked, holding Don upright as they left the pub.

"Back over there a bit. That red one over there-see it?"

Nikita spotted a red Toyota sedan parked in the alley behind a nearby building.

"Yeah, I see it."

"Whoooo-I'm damned drunk, sheila." Don giggled as Nikita shifted his weight to her other arm. As they walked towards the car, Nikita realized there was another man approaching, dressed in a white jacket. As he got closer, she realized he looked familiar.

Don waved at the man and called out to him.

"Hey Jerry-you buying or selling it tonight?"

Nikita suddenly stopped dead in her tracks and stared. 'It couldn't be', she told herself, but it was. The man was older, but little else had changed. He looked at her and grinned. It was a smile of pure lust, not one of recognition. Nevertheless, Nikita felt overwhelmed with panic. The memories of that night in the alley were still vivid in every detail. The terror of fighting for her life, the bloody knife, her arrest-and all the accompanying emotions, came back with a vengeance.

It was him! The man who had killed the cop! The man for whom Nikita had taken the blame for murder!

As he approached, Nikita did what she'd wished she could have done all those years ago. She shoved Otway violently to one side, and ran.

Michael watched Nikita as she rushed helter-skelter towards his position. He recognized her panic even though he didn't know its cause.

"Nikita!" He called to her through her comlink. All he got in return was hysterical weeping. Something had gone horribly wrong, but what?

Gun drawn, Michael stepped out of his position and snagged Nikita by the arm as she passed. At his touch, she screamed and struggled to get free.

Necessity made Michael slam her up against the brick wall of a nearby building and hold her there, out of sight of the street.

"Nikita! What's wrong? Why did you break position?"

Abruptly, Nikita realized it was Michael speaking.

"It's him!" She wailed, still trying to free herself.

Michael peered around the corner of the building and watched as Otway and the second man spoke to each other. Both men looked puzzled and somewhat amused at Nikita's sudden exit.

"Silly bitch. . ." Otway threw up his hands as he turned to leave.

Michael holstered his weapon, grabbed Nikita by her upper arms and pushed her into a recessed doorway. Trying the door and finding it unlocked, Michael dragged her inside.

"Nikita!" Michael pressed her tear-stained face firmly between his palms and held her still. "Stop it!"

Nikita fell against him, limp from crying. Not since she had been brainwashed, had he seen her so thoroughly out of control.

"What happened?"

"It was him!" She repeated, dissolving into tears once more.

"Who?"

"He-he was the one!"

"The one, what?" Michael shook her once, and it seemed to get her attention.

"He killed the cop. I was on my way to the shelter that night-I saw him! He was stabbing the cop. He saw me and came after me!"

Michael frowned, but allowed her to continue.

"I didn't kill the cop-he did it! I saw him-he's still here!"

"'Kita," Michael's voice dropped substantially. "Which man-the one standing with Otway?"

Nikita nodded.

"Did he recognize you?" Michael's expression was intense as he asked the question. Nikita responded, with more tears, but they were calmer ones.

"No-I mean, I don't know . . .I don't think so." She wrapped her arms around Michael's waist, buried her face against his shoulder, and clung to him.

Michael held her until she quieted, while he pondered the situation. This profile would have to be scrubbed and there was no time left to plan another.

And now, there was also the danger that Nikita had been exposed. If she had been recognized, and Section One became aware of it, she'd be canceled.

"Let's go." Michael said at length. He drew her away from him and studied her face.

"Michael, I'm sorry." Nikita was now rational and contrite. "I panicked-it's just-he's the reason I'm in Section. I never killed anyone before coming to Section."

Michael caressed her cheek, still hot and moist from her tears, with the backs of his fingers. "It doesn't matter. Let's go back to the hotel."

"Michael." Nikita caught his arm as he turned to leave. "Wait! If it's him- I want to bring him in. Madeline can get the truth out of him."

"What purpose would that serve?" He asked softly.

"What purpose?" Nikita pulled back abruptly, stunned that he couldn't understand the simplicity of the situation.

"It would prove my innocence! I don't belong in Section-I never have! Michael-if I could prove my innocence I could be free! Really free!"

"It no longer matters." Michael's voice was wistful, his eyes, gray with regret.

"It no longer matters?" She replied incredulously.

"No. Let's go." He grasped her wrist and started for the door.

Nikita jerked her arm free and stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.

"It does matter! It matters to me!"

"You can't go back, Nikita. None of us can."

"You can't go back!" She started to cry again. "I never killed anyone! It's not fair!"

"Never?" Michael reminded gently.

His meaning took her by surprise.

"Not until Section!" She retorted angrily. "And what choice did I have?"

"None. It changes nothing." He reached for her arm, but she shook him off.

"We have to go back before we're missed." Michael said quietly.

"I don't give a damn!"

Michael looked at her for a moment, then reached inside his coat and drew his gun. With one fluid movement he cocked it, and placed the cold barrel against her forehead.

Ignoring her look of total disbelief, he replied softly, "I do. Go. Now."

***********

The trip back to the hotel was a quiet one, with Michael pensive and Nikita filled with cold rage.

Tomorrow, Ivanovich was scheduled to arrive and all other windows of opportunity were now closed. Without another way into Ivanovich's organization, Nikita would have to play the hand that Section had dealt. She would be traded for Popovich's granddaughter and abandoned in place-unless Michael could find another avenue of approach that would free the girl and shut down Ivanovich's operation.

Michael stole a glance at Nikita. Whatever happened, once he had delivered Nikita to her room, he was going to have to return and tie up loose ends.

Nikita waited in her room for half an hour, before making her escape. She took a taxi back to King's Cross and began her search. It was late, nearly one, but one was still early in King's Cross. Hopefully, her quarry hadn't gone very far.

Where Nikita had been terrified earlier, her anger at Michael had calmed her considerably. She realized that she was no longer that vulnerable seventeen- year-old girl of four years ago. She was a highly trained assassin. The man would confess his crime on video-and she would have proof of her innocence at last. Someone would listen and believe-they had to!

Michael fired twice. The soft pop-pop of his silencer covered the sound of his bullets finding their target-the first, in the chest, the second to the head, as he applied the coup de grace. Nikita's mortal enemy was dead, and with him, any danger of her being compromised.

He stared down at the corpse for a moment. Had it not been for this man, Michael would have never known Nikita, and yet, he had caused her so much pain, that Michael could feel no regret at killing him. That he had done it without Section's sanction, mattered little. He had killed to protect Nikita before, and would do so again, if necessary.

Michael holstered his weapon and left as quietly as he came, with no witnesses, save one . . .

Nikita stood in the doorway of the room and stared down at the man who had ruined her life. He was dead and all her cherished hopes of freedom had died with him.

Michael had killed him, quickly, efficiently--selfishly.

She left, suddenly aware that she could be caught at the scene and blamed once again for a murder she hadn't committed.

Numbed by Michael's betrayal, Nikita walked for several miles before deciding to call a cab to take her back to the hotel.

She unlocked her door and entered into the darkness of her room, feeling lost and devastated. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared out of the balcony window.

Something moved in the shadows. It was Michael. He stepped towards the bed, soundlessly.

"Where have you been?" His voice seemed to come from all directions. It startled Nikita, and she jumped to her feet and skittered backwards off balance.

"Get out!"

Michael's arms went around her instead and pulled her tightly against himself, trapping her arms at her sides.

"Where have you been?" He repeated the question, firmly.

"To a murder scene!" She pushed against him, but he didn't move an inch.

"You followed me? Were you seen?"

Nikita got a hand free and slapped him as hard as she could across the face.

"You killed him! I hate you! I hate you!"

Michael caught her wrist before she could hit him again.

"Were you seen?" Michael repeated, a little less calmly.

"No! You bastard. . . .get out!" Nikita's voice broke.

Michael released her and stepped away. "I'm sorry, 'Kita."

"You're always bloody sorry! Get out! Don't ever touch me again!"

* * *

The gangly, unkempt, street-wise waif Nikita had been, when she'd first landed on the doorstep of Section One, was barely recognizable in the graceful, well- mannered, sophisticate that was reflected in her compact mirror. Nikita gazed at her reflection, half in bemusement, half in disgust. What would her life have been like, she wondered, if she hadn't been in the wrong place at the wrong time, four years ago? Now, she would never know. Michael had seen to that!

"Nikita."

The sound of Michael's voice through the comlink made her stiff with rage. His betrayal had destroyed her last chance at true freedom. Now there was nothing left to hope for. There was nothing left, beyond being a sophisticated piece of meat to bait a trap.

She took a long, gulp of champagne from the slender, fluted glass in front of her. When she finished, she wished she had had several instead of having nursed the one for most of the evening. At the moment, drunk on her ass seemed the best place to be.

"He's here." Came Michael's soft warning in her ear.

Nikita slowly turned to view the room. She saw Michael at a small table in the corner, his back to the wall. There were several other bar patrons that had been there for a while, and two new arrivals standing in the doorway. One was Ivanovich, the other was a younger man, with dark brown hair and obsidian- black eyes.

Nikita noted that they had noticed her, then turned back to face the bar as if to ignore them. She leaned over and spoke to the bartender.

"Another, please?" She asked, pushing her wineglass towards him.

"Bartender-the drink's on me." Came a voice from behind.

Nikita turned her head to the speaker. It was Ivanovich's companion. He was smiling as he stood behind her.

"Hello again, Maryann."

Nikita was puzzled. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"It's been a long time." The man stepped closer and caressed her cheek.

"I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else. My name is Nikita." Instinctively, she leaned away from his hand.

The man looked astonished. "You're not Maryann Leigh?"

"No, sorry, I'm not."

"Oh, I do beg your pardon! But you could be her twin!" He sat himself on a barstool next to her and turned to Ivanovich who had been standing to one side during the brief conversation.

"Don't you think she looks like Maryann?" The younger man turned to Ivanovich.

Ivanovich nodded, then smiled. "You must forgive my young friend," he said in a thick Russian accent, "for you see you do look like Maryann, a great deal."

Nikita turned on the charm and gave both men a radiant smile. "An honest mistake, is an honest mistake. You're forgiven. But now I'm curious, who is Maryann?"

"First, let me introduce myself, I'm Etienne Mauvais." He took Nikita's hand, raised it to his lips, and lightly kissed it. "Enchante', Miss. . . ?" He raised his black eyes with his question.

"Samuelle," Nikita said in a sultry whisper, "Nikita Samuelle." Out of the corner of her eye she looked to see what Michael's reaction was, to her using his last name as her cover. As usual, however, he did not openly react. The patented blank stare was still on his face.

"Samuelle?" Mauvais smiled wider.

Nikita returned her full attention to the handsome young Frenchman at her side. "Miss Samuelle, may I introduce Mr. Anton Ivanovich, my employer."

Ivanovich bowed briefly over her hand.

"May we join you?" Ivanovich asked politely.

"Of course." Nikita gestured to the empty barstool on her other side.

They were interrupted from further conversation by the bartender who delivered Nikita's champagne and asked what the gentlemen were having. The two ordered champagne as well and after the bartender left to do their bidding, Nikita spoke again.

"You were about to tell me about Maryann . . . ." She took a sip of her drink and waited.

"Yes, Maryann-" Etienne smiled, "She was a dear friend, someone I loved very much. But I was a fool and I let her slip away."

"A lost love, how very sad," Nikita said. "How long ago has it been, since you last saw her?"

"It's been about seven years now-of course you couldn't be Maryann," Etienne shook his head. "She'd be nearly thirty by now, and of course you are very much younger. It's just, . . . I suppose I remember her as she was then. You do look extraordinarily like her."

"What do you gentlemen do? Your business, I mean." Nikita asked, to change the subject.

"Mr. Ivanovich is the president of a modeling agency, located in Moscow and I'm a fashion photographer. In fact, that's how I met Maryann."

Ivanovich scrutinized Nikita over the rim of his wineglass and asked, "I wonder, would you be interested in modeling?"

Nikita frowned, "Me? Model?" She followed up with a smile and a shake of her head, "I'm flattered, but I have no experience."

"I'll teach you," Etienne spoke up quickly, flashing her with a brilliant smile. "It's not something that requires a great deal of skill. Either the camera loves you or it doesn't. I have a feeling, my camera would adore you!"

"Are you serious?" Nikita played with the stem of her wineglass, seeming to ponder their offer, while she listened to Madeline over the comlink.

"Now is the time to let them know you are alone. The faster they believe they can isolate you from anyone that knows you, the faster you will get inside their organization." Madeline advised.

"Very serious-if you are interested." Ivanovich continued.

Nikita smiled again, then blushed prettily. "I would love to but-I hope you don't take this the wrong way-I'm here in Sydney kind of hiding out from my father. We had a major disagreement last week and I just had to get away for a bit. Could you give me some references-I mean, I don't really know you. . . "

Etienne threw back his head and laughed, "Of course! Beauty and wisdom! Here's my card. I have a studio downtown-you can bring an escort if you'd like. As for references, Mr. Ivanovich can have any number of them sent to your suite. We have worked with several magazines here in Australia and I'm sure you have heard of Cosmopolitan. I had a layout in last month's issue. I can send you a copy, if you wish."

Nikita acted relieved. "Of course I've heard of Cosmopolitan. What would I need to do first?"

Etienne's smile widened, "We could discuss that over dinner, if you'd like. This hotel has a five-star restaurant."

"I'd be delighted."

Michael paced the floor of his room like a restless panther, as he listened to the dinner conversation between Nikita and Etienne. Very little business was discussed, but Nikita was given a date and time to appear for her photo shoot and Etienne explained the routine issues of signing a release that would allow him to publish any photos he took.

Ivanovich had excused himself from the dinner date on the pretext of having a late business meeting. Michael sent Stillman to tail him, while he remained behind to give Nikita verbal guidance over the comlink as to what questions to ask Mauvais. Nikita, however had other ideas, and pointedly ignored everything Michael said over the link.

Michael's cell phone rang and he snatched it up.

"Yes?" His voice was soft, and angry.

"What is going on?" It was Madeline, who was just as angry. "Nikita is not playing out the assigned profile! She's supposed to be with Ivanovich-not Mauvais!"

"I don't know." Michael replied.

"She's your material, Michael, you'd better get a handle on her immediately! We don't have time for ad-libs. Popovich votes in the Russian parliament on Monday morning. We have less than three days to find his granddaughter!"

"I know." Michael said softly, his heart sinking as he spoke.

"I trust you will take care of things this evening?" Madeline said firmly.

"Yes."

"Fine. Contact me when you have the situation corrected."

The conversation ended abruptly.

Nikita said her goodnights to Etienne in the elevator, allowing him a chaste kiss on her cheek, before leaving him there and returning to her room.

As she expected, Michael was waiting in the shadows for her arrival. She tugged at the back of her dress to locate the zipper as she kicked off her shoes.

"What is it now, Michael? I'm tired." She snapped irritably.

Michael stood in the corner of the room, his arms folded across his chest. Anger radiated from him, but he didn't answer.

"Not talking? Hello? Hello? Anyone hear me?" With her voice dripping with sarcasm, Nikita addressed the room at large. There was no answer and she decided Michael must have terminated surveillance on her room, or at the very least, shut it down temporarily.

She shimmied out of her dress, tossed it on the bed, then reached behind to unhook her black, strapless bra.

"If you want to watch, I charge admission," she snapped bitterly.

She tossed the lacy bra on top of the dress, allowing Michael the briefest of glimpses before crossing her arms over her breasts and heading into the bathroom.

Michael stood at the foot of the bed, looking at the dress and listening to the shower running. He fingered the lace of the bra, still faintly warm from her body and grieved. Despite all they had suffered through together, Nikita always suspected his motives. She still didn't trust him. But then, why should she, when more often than not, he had lied to her?

The shower water stopped suddenly. A moment later, the bathroom door opened and a small cloud of steam billowed into the bedroom. Nikita followed, wrapped in a towel, her hair damp covered with another.

Michael stood with his back towards her, as he stared out the balcony window. One hand knotted the material of the curtain as he held it open.

"You still here?" She asked angrily. "It's late. I want to go to bed."

"Madeline wants an explanation of why you aren't following the profile." Michael said, without turning around.

"Tell Madeline, if I have to be a whore, I'd rather do it with someone my own age! Ivanovich is old enough to be my grandfather-it would look a little suspect, don't you think, if I came onto him, instead of a man much younger and certainly more handsome?"

"Like Chandler?" Michael's voice softly accused as he dropped the curtain back in place over the window and turned around to face her.

Nikita frowned at the memory, "Fine, have it your way-like Chandler!"

"In three days, Popovich votes on the arms sales. . . . "

"And what? You want me to call Ivanovich up and ask him over for the evening?" Nikita interrupted.

"No."

"Then Mauvais, perhaps?" Nikita pulled the towel from her hair and tossed at Michael's feet.

When Michael didn't answer, Nikita unwrapped the second towel and flung it atop the first. "Let's see how well I did my job tonight, shall we?"

Totally naked, Nikita stepped over to the nightstand and picked up the phone.

"Yes, could you please connect me with Mr. Etienne Mauvais's room?"

Michael suddenly was there at Nikita's side, twisting the receiver out of her hand and slamming it forcefully back into its cradle.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Nikita bit out as Michael shoved her back upon the bed and fell on top of her.

Nikita struggled momentarily against his weight as Michael pressed her arms firmly against the bed. After several seconds of getting no where, Nikita relaxed.

"So now what, Michael? Will it be the standard Section seduction . . . or a rape?" She hissed, angrily.

"It will be, whatever you make it," he replied, engulfing her mouth with his own.

As much as she wanted to fight him, as angry as she was at him, Nikita's body betrayed her. She wept as his tongue caressed her lips then delved inside to stroke her tongue, even as her hands tried vainly to push him away.

'Oh, please don't. . .' she pleaded mentally. 'Please, not like this. Please Michael, please . . . '

"Noooo," Nikita's body rose to meet the hot mouth that adhered to her breast and began to suckle. "Please. . . Michael!"

She began to tremble and cry aloud as he continued downward, across her taut belly, until he was lower still, his arms moving to hold her thighs wide, in a vise-like grip.

Nikita began to sob as he tasted her, her hands tugging at his hair, even as her breath caught in her lungs at the erotic sensation.

"S-top," she begged through tears, "Mi-chael! Please!"

He persisted, hungrily.

She came like an explosion, erupting like a volcano, sobbing like a child.

Michael kissed her tears as they rolled down her cheeks, then her mouth so she could taste her own passion as he had.

The salt of her tears stung where his beard had slightly abraded her cheek. "Why?" She sobbed, "why?"

Michael gathered her in his arms and held her against his body as they lay side by side in the darkness. He listened to her soft tears and tightened his hold around her.

'Because, I love you. Because, I need you. Because, I can never let you go.' There were no words of truth that would comfort her. None that Michael could give. The truth was, innocent or not, it mattered little to Section One.

Nikita belonged to "it" body and soul, whether or not she knew it, or wanted to be.

There was no hope for her the moment Michael had laid eyes on her in the white room, all those long years ago. She'd been damned-doomed for life, the moment she had opened her eyes that morning.

Section One was their mutual hell-the nightmare, from which no one awakened in this life. Yet, it was life, and life was the only thing Michael could ever give her.

He wanted to give her all of himself, but even that was forbidden. His love, his body, his soul--nothing was solely his anymore. Not even his name, was his to give her.

Michael closed his eyes, remembering how she had introduced herself as Nikita Samuelle. He wondered if she knew how much pain she had caused him in that one moment. Nikita Samuelle.

How much longer could he keep his secrets from her? How much longer would it be, before she learned of his other life?

Nikita turned in his arms, finally asleep, exhausted by her tears.

Michael let her go, stopping only a moment to cover her, before returning to his room. He had much to plan before tomorrow.

* * *

Nikita awoke late in the morning feeling worn and depressed. The memory of Michael's visit the night before rushed back, along with much of her anger. As always, Michael had manipulated her. Was there nothing he wouldn't do for the Section?

And yet. . . . he had given pleasure, not taken any for himself. Nikita sat on the edge of her bed, and held her head in her hands for several moments, wondering what his motives had been. He had not used the seduction to gain anything for himself, other than prevent her from calling Mauvais-which was something she hadn't really wanted to do anyway.

Nikita looked at the clock and realized she had to hurry and dress. Her photo shoot was scheduled for noon and it was already nine o'clock.

With a pounding headache, Nikita forced herself to get ready.

* * *

Stillman laughed at his reflection in the mirror.

"Not bad---not bad at all." Ken stroked his goatee and took another look at himself.

"If your highness is ready," Michael said dryly, holding out a burnoose.

Stillman took it and placed it over his head. His grin got wider. "I look great! Maybe I will pull this off, after all."

"The object of the mission is to make it clear that you are interested in acquiring several blondes for your harem-whatever the cost. I'll act as your interpreter."

"Michael, this isn't the original profile-what happened to change things?" Ken asked, slightly more seriously.

"Ivanovich didn't take the bait-his assistant did. We've had to change the profile accordingly."

"So, I'm. . . . ?" Ken paused to allow Michael to review the details of the mission.

"You're Prince Abdullah bin Saud, thirteenth in line to the throne of Saudi Arabia, and a well known playboy." Michael handed Ken a folder with several photos and some backup data.

"With the goatee, I'm a ringer," Ken murmured as he read through the data.

"Close enough," Michael replied. "The object here is to be seen once or twice, in the lobby, and at the restaurant this evening, giving Nikita a lot of unwanted attention. After that, I will make a point of speaking to Ivanovich, on your behalf, about procuring Nikita-and hopefully, any other women he might have available."

"So, I'm supposed to make an obnoxious, nuisance of myself, and let it be known I have the hots for blondes?" Ken laughed and wagged his eyebrows, "A role I was born to play!"

* * *

"Your studio is down by the docks?" Nikita asked cautiously, peering out the window of the limo.

Mauvais chuckled. "Yes. We do a lot of photo shoots on my yacht, and I love the seaside setting. I admit, it is an odd place to have a photography studio, but it works, and I'm sure you will love the atmosphere."

Nikita smiled, "Now I understand the request to bring along a swimsuit."

"Every model's portfolio must contain several swimsuit shots. It's standard procedure. Did you also bring an evening gown?"

"Yes-another standard shot?"

"Of course!" Mauvais took Nikita's hand and squeezed it. "When I'm finished, I'm sure the next layout I do for Cosmo, will feature your face on the cover!"

Nikita smiled, suddenly thinking how upset Madeline would be, if in fact that scenario were to come about-her face plastered all over a international glamour magazine!

* * *

"Perfect!" Mauvais clicked off one last shot, and smiled.

"Are we done?" Nikita asked, stretching her arms above her head and yawning.

"Completely." Mauvais said, taking note of her yawn, "It is work, isn't it?"

"It sure is-we've been at this for four hours. I never knew it was this much work to sit still and have your picture taken!" She smiled, albeit wearily.

"Go change and we will go back to the hotel for an early supper. You must be starved."

"I am! Be ready in a few." Nikita left to change.

"Well?" Ivanovich entered the studio just as Nikita left.

"I'll have these shots ready to download to Moscow this evening. She's a beauty and photographs well. We'll have no trouble finding a buyer. It's been a very successful venture. Sixteen women, in two months---" Mauvais' smile failed to meet his eyes.

"Yes, almost too successful. I think it is time to change our location. The police are now actively searching for some of the women. No need to risk the operation further. Nikita will be the last. Find a pretext for her to leave the hotel and meet you on the boat. I will clean up loose ends."

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

"Nikita."

Nikita stopped half way up one leg with her panty hose to listen to the voice in her ear.

"Michael?" She whispered in response.

"There has been a change in profile. Stillman and I will meet you in the hotel lobby. Stillman will be undercover. You are to act civil, but not overly interested. You will understand all when we meet. The plan is to have Mauvais sell you to Stillman, along with any other women he may have in his possession."

"Okay." Nikita said softly, wishing she was somewhere besides Mauvais's dressing room so she could ask the multitude of questions that were popping around in her head. There was to be yet another change to the profile? What was Michael doing?

When Nikita and Mauvais entered the hotel lobby, it was aflutter with activity.

As she clung demurely to Mauvais' arm, Nikita murmured, "I wonder what's going on?" It was no idle question. She looked around for a glimpse of Michael or Stillman, still unsure of the exact scenario they had planned and what her part might be.

"It looks like a Middle Eastern VIP and his entourage," Mauvais commented, pointing to a man bedecked in Bedouin costume waving his hands about.

Nikita leaned in to get a closer look and almost gave the game away. Biting her lip to keep from laughing, she watched as Stillman waved a handful of worry-beads about as he spoke to a man in a dark suit. A second later, the man in the dark suit turned to face her. It was Michael. He gave Nikita a cursory once over, then returned his attention to Stillman.

Stillman continued to speak to Michael in a low voice while staring unabashedly at Nikita with mischievous brown eyes.

Mauvais snagged the arm of a passing bellboy. "Pardon, moi-who is the gentlemen in white?"

The bellboy leaned close and whispered, "Some Saudi prince-he's got everyone all stirred up. Insists he had reservations, but no one knows anything about it. Guess he figures we oughta make him room because he's a bloody prince!"

Mauvais smiled and planted a small bill into the bellboy's hand as a thank you for the information.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle."

Mauvais turned his attention from the retreating bellboy to the man standing in front of Nikita.

Nikita blinked and tried to look embarrassed as Michael bowed low over her hand and spoke in a velvety voice, "His Royal Highness, Prince Abdullah bin Saud, requests the honor of your company at dinner this evening."

Swallowing audibly, if only to keep from bursting into laughter, Nikita looked pleadingly at Mauvais for assistance.

Mauvais looked like he had wheels turning just below the surface. There was a long pause before Nikita whispered, "Etienne, what should I tell him?"

He smiled charmingly, "Tell His Royal Highness. . . .that we would be delighted to be his guests for dinner."

Michael nodded once, bowed again over Nikita's hand and answered, "He will be most pleased. We will dine at seven. I will come to escort you at a quarter to the hour."

As they entered the elevator and the doors closed, Nikita acted concerned. "Why did you accept? We don't even know the man."

Mauvais smiled patronizingly at her. "Ma cherie, think of it as a business meeting. A man of his stature can't help but have many wives, and wives mean fashion. In this business, we must cultivate clients everywhere. Can you think of a better opportunity?"

"I suppose not, but I haven't a thing to wear."

Mauvais shot her an "isn't that just like a woman" look and was amused. "Your black dress will suffice. I feel sure the Prince will approve."

Maybe-then again, I might just go on a quick shopping trip. Would you mind, if I saw you later? I have a million things to do before seven."

"Of course. Till seven, then."

* * *

Nikita pounded down the hallway of the hotel to her room, garnering several odd looks from passersby. When she got inside her room, she tossed her purse on the floor and went to pound on the door adjoining hers to Michael's. There was no answer, so she tried the comlink.

"Michael?"

No answer.

"Come on!" Nikita mumbled beneath her breath as she hopped around on one foot, trying to undress.

She stopped suddenly in mid hop and nearly tripped and fell. Lying on the bed was the most beautiful evening gown she'd ever seen, made of ice-blue satin with an overskirt of lace. There were shoes and a handbag to match lying nearby.

"I must be dreaming---" She saw an envelope on the bed and opened it.

'For tonight. M.'

"M who? Michael? Or Mauvais?" She muttered aloud staring at the note. It was neatly printed, but didn't look familiar. She thought a moment longer and decided it had to be Michael; Mauvais wouldn't have had time to send up a dress.

"Michael! Where are you!" She said aloud again.

"Here." Came a voice from behind. Nikita nearly jumped a foot off the floor.

"Michael-what IS going on?" She sat on the bed with the note crumpled in her hand. Michael carefully shut the door between their suites and came to stand near the bed.

"Based on recent intel, it looks like Ivanovich is shutting down his operations here in Sydney. If we are to find Popovich, we have to get them to tip their hand immediately. Hopefully, she's being held somewhere in Sydney, and if we give Ivanovich a rich enough patron, he might decide to divest himself of his property now, rather than move it elsewhere."

"These are women we're talking about, Michael, not property!" Nikita spouted angrily and got to her feet.

Michael took a step closer and gently stroked her cheek with the fingertips of one hand.

"Not whores, either," he said quietly, reminding her of their conversation the night before. His expression was tender, almost sad. "They're victims of circumstance, Nikita, just as you were. The difference is, you can help them-even if you can't help yourself."

Nikita slowly leaned into him, looped her arms loosely around his neck, and laid her head against his shoulder. As always, he had disarmed her with gentleness.

"I'm so sorry for last night. For a moment, I thought my life could change. All I could think about, was what my life might have been. You tried to tell me, but I didn't want to listen. This is all I'll ever have, isn't it?" The bitterness had gone, leaving behind the ashes of resignation in her voice. Michael held her tighter, because he couldn't answer. He had abandoned hope long ago.

"Well," Nikita said, trying to smile, as she drew away from him, "tell me what I'm supposed to do with 'His Royal Highness' this evening?"

* * *

"Good evening," Michael said as Mauvais opened his door.

"Good evening," Mauvais replied politely. He turned to Nikita who was seated in a nearby chair. "Shall we go, my dear?"

Michael was stuck at how stunning she was in the dress he had chosen. It perfectly matched her eyes. For a moment, he forgot himself and allowed his admiration to show. Then his eyes met hers and her expression told him to be careful. The blank stare returned immediately.

Nikita stood like a queen, graceful and resplendent and took Mauvais' arm. "I think I'm a little nervous," she whispered in his ear.

Mauvais patted her hand, "Nonsense. You'll be fine." With barely a look in her direction, Mauvais turned to Michael. "Shall we go?"

In elevator going down, Michael gave the two instructions on how to act before the prince, as would be expected of an aide-de-camp. Nikita kept biting the edge of her tongue to keep from smiling when Michael explained how low she must bow.

Dinner was served in the hotel's private dining room. A quartet of musicians played during dinner, which was several courses in duration. Everything was so elaborate, Nikita began to worry over what Operations would say when he saw the expense account.

Conversation was difficult, from Mauvais' point of view, having to have Michael repeat every thing in Arabic. He pondered how to reach his host with a proposition, without tipping his hand to Nikita. The Prince certainly seemed enchanted with Nikita, as he stared at her the entire evening, hardly speaking a word, and even then, only whispering into his aide's ear to be translated into English.

Finally the dessert course was finished and coffee was served. The Prince leaned over and spoke something in Michael's ear. Nikita watched Michael's face, saw him nod, and knew the real phase of the operation was about to begin.

Michael stood and walked to where Nikita was seated. "His Highness has asked to dance with you."

Nikita forced herself to look startled. "Well, I . . . ." She looked at Mauvais as if to ask his help.

Mauvais smiled, took her hand and squeezed it.

"Tell his Majesty, she is delighted." He stood and pulled out her chair so that out of politeness, Nikita had no other choice except to accept.

As Michael led her to Stillman, Nikita couldn't help thinking, if the situation had been real, what a jerk Mauvais had turned out to be.

Michael whispered in her ear as he placed her hand into Stillman's, "Don't forget to curtsy."

'Yeah, right.' She thought almost laughing. Stillman, imp that he was, winked at her before bending to kiss her hand.

Michael returned to the table to keep Mauvais company and thicken the already convoluted plot. He began in French:

"Monsieur Mauvais, my employer wants to know, and this is most difficult to ask," he paused to take a sip of his coffee before continuing.

"Oui?" Mauvais asked, totally ignoring the two on the dance floor.

"Are your intentions towards Mademoiselle, serious, or are you only friends?"

Mauvais looked startled, then after a moment, he smiled broadly.

"Nikita is my employee. She is one of my models. Why does His Highness want to know?"

"As you can see, Prince Abdullah is totally smitten by her. With only the most honorable of intentions, I assure you." Michael was quick to add.

"Eh bien," Mauvais said softly in French. "And?"

"It was necessary to know your feelings in this matter. The Prince's cousin, the King, has requested he marry and take up his place in the government and I believe his heart is set on mademoiselle Nikita."

"Well, there is a small matter of concern. Nikita is under a modeling contract."

"The Prince will compensate you for your loss."

"I doubt he will want to pay what she's worth . . ."

"What amount would you need? Name it. I am authorized to negotiate on His Highness' behalf."

Mauvais hesitated, "Well, I cannot negotiate on behalf of my employer. He was expecting Nikita to produce several million dollars during her contract."

"Perhaps you could contact your employer for instructions." Michael offered. "I'm sure we can come to an agreement that will satisfy all parties. Would you care for some wine?"

Stillman watched the two at the table and saw Michael wave over the waiter. Bending low, Stillman whispered in Nikita's ear, "That's the cue. Time for the show to start."

Nikita looked up at him and nodded slightly. He winked back, grinning and slid a hand down over her butt and squeezed.

"Whoa!" Nikita shouted out, pulling away. The band was startled out of sync and the music trailed off miserably. Mauvais looked up in surprise. "Look, Prince or not, you watch your hands!"

Stillman looked affronted and gestured for Michael's assistance.

"Excuse me, please." Michael said grimly, rising from the table. In a few steps he was at Stillman's side. Words were exchanged, then Michael turned to Nikita.

"His Highness is confused and in great distress. Has he done something to offend you?"

"Look, tell his Highness that dinner was great, but Prince or not, nobody manhandles me."

"I believe there has been a breach in customs. I assure you, Prince Abdullah meant no disrespect." Michael said apologetically.

"Right." Nikita retorted, looking completely unimpressed. "Well, thank him for dinner." She tossed Stillman a tiny curtsy. "No need to cause an international incident, but I really have to say goodnight." She walked to the table and picked up her purse with Michael following in her wake.

"Etienne?" She looked at him for support.

Mauvais nodded and stood. He allowed Nikita to get ahead by several steps, then turned to Michael in passing and whispered, "Tell his Highness, I will do what I can."

"What happened?" Mauvais asked, with a little irritation seeping into his voice.

"What happened? He copped a feel, that's what happened!" Nikita snapped back as she slapped at the elevator controls.

Mauvais smiled, "Nikita, he's a Prince, I'm sure you are putting more into this than was intended. Besides, I have it on good authority the Prince is very fond of you."

"That's what I'm afraid of! Look, no offense, but why are you suddenly taking his side in this?"

"I am not taking sides, I just think you are more upset than is necessary. Nikita, you have to understand that in the modeling business, things like this do occur. The professional way to deal with them is to smile prettily and ignore it. It's bad for business to do otherwise, and a tad embarrassing."

"Fine. Next time, I'll keep that in mind. Sorry, if I embarrassed you." She added trying to sound contrite, as the door opened onto her floor.

"No matter, my dear. Get some rest. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"What time should I be ready?" Nikita asked, stepping out of the elevator.

"I will call for you after breakfast. I'll say good evening here. I'm sure you're exhausted."

Nikita nodded, "Then I'll see you in the morning."

Mauvais nodded with a sweet smile that completely evaporated as the elevator door closed. He pressed for the lobby, and arriving there, returned to the dining room to seek out the Prince's aide.

He found Michael sitting quietly at the bar finishing a glass of red wine.

"I thought I might find you here," Mauvais said as he sat down at the bar next to Michael. "Is His Highness very upset?"

"Yes, very. He seems to be heartbroken one minute and angry the next. It will be very difficult for the next several days. Were you able to calm, mademoiselle?"

"Yes. I believe she will be fine, after a moment to think about it. I have assured her, the Prince meant no disrespect."

Michael shrugged and huffed out a tired sigh, then turned to Mauvais. "May I speak to you in confidence?"

"Of course. You sound very depressed, mon ami, what's wrong?"

"His Highness is under an ultimatum from the King. He must marry. His cousin has lost all patience with the Prince's lifestyle. He feels it is politically dangerous to be so Western in his ways, when Saudi Arabia is encircled by anti-western sentiment."

"I see. And the Prince?"

"He doesn't want to be married, but he knows he must-the King has his ways of making him comply. I had hope Mademoiselle Nikita would be the answer I'd been looking for. The Prince wants her, but it seems he couldn't contain himself. Western women simply do not understand a man's baser needs, I'm afraid."

"I happen to agree. Perhaps I can help." Mauvais said carefully.

"Help? In what way?"

"I employee many young and beautiful women, including Nikita. Perhaps the Prince would not miss his bachelorhood as much, if he had several beautiful wives to enchant him. He can have more than one, can he not?"

"Under Muslim law, he can have four wives. But how can you help?"

"How badly does the Prince want Nikita?"

Michael shook his head, "His Highness has no understanding of what is possible and what is not-he wanted me to arrange a kidnapping! I have tried to explain that this is not Saudi Arabia, but he will not listen."

Mauvais smiled and stroked his chin. "Sounds like you do have a problem. All because of a lovely, but very silly young woman."

"Yes. If this was Arabia, there would be no problem."

"What if. . . ."

Michael looked at Mauvais with curiosity, "If . . .?"

* * *

Nikita opened the door to her room and slipped inside with a sigh of relief. If there was anything to women's intuition, Mauvais was primed and ready to take a fall.

"Uh, hi Sugar."

Nikita spun around, startled once again.

"Walter? What are you doing here-no, never mind that, where have you been?"

"Sugar, to tell you the truth-I don't know what the hell is going on!"

"What do you mean?"

"First we were following the profile, then we weren't, now it's something else again."

Nikita frowned, kicked off her shoes, then sat on the bed. Walter joined her.

"Are we clear?" She whispered, pointed at the ceiling-the signal for surveillance equipment.

"Yeah. Do you know what's going on?"

"We've had to improvise. Ivanovich wasn't attracted to me, but his assistant was. Michael had to alter the profile accordingly."

"Sugar, it's more serious than that. Michael has gone rogue. He's running this mission completely solo-ignoring instructions from Operations."

"What?" Nikita's heart froze. "Does Operations know?"

"Not yet, but it won't be long until he does, and when he does, Michael will be lucky if he's only sent to abeyance."

"It's all my fault!" Nikita whispered in horror.

"What do you mean?" Walter asked, distressed at her expression.

"Michael told me the original profile was to trade me for Popovich's granddaughter and abandon me in place. There was no exit strategy."

"No exit? That son of a bitch!" Walter grimaced. "I knew Ops had it in for you, but damn, I never thought he'd pull something like this!"

"Michael told me he would find another way-I just never realized what that might mean." Nikita got to her feet, "Walter, I have to stop him before Operations finds out!"

"No, Sugar. Whatever Michael is working has to continue. We can't go back to the other profile now, it's too late. You're going to have to trust Michael, Nikita. I've seen him work miracles before, he can do it again, especially knowing what's at stake.

"But what about Operations?"

"I don't know, Sugar, I really don't. All we can hope for is a successful closure on this mission. Operations can't be too unhappy if Michael succeeds, but if he doesn't, Ops will have no choice but put Michael in abeyance."

Nikita began to pace with worry. "Or cancel him," she added softly.

Walter didn't speak, but his expression was in agreement.

"Then we make sure we have closure. Walter, what has Michael had you doing the last few days?"

"Surveillance mostly."

"Surveillance of what?"

"Ivanovich, for a while. Now we have a large yacht in the harbor under scrutiny. It's registered to Ivanovich, but it never docks. It's been moored in deep water for several months, according to our latest intel. Ivanovich visits it about once a week or so, but is always taken over to it by a dinghy."

"That would be a perfect place to hold hostages, wouldn't it?" Nikita mused aloud, as she nibbled nervously on the edge of her thumb.

"Exactly." Walter said.

"I think I understand what Michael's trying to do, now." Nikita returned and seated herself next to Walter.

"Tomorrow, I'm scheduled for a photo shoot. Mauvais has already told me he likes to take his models to the boat to shoot layouts. If we're lucky, Popovich's granddaughter is on the yacht."

And if she's not?"

If she's not, then it's hopeless, Walter. We won't have time to find her before her grandfather has to vote."

Walter nodded gravely. "Well, Michael wanted me to get you set up with trackers. I recommend subcutaneous insertion if you're going to be around water. There will be no danger of losing the tracker, or damaging it, if you have to get wet tomorrow."

Nikita nodded and watched as Walter went to a nearby table and picked up his equipment bag.

"What about weapons?" Nikita rolled up her sleeve in preparation for the insertion of the tracker.

"You might be searched, and a gun is too difficult to conceal, but I have something else for you." Walter smiled, and reached into the bag to withdraw a small blue box.

"Tampons?" Nikita arched an eyebrow as Walter placed the box in her hand.

"Tranq hypodermics, actually. There are six of them, and as a precaution, the other two in the box are the real thing. The tranqs are in between the real ones."

"What's the half-life of the drug?" Nikita slipped the box into her handbag.

"Stick a 250 pound male with one of these and he will be sawing logs for around six hours." Walter paused a moment to swab Nikita's skin with alcohol, then injected the tracker beneath the skin under her right armpit.

"Ow!" Nikita winced as she held her right arm above her head to keep it out of the way.

"Sorry, Sugar. All done."

"Anything else in your magic bag of tricks?"

"Just the standard sunglasses video cam." He handed her the unit in a simple glasses case. Nikita placed it into her purse as well.

"That's it. I have to get back. My surveillance shift starts in an hour."

Nikita walked Walter to the connecting door between her room and Michael's.

"Be careful, Sugar." Walter admonished gently, cupping her smooth cheek in his weathered hand.

Nikita kissed his forehead in reply and watched him leave.

* * *

It was late when Michael kissed Nikita awake. Nikita had been dreaming of him, so it took a moment to realize the mouth pressed against hers was real.

"Michael!" Nikita said in a rush as she sat up.

"Shhh, I'm sorry to wake you, but it's important that you know the plan for tomorrow."

Michael said, cradling her chin in his right hand.

"Michael, Walter told me-what if Operations finds out you aren't following the profile?"

"I'll be fine." He replied softly, rubbing the edge of his thumb across her chin.

"Michael, I can't tell you how terrified those words make me! I've seen you beaten, bloody, and near death, and you always say, "I'll be fine!" Fear and sarcasm accented her words.

"And I'm still here to say it, am I not?" There was a modicum of amusement hidden in his reply.

"You did this for me-"

Michael covered her mouth with his hand to stop her words. "I have to leave, there's no time to discuss this now. Mauvais is eager to help Stillman with his love life. He brought up a book full of photos for the Prince to review. Lena's photo was there. From what he told me last night, she's an available bride. He'll make his move tomorrow during the photo shoot. You'll be going out to his yacht in the morning. Stillman and I are supposed to arrive there tomorrow afternoon."

Nikita nodded and Michael released her to continue. "Mauvais has been told to take his boat out into international waters. There he will be met by the Prince's yacht, where he is to off-load the women the Prince has chosen-to include you."

"What about the other women? We are going to rescue all of them, aren't we?"

"No." Came his soft, yet curt reply.

"Michael--!" Nikita began to protest.

"Nikita, listen! Getting Lena back is only half of the mission. We have to let Ivanovich and Mauvais believe this is for real. If we can get them to believe the Prince has a huge sexual appetite, we can entice them with future sales. It will get us inside the organization, deep enough to learn where all of his people are. Deep enough to clean house in the future. Remember Chandler? He was the head. We killed him, but the organization he built was strong enough to grow another. This time we have to be patient. We have to root out the entire operation. Do you understand?"

Nikita nodded mutely, painfully reminded of her conversation with Operations after Chandler's death. "I understand."

Michael took her face in his hands. "Good. Now, go back to sleep."

"Where are you going?"

"Back to my room, to sleep."

"You could do that here." She said hopefully.

"No. I couldn't." Michael replied, before kissing her passionately back onto the pillows.

"Good night, then." Nikita said huskily, when he pulled away.

"Good night."

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

"When you said yacht, I didn't realize you meant the Queen Mary! She's huge!" Nikita exclaimed as the motorboat approached the larger vessel.

Mauvais smiled, his eyes shielded behind his sunglasses. "One of the fringe benefits of our business, my dear. We sell success, therefore we must seem successful."

Nikita nodded trying to focus on everything that was going on around her. She scanned every inch of the yacht, looking for any clue she could find that might aide her in making the mission a success. Outwardly, however, there was little that seemed usable. Once on board, she prayed that changed.

"Have you heard anymore from the good Prince?" Mauvais asked casually, helping Nikita up the gangplank as they boarded the yacht.

"No, thank goodness!"

Mauvais nodded, but didn't continue the conversation other than to ask if Nikita would like a drink.

"That would be wonderful. Some iced tea or lemonade, if you have it." Mauvais spoke to a steward who nodded and went off on his errand.

"What do we do first? Can I have a tour of the boat?" Nikita asked, leaning over the railing to gaze at the sea and suck in a deep breath of the salt air.

"Of course you can, but first we work. After lunch, I'll give you that grand tour."

"Ah, Nikita. . . " A gravelly voice called from behind.

"Mr. Ivanovich!" Nikita gave him a dazzling smile. "Your yacht is magnificent!"

"Yes, capitalism does have its rewards, does it not?" The older man chuckled and took a long draw on his cigar.

Nikita nodded, thinking how perfectly disgusting the old man was. This man that sold women to men for profit. She hoped he choked on the cigar!

"Nikita-here is your tea." Mauvais waved her over to a deck table and offered her a seat in the shade.

"Thanks." Nikita took a sip of her drink, then looked out over the ocean. Suddenly she realized the ship was moving farther from land.

"Are we moving?" She asked carefully.

"Oh, just to make the crew happy. Mr. Ivanovich has kept them couped up in Sydney Harbor for several weeks. He likes to take the yacht out once in a while, just to keep the crew on their toes. We'll be back well before five this afternoon. I thought you'd like to do a little sight-seeing." Mauvais said, taking a sip of his drink.

"Oh? I wish you had told me sooner. I would have brought my camera." Nikita pouted playfully.

"Oh, not to worry. I have several you can borrow, if you like."

"Great. I'd like that." Nikita took another drink. "I've always . . . " Her voice trailed off softly.

"You've always what?" Mauvais asked, looking at her intently.

"I. . . ." Nikita looked down at the glass in her hand and saw double. Her tongue felt three times too big in her mouth as she tried to speak again. Her last thought damned her stupidity as the chloralhydrate in her tea made itself known.

"Well, that was easy." Ivanovich looked at the young woman, face down on the table, and blew a cloud of smoke in her direction.

Mauvais chuckled and took another sip of his drink as if nothing had occurred. "I'll have her taken down below. Don!" He cupped his hands and shouted to two men seated several yards away.

A blond deck hand, who was playing cards with another, raised his head in response.

"Yeah?"

"Please, take the young lady here, down below and secure her in her room."

"Right." He flung his cards face down and slapped his opponent playfully on the top of the head. "You look at those cards and I'll toss your arse overboard to the sharks!"

"Yeah, like you have a hand worth that!" The other man snorted and took a long draught of beer.

"I mean it!" Don retorted with a flip of a finger in his friend's direction. He trotted over to where Mauvais had pointed and leaned down to pick the slender woman out of her chair.

"What's this? You sure look familiar, sheila." Don lifted Nikita's sunglasses to get a closer look.

"What's wrong?" Mauvais asked, only slightly curious.

"Well, gov, I could swear I've seen this bird before."

"Where?"

"That's just it-I can't remember where exactly, but I'd never forget a face that beautiful."

"She looks a lot like the Russian girl. Maybe that's the connection. Just get her down below. I want her settled before our customers arrive."

Don shrugged, picked up the slender blond in a fireman's carry and hauled her inside.

* * *

"Michael-" Walter's voice sounded in his ear.

"Yes?" Michael sat with Stillman inside the Prince's yacht, on its way to the rendezvous.

"Nikita's mobile cam is down, but before it went-they've drugged her."

There was a slight pause before Michael returned, "It was expected. Anything else?"

"No."

"We rendezvous with them in two hours. Keep me and the back up team informed as to what is happening to Nikita, as best you can."

"Will do."

A moment passed, then Walter came back online.

"Michael-"

"Yes?"

"I've got Operations on B channel . . . and he ain't happy. What do you want me to do?" Walter said with trepidation.

Michael closed his eyes briefly but his voice was calm, "I'll take it. Switching to B channel."

"Michael?" Operations voice sounded like a volcano ready to explode.

"Yes?"

"What the hell is going on down there! I've got intel from all over and none of it matches the profile!"

"I had to change the profile."

"You know the protocol for end game procedures better than anyone. Why wasn't I kept informed?"

"There was no time. . ."

"My ass, Michael! You'd better start remembering your priorities at "home". In case you forgot, I am still in charge of Section One! I want a run down of the current situation, and I want it now!"

Michael ran one trembling hand through his hair as Stillman looked on with questioning brown eyes.

Operations had played his Queen, putting Michael in check. It had only been a matter of time. Michael was left with an impossible choice-to save one love he would have to risk another. He couldn't. What was worse, Operations knew it.

Michael quickly explained the profile, ending with, "We will have Ms Popovich in our hands within two hours, and will be able to recover our operative as well."

"No. Nikita stays. I want an operative on the inside."

"And her exit strategy?"

"She stays--until I decide we have enough intel to shut Ivanovich down!"

There was no room for argument and Michael knew it.

"Are we clear on this?" Operations said sharply.

Michael felt his heart turn to ice. "Yes."

* * *

"Come on, come on! Time to wake up."

Nikita moaned and tried to roll away from the voice pounding in her ear.

"Hey! I said get up!"

Nikita sat up suddenly, shivering and wet from being doused with ice water.

"Dry off and put that on."

Blue eyes met blue eyes and Nikita gasped with recognition.

"Now, I know where I've seen you!" Don Otway snapped his fingers as he saw Nikita's face turn a shade paler. "You're that damn, crazy sheila that took off running the other night!"

Nikita was too groggy to chance answering him. The cat was already too far out of the bag. She rubbed the water out of her eyes and ignored him.

"What the hell made you run off like a scalded kangaroo?"

"Where am I? What's going on?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Otway frowned. "Anyway, get that on. I'll be back in five minutes."

Nikita looked down at "that" and discovered it was a two-piece swimsuit.

"Michael?" She whispered aloud. There was no answer. She looked at her watch. Surely someone was listening in on one of the channels.

"Walter?" There was still no answer, and Nikita began to worry the water had somehow caused damage to her comm unit. After several more tries, she decided that it was too late to matter. Michael and Stillman would be aboard soon, if they weren't already.

She only had one fear--that Otway might have seen Michael in Doyle's Pub and would put two and two together. He seemed as drunk as he claimed that night. Hopefully, it wasn't all an act.

Shivering, she dried off and changed into the suit, if for no other reason than to give in to curiosity. Why in the world did they want her in a bikini? There was no longer any pretense that she was still on board for a photo assignment!

Otway returned as promised and behind him in the galleyway, Nikita could hear several women softly weeping. She mentally crossed her fingers that Lena was among them.

"All right, here's what's going to happen. You're going topside to meet a few people. If you behave, you'll get out of here. If you don't, you'll wish you had. Oh and one last thing: I wouldn't try to get your suit wet by jumping overboard. It's miles and miles of shark infested water in every direction. Do you understand?"

* * *

"Walter, have you been able to contact Nikita?"

"Nothing! Not a damn thing! Either they've discovered the comm unit, or it's down. I'm getting nothing on all channels."

"Keep trying." Michael said softly.

"Yeah." Walter murmured, his voice full of worry and frustration.

"Michael, we can't do this!" Stillman yanked off his burnoose. "We can't just leave her---especially not without a working comm unit!"

"We'll have to find a reason to get close to her, so you can palm her a replacement."

Stillman sat on the edge of his deck chair and held the crumpled headgear between his hands. "We've got to let her know what's going on. She's going to think she's collateral."

"I know," Michael said, staring out to sea. "I know."

* * *

Stillman did his best to be an excited playboy, but his heart wasn't in it. He finally fell back and allowed Michael to do the talking.

"His Highness would like blondes and redheads in his harem. Have you a selection to choose from?" Michael asked, continuing his role as the Prince's aide.

"I have five blondes and two red heads." Mauvais answered, gesturing to the long line of women standing on the deck. He indicated for the brunettes to be taken back below. Most went quietly, a few began to cry harder.

"And your price for each?"

Ivanovich stepped into the conversation at that point. "Let the Prince choose first. We can discuss price afterwards. In such matters, business can wait upon pleasure."

Michael searched for Nikita and found her at the end of the line. She stood, arms crossed and angry; a tigress among terrified lambs.

"Is four the amount you wish to purchase at this time?" Mauvais inquired, watching the "Prince" wandering down the line, examining his potential brides-to-be.

"His highness would like to know if any of these are virgins." Michael interjected, as he and the others continued in Nikita's direction.

Ivanovich roared with laughter, and began to choke on his cigar smoke. "Virgins?" He shook his head, "I can guarantee they are beautiful and female, but they do not come with a pedigree. If you want a note from a doctor, you will have to have them examined yourself."

"Does this mean His Highness only wants virgins?" Mauvais sounded a little concerned that his deal might be evaporating before his eyes.

Michael sought to console him as his eyes found Nikita's. "It means he wants virgins for his wives. However, if none of these prove to be pure, they will be added to his harem as concubines. You must understand. His wives must bear his heirs. There can be no bargaining on this issue."

Nikita looked immensely relieved to see him, making Michael's heart sink further. If he could only have a moment to explain, to assure her that somehow he would come back for her--but there were too many eyes and ears.

Mauvais's smile returned, full force. He lifted Nikita's chin with the tip of his finger. "So tell me, Nikita. Will you be a bride or a bride's maid?"

Her blue eyes narrowed, but she resisted answering.

Michael took a deep breath and said the words he knew would destroy her.

Green eyes begged blue to understand. 'Trust me' they pleaded. 'Just once more.'

"His Highness has decided that Nikita is not what he desires after all."

Michael saw her eyes flash blue with surprise, then darken with confused anguish.

"However," Michael cued Stillman with a wave of one hand, "His Highness would like to sample what he will be missing."

Stillman stepped in front of Nikita and gazed down at her with sorrowful brown eyes, then pulled her into his arms and kissed her lustily.

Nikita squirmed and struggled, while her audience laughed at the Prince's antics.

Hating himself as he did it, Stillman plunged several fingers inside her swim-top. To the casual observer, he was copping another feel. He prayed that Nikita would understand that it was only to pass her a replacement comm unit, but he got his face soundly slapped anyway.

Michael quickly jumped in to separate them, and conclude their business.

Stillman nodded at Michael--'package delivered', and Michael returned it--'it's time to leave'.

The sooner they got Popovich's granddaughter to safety, the sooner they could work on getting Nikita free as well.

"His Highness is feeling rather charitable today. We will take all of these, with the exception of Nikita. If you will have them delivered to His Highness' yacht, we can go and discuss price and payment."

Mauvais gestured to Otway to take Nikita below. She struggled only long enough to catch Michael's eye. Her whole expression, was aggrieved and demanding to know "why?"

He turned away, his green eyes lowered to hide his frustration at what was happening and his helplessness. Nikita would find the comm unit, he told himself. Then, he could explain--if she would trust him enough to listen, one last time.

Nikita watched the door to her small cabin slide shut and heard the click of the lock. She ran to the small porthole but saw nothing but ocean within view.

'Abandoned in place'. Even as she thought it, she didn't want to believe it. Michael said he would find another way!

Nikita looked around her small prison, mentally cataloging everything that was a potential weapon. There wasn't much, not even a mirror. She dug through a small dresser and found all the drawers empty, but she did find her purse on top. She checked through its contents and found all in order, including Walter's "magic" box of tampons, still wrapped in cellophane.

"Well that's something at least," she muttered to herself and she dropped onto the small bed.

'No,' she told herself, 'Michael said he would find another way-something must have happened to change things!' Then a small dissenting voice added, 'Then why won't anyone answer on comm?' 'Because it's down, that's why!' she argued back again.

If her comm was down, Nikita realized, Section must know it. And if that was the case, they would have tried to give her another unit.

"Ken!" Nikita suddenly realized what all the juvenile groping had been about and slipped her hand inside her bathing suit top. She felt panic for a moment when she didn't immediately find it, but when she did, she smiled ruefully for the slap she'd given him.

"Sorry Ken. I owe you supper when I get out of here." She quickly divested herself of the faulty comm unit, and replaced it with the new one. With her fingers mentally crossed, Nikita whispered,"Walter?"

"Sugar! Thank God! Are you all right?"

"So far, but I've been compromised. I need to talk to Michael."

"I'm here." Michael interrupted softly. "What do you mean, you've been compromised?"

"Remember the man I met in Doyle's Pub? Well he's here and he's recognized me. In time he may mention it to Ivanovich or Mauvais and they will want to know how I went from rags to riches overnight."

Michael groaned inwardly. He thought Otway was a minor player. Perhaps it was concern over Nikita, or perhaps her sense of humanity was rubbing off, but Michael fought his first instinct, and allowed him to live. Now he realized that he should have been more through in his "housekeeping." But how were either of them to know Otway and Ivanovich were connected?

"There will be someone listening to your channel around the clock, Nikita. I am working on an exit profile. As soon as Popovich has been placed in a safe house, I'll get you out."

Nikita smiled. He had said "I'll get you out." Not "Section will get you out-I'll get you out."

* * *

"Who are you?" Lena Popovich asked fearfully, still rubbing her wrists after her restraints had been removed.

"My name is Michael," he said in Russian.

"Are-are you here to help me?" She asked with hopeful surprise on her face.

"Da. Your grandfather sent me."

The girl threw her arms around Michael's neck with immense relief. He immediately moved away, gently breaking contact with her with the pretext of picking up a nearby cell phone of the table.

"We will dock in Sydney, then you will be taken to the airport and flown home. First, however, you might want to speak to your grandfather so he will know that you are safe." Michael punched several buttons then handed her the phone.

The tearful conversation between Lena and her grandparent lasted well over fifteen minutes. Michael listened carefully to every detail, hoping for any information that he could later use. He watched Lena pace the room, as she spoke. Even her walk was like Nikita's, he thought bitterly.

Lena was free and Nikita was left in her place. The mission had ended just as Operations had profiled it-with one potentially lethal difference--Otway.

Michael stepped out on deck and watched as an orange sun began to set on the Pacific. They had another hour to make shore and off load the women. Once that was accomplished, he had to convince Operations that Nikita had to be retrieved before her identity was discovered. Retrieved and not canceled, because he knew that would be Operations most obvious choice.

"Spaceba-thank you." Lena said, appearing at Michael's side and handing him the phone. "My grandfather says many thanks."

Michael slipped the phone inside his pocket without comment. He leaned one hip against the boat railing and continued watching as the sun dipped lower into the horizon.

Lena stayed at his side, watching him, and wondering who he was and why he had helped. She watched the sea breezes ruffle his hair and found herself fascinated by the curls that framed his handsome face. He turned finally, to face her. His eyes were olive-green and intense as he spoke.

"Lena, did you know where you were being taken?"

"No, not really."

"What about the others? Did you get to speak to any of them?

"Yes. A little. My English is not so good. Is it important?"

"We were only able to free some of the women. We would like to free the rest. Anything you can remember might be of help."

Lena thought for several moments, then shook her head. "They didn't tell us anything. Not why we were taken, or where we were going, but one of the girls said she thought we were going to the Middle East."

"Which girl?" Michael asked hopefully.

"She is not here." Lena returned sadly.

"Why the Middle East? Did she explain?"

"They brought clothes-head scarves, long skirts."

Michael nodded, the clothing was consistent with the Middle East-but it was also consistent with a lot of other cultures. If Muslim, it could mean anywhere from Indonesia to Egypt.

Time was running out. And for the first time in his life, Michael didn't know what to do next.

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

"Hey, sheila, the boss would like a word with you."

Nikita was roused out of a sound sleep by a light being switched on in her face.

Otway leered down at her and cupped one large hand over her left breast. "Unless, you'd like to play a little first?"

Nikita weighed her options and decided not to start a fight she couldn't finish.

"I'm on my period-still wanna play?" She asked sarcastically.

Otway made a face, "No, I'll pass for now. Anyway, get dressed."

"You gonna watch?" She asked not moving.

"Hey, if I can't play, I'll settle for the consolation prize." He sat himself on the edge of the bed and waited for Nikita to get up.

Nikita huffed out a sigh, and kicked the covers back, clipping Otway in the side, and nearly knocking him from his perch.

"Do that again, and I'll break something of yours!" He growled, holding his side.

Nikita smiled nastily, and proceeded to dress, then went to the dresser and picked up the box of tampons and waved them at Otway. "Can I have a moment alone in the bathroom?"

He gave a disgusted sigh, "Guess so-but hurry up."

Nikita went into the small adjoining bathroom, and unwrapped Walter's box of tranq darts. She slipped two of them into a pant's pocket, and hoped they wouldn't be immediately needed. She wished she dared talk to Walter, but with Otway just outside the door, she didn't want to take the chance-even with a toilet flushing.

Otway pounded on the door. "I didn't say you could spend your life in there!"

Nikita suddenly opened the door, banging into Otway's nose in the process.

"Shit!" Otway grabbed for his nose to see if it was bleeding. It wasn't.

Nikita watched him smugly, then quipped, "I'm ready now."

"Bitch!" Otway back-handed Nikita, knocking her to the floor.

Momentarily stunned, she was unable to get out of reach when he grabbed her by her hair and dragged her to her feet.

Feeling her bruised cheek, and bloodied lip, Nikita didn't resist any further. Now she knew the limits of Otway's patience. There would be time later for a rematch.

She stood still as he roughly cuffed her hands behind her and shoved her into the narrow passageway. Suddenly she heard Walter's voice in her ear.

"You all right, sugar? If you can't answer, cough twice."

She responded by coughing twice.

"Okay-just wanted you to know I've been listening in. You won't be alone, Sugar. Either Birkoff or I will be listening in round the clock. Just hang in there-and when you can talk freely-just say my name."

Nikita nearly smiled with relief. It was only a voice in her ear. Real help was miles, and hours-perhaps days away by now-but knowing she hadn't been abandoned by her friends was great comfort.

Otway brought her into a larger cabin, where Mauvais was seated on a couch and Ivanovich was seated at a small wet bar, drink in hand.

Nikita found herself stuffed unceremoniously into an upholstered chair, opposite of Mauvais, who immediately protested upon seeing her split lip.

"What the hell did you do to her face?" He demanded of Otway, who was still rubbing his fingers across his nose to check to see if his nose was going to bleed or not.

"She tried to escape," Otway defended angrily.

"In the middle of the Pacific Ocean? I've told you before, no bruises on the merchandise! Now we'll have to wait until she heals!" Mauvais lifted Nikita's face and examined it closely.

"It does not matter, " Ivanovich said to Mauvais. "By the time she's conditioned, the bruises will have healed." He turned his attention to Nikita who snatched her face out of Mauvais's hand and leaned back defiantly into the chair.

"Ah, Ni-ki-ta." Ivanovich slipped out of his seat and approached her. "An interesting fact has come to my attention. Perhaps you can clarify some confusion on my part."

Inwardly Nikita quaked, but her blue eyes met his steady gaze. She willed herself to show no fear, and took a deep breath.

"My employee, Mr. Otway has an interesting tale to tell me. He says he saw you peddling your wares in the streets in King's Cross, just the night before we met. Is this true?"

Nikita laughed derisively, but didn't answer him. She tried her best to look unconcerned.

Ivanovich smiled pleasantly, pulled out a cigar, clipped the end of it, and placed it between his teeth. "No, matter," he said, with a mumble, as he struck a match and lit the end of the cigar. He puffed on it a few times as he casually shook out the match. "I am a patient man. I am sure you will tell me, when you are ready."

He nodded at Otway, who went to the door and waved in another man, pushing a small cart. On the cart were several small vials, and hypodermic needles.

Nikita remembered with a rush of fear her long ago conversation with Chandler when he had explained his plans for her future. Heroin! It only took a week, he had said. And then, she would do anything-literally anything for her next fix.

Walter cried out, "My God! What are they doing to her?"

"What's happening?" Birkoff rushed over and plugged in his head set. He briefly yanked it out again as Nikita's screaming pierced his ears.

"Get Michael!" Walter ordered Birkoff. "Now!"

* * *

"Michael?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"It's Adam! Can you come home quickly?"

The urgency in Elena's voice was disturbing, kicking adrenaline through Michael's tired body. It had been over twenty-four hours since he had left Nikita's side, and closer to thirty-six, since he'd had any real sleep.

"What about Adam?" He asked, keeping his voice calm for her sake.

"He's been hurt---we're at the hospital! We were at the playground. An older boy knocked him off the slide and he hit his head. He's unconscious!" She said tearfully.

"I've just returned-I'm in my car on the way home. What hospital?" He replied, downshifting. It was a lie. He had been on his way to Section to try to bargain for Nikita's rescue.

"We're at St Joseph's-oh, Michael hurry!"

"I'll be right there." He abruptly ended the conversation and called into Section to report to Operations.

"I will be delayed." Michael said, as he pointed his car towards the hospital.

"Why?" Operations growled in response.

"Something's happened to Adam. I have to meet Elena at the hospital."

"Is it serious?" Operations asked more calmly.

"I don't know," Michael said, knowing Operations' concern was more likely over the mission than any real concern about his son.

"Keep me posted." The conversation ended there.

Michael found Elena seated in a crowded emergency room, kneading her purse nervously between her hands.

"Where's Adam?" Michael asked softly, enfolding his wife in his arms.

"In x-ray. The doctor recommended a MRI. He thinks it is a concussion, but he doesn't know how bad it is yet. Oh, I'm so glad you're home." Elena hugged him tightly, burying her face against his shoulder.

"It's going to be okay," he assured her. "Little boys all have hard heads."

She smiled, as he had wanted her to. They looked around for two chairs together, found them, and sat to wait for the doctor to return.

"You look tired," Elena said, brushing an unruly curl from his forehead with wifely concern. She leaned against his shoulder, and wrapped one arm around his shoulders.

"Just a little jet-lag," he replied, resting his chin atop her head. He looked across the room at the clock on the wall, and remembered in that same instant--Nikita. Part of him was anxious to leave; another felt guilty for even thinking about it. He couldn't leave, not until he knew Adam was safe.

He listened as Elena explained in detail what had happened and was relieved to know that it was simply a playground accident and not some sinister plan of Section's.

A half hour passed slowly. Michael rubbed his eyes and tried to stay awake.

"Would you like some coffee, Michael? I'm sure it can't be much longer. I can go get it for you, if you'd like."

"No. That's all right. I'll go. Walking will help wake me up. Would you like some?"

"No. I'm fine." She rubbed his back for a brief moment, until he stood.

"I'll be right back."

A moment's search found a pop and a coffee machine. Michael dropped in several coins and waited for the cup to fill. He had just taken a sip when his cell phone rang.

He glanced around and withdrew his phone.

"Yes."

"Michael?"

"Yes, Birkoff. What is it?"

"It's Nikita. She's in real trouble." Birkoff said in a near whisper.

"Michael!" Walter briskly interrupted.

"What's happened?" Michael felt another jolt of adrenaline to add to the caffeine.

"It's Nikita. They've started doping her with hard drugs-heroin's my guess, but I don't know for sure. We've got to get her out of there now, Michael." Walter kept his voice down, and Michael knew it was to keep the intel from Operations.

"Do we have a fix on the yacht's position?" He said with a calmness learned by years of training.

"Yes. We think the destination is somewhere on or near the Arabian Peninsula."

"I have a priority mission conflict. Arrange for transport for me by tomorrow afternoon. I'll call you in an hour or so with details."

"Understood." Walter broke contact and turned to Birkoff. "Keep talking to her, Birkoff, as long as you think she's conscious. Don't leave her alone for a second."

"I won't." Birkoff promised. "What can Michael do?"

"I don't know. But I trust he'll find some way to get her out of there."

Michael slipped his phone wearily into his coat pocket and leaned against the coffee machine, trying to clear his head enough to think. He saw Elena appear in the hallway, and wave at him. He dumped the half-full cup of coffee in a nearby trash can and went to see about his son.

The doctor stood in his green operating scrubs, holding a clipboard.

"Mr. and Mrs. Samuelle? I'm Dr Bell." He and Michael briefly shook hands. "Your son has a concussion-a mild one, but we want to keep him overnight for observation. This is only routine. I feel sure you'll be able to take him home in the morning."

Elena smiled in relief, "Thank you, doctor. Can I see him?"

"Of course. I've had him moved to pediatrics, room 110. He's asleep. If you'd like to stay the night with him, just ask a nurse. She can get you a comfortable chair to sleep in."

"Michael, I'll stay with him." Elena said, looking up into her husband's weary face. "You go home and get some rest. I'll tell Adam you'll see him in the morning."

"You're sure?" Michael asked, stroking her hair over one ear.

"We'll be fine."

"I'll come first and kiss him goodnight." Michael answered, taking her arm and heading towards pediatrics.

* * *

Nikita lay quietly in bed, feeling the warm lassitude of the drugs roll over her like a blanket. A small part of her felt dismay at what was happening-it nagged at the fringes of her subconscious. She should be afraid-of what?

Sometimes she just couldn't remember . . . she floated, cozy and secure. Sometimes there was a gnat of a noise that buzzed and spoke in her ear.

"Nikita? Are you there?" The tiny voice spoke again.

"Uh, huh," she answered. She chewed on the end of several stands of hair, then curled the wet strands absently around one finger.

"How are you feeling?"

"Okay. Feel good." She looked at the ceiling, wondering why it was moving like that.

"Nikita, Michael is on his way. Do you have any intel?" Birkoff sat at his console and ran one hand nervously over his short-cropped hair. He was running out of things to say and a voice to say it with. And he was loosing heart.

Twenty hours had passed since Nikita was first injected with the narcotics. They never let her get completely free of the drugs before they would come in and administer a little more. It kept her passive and talkative.

Fortunately, Birkoff had been able to engage her in a conversation of the mundane. Her abductors took note of their conversations--to them, quite one-sided--and decided the drugs were to blame for her wanderings.

Often Nikita would drift off to oblivion in mid-sentence. For Birkoff it was a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because he could rest his voice while she slept, and a curse, because he feared each time, she might not wake up again.

Birkoff looked up and saw Operations staring down at him with a frown, and wondered what Michael had said that had convinced Ops to allow a rescue attempt. Or perhaps, it had been Madeline's call. She was there as well, watching him, her arms folded across her chest.

Birkoff gave her a brief nod, to acknowledge he had seen her. She smiled her Mona Lisa, not-quite-a-smile.

'Brief, but somehow comforting', Birkoff thought, then rubbed his head again, mentally chastising himself for being more tired than he realized. He yawned, and hoped Walter would show soon for his shift.

"Do we have a location yet?" Michael asked, holding his cell phone with one hand, while typing on his laptop with the other.

"Yes. The yacht docked at about six this morning. So far, Nikita hasn't been moved." Walter answered, from his seat next to Birkoff's.

"How is she?" Michael asked after a short pause. His fingers rested on the keys as he awaited Walter's answer.

"She says she's fine. . . but she's in the early stages of withdrawal. In a few hours, she's going to be pretty bad."

Michael didn't need to see Walter's face to know he was concerned. Every word was pregnant with quiet anguish. Walter had first hand knowledge of withdrawal and what it could do. Viet Nam had left him with both emotional and physical pain-pain that had driven him into hell of drugs for several years. He was clean now-but the memories of those lost years hung heavy in the air. He knew better than anyone what Nikita was going through.

"Is she rational?"

"Yes, for now. She keeps asking for you."

"I know. With preparation of the mission-every time I've had a chance to speak to her, she's been asleep or incoherent."

"She's awake now-I can switch you to her channel, if you want."

"Yes." Michael said simply. He waited a moment, to be sure Walter had left the net. "Nikita?"

"Michael? Is it you?" Her voice sounded hoarse, like she had just awakened.

"Yes. How are you holding up?"

"Uh-I'm f-fine."

Every word was a lie. Michael could hear the pain, in each little catch of her voice. And he could hear her shivering.

"It's cold," she muttered, rolling her body into a ball. "J-just a little cold."

He could see her in his mind's eye, as she had been during the War. Strong and brave against the pain and the fear. "I'll be there soon," he whispered.

She chuckled, "It's a date." A moment later she began to cry.

* * *

The house was a large stucco villa, surrounded by high walls and security systems, but no exterior guards. It graced the side of a large hill in the outskirts of Lebanon, with several of the fabled cedar trees surrounding it.

Michael watched from another house further up the slope. His night-scope gave him a few details of the house where Nikita and the others were being held. Everything was in place and ready-only Ivanovich was still in the dwelling, along with Mauvais.

Michael began to pace and silently curse their lingering. He could do nothing until they left.

Convincing Operations to rescue Nikita had been difficult. As Michael had expected, Operations' first choice had been to cancel Nikita before she broke.

"If I cancel her, they will get suspicious and dig deeper. If Nikita and the others are all freed together, her significance will be decreased." Michael argued.

"That still doesn't solve the problem, Michael. I still need someone on the inside. I need details of his organization. To get that, I need access! We would have had this over and done with two years ago, if Nikita hadn't interfered with Chandler!"

"Nikita is in imminent danger of being compromised. If that happens--if she breaks--it will ruin the profile I have in place."

"What profile?" Operations asked, suddenly more interested.

Michael gave Operations a quick briefing on Stillman's performance as the Prince.

"Stillman was convincing. So convincing, that we have made arrangements to meet in a month to purchase other "brides" once the "prince" gets bored with the ones he has. I also made it clear that there might be other Prince's just as interested as Abdullah."

"Stillman's cover isn't deep enough to sustain this charade." Operations argued.

"It is deep enough for us to get several valentine operatives inside. If Stillman's cover fails-we let it be known he's an eccentric millionaire-his money will still spend just as well. I doubt Ivanovich will care in any event-as long as he makes a profit."

Michael watched Operations pace. It was thin, but thinner profiles had succeeded and at this point, thin was all they had. They couldn't afford to have Ivanovich disappear inside his organization once again.

"All right. At the moment, we don't have time to argue." Operations relented finally.

"Once I have freed Nikita, the local authorities will be sent in. The Israeli's will be given a terrorist scenario-they will investigate. The other women will be freed and no one will be the wiser. Ivanovich will still be free to negotiate with Prince Abdullah for future brides, and eventually we will learn his entire organization. Meanwhile, we will be able to free the remaining women he currently holds captive, and that will force Ivanovich to kidnap more women to provide for the Prince's future orders. If he's rushed, there's room for mistakes to be made. "

"Do it." Operations had finally agreed, but he wasn't happy about it. Nikita would still be a thorn in his side!

* * *

"Michael. . . Michael . . . Michael. . . ." Nikita chanted his name through the pain. She trembled. She begged.

"Help me. . . please. . ." She sobbed in a dark corner of the room, hiding like a feral animal and chained like one.

"Sugar-please listen. Michael's close by. You've got. . . " Walter's voice came close to breaking. He swallowed his memories, and continued. "You've got to hang on for just a little longer."

"Why won't they give me some more? Just a little more." She cried, for an exhausting few minutes. And Walter wanted to cry with her. Even when Michael freed her, she still wouldn't be really free. Not for days-maybe, even weeks in detox. He shuddered at the memories.

"I'm here, Sugar. Just hang on, just a few minutes more."

An hour after Ivanovich was safely out of the way, Michael slid down a cable and landed silently on the roof top. Clad head to foot in combat black, he dropped a small equipment bag at his feet as he unhooked himself from the cable.

"Arrived, first mark." He said quietly, checking the time on his watch. Its blue fluorescent face showed it was nearly three in the morning. The raid was scheduled for three ten-he had twelve minutes to find Nikita and get her to safety before the Masad sent in their patrol to investigate the house.

"Nikita is five meters to your left-upstairs bedroom. There is a sensor on the door and the window-pretty standard stuff." Birkoff's hands tapped across his keyboard. "Go." He said.

Michael anchored himself, then rappelled over the side of the roof. He stopped inches from decorative wrought-iron railing that surrounded the balcony. The ground was still a good twenty meters further down.

He slipped out of the climbing harness, and knelt to deactivate the security alarm on the balcony doors. As he worked he asked, "How's Nikita?"

"Hurry," Walter answered hopelessly. "Just hurry."

He found her curled in a corner, shaking and incoherent.

"Nikita, it's Michael." He whispered, touching her face.

"Nooooo," she wept like a child. "He left me. He left me. He isn't coming back."

He cut through the chain that kept her imprisoned with bolt-cutters. Then reached in his vest pocket and pulled out a small hypodermic and an elastic band.

"Talk to her some more, Walter." Michael whispered, tying the band around her arm.

"Sugar, it's almost over. You're almost home." Walter said softly.

Michael snapped a chem-lite and shook it. The blue-white light was just enough to enable him to find a vein. He injected her quickly, then replaced the empty needle into his vest pocket along with the elastic band."

He held Nikita across his lap, rocking her and stroking her hair, as he waited for the medicine to take effect. Quieting her tears, as he had his son's, only days before, he held her close, kissed her and promised that all would be well.

"Nikita?"

"What?" She spoke so weakly, Michael could hardly hear.

"We have to leave now."

"Can't leave-have to wait for Michael." She murmured.

"Come-I'll take you to him," Michael pulled her quickly to her feet, then dipped to catch her weight over his shoulder. He carried her to the balcony and slipped her into the rappelling harness.

"Time?" Michael called out to Birkoff as he lowered Nikita and himself to ground.

"Four minutes-Masad is already on their way. Bergman's parked in the black Audi on the corner. He'll have you both to a safe house within three minutes." Birkoff said, suddenly feeling crushed by exhaustion. "How's Nikita?"

"Asleep, and out of pain, for now."

Birkoff watched as Walter folded his arms on the console and buried his face in them. "Yeah," he whispered, watching Walter, "for now."

Michael reached the parked Audi only seconds before the Israeli commandos arrived and stormed the house. He carefully placed Nikita in the rear seat and shut the door. Then with gun drawn, he went to the driver's side and ordered Bergman out of the car.

"W-what the . . . ?" Bergman saw the barrel of Michael's Ruger 9mm pistol pointed at his head and slowly raised his hands in the air.

"Get out of the car," Michael said with lethal softness, "now."

Bergman knew the reputation of the man speaking and didn't hesitate. "Sure, whatever you want."

Michael assisted Bergman in getting out of the car, patted him down for weapons, found his gun, and took it from him.

"Now, go." Michael said, waving Bergman on his way with his Ruger.

As the puzzled Bergman shrugged and began to walk away, Michael got in the car and drove away.

"Walter, switch to B channel," Michael ordered as he drove through the darkened streets.

"I'm here," Walter answered.

"I need medical assistance for Nikita. I've had some difficulty with the safe house and need an alternate location."

"There isn't anything inside Beirut," Walter replied. The closest is in Israel-but without passports, you'll have trouble getting across the border. I can get them to you, but not tonight. The best I can do is find you a hotel for the night and have a courier get you out of there in the morning."

"Fine. I'll need someone from medlab to give me instructions for tonight."

"I can tell you anything you need to know." Walter said firmly.

"How long will the drugs keep her pain free?" Michael asked.

"Several hours-but based on the program they had her on, she'll be in bad shape by tomorrow afternoon."

"What can I expect?" Michael asked, looking into the rearview mirror at Nikita's motionless body.

"It depends, people handle withdrawal in different ways, but most everyone gets extremely ill-vomiting, tremors, violent headaches, hallucinations-feeling cold. She'll be violent one moment and meek the next. Michael, she won't be herself at all. Expect anything. She's capable of killing you-so don't trust her. And don't listen to anything she tells you, either. It will be the drugs talking, not Nikita. It's important that you remember that."

"How long will it take to get the drugs out of her system?"

"Days, Michael-even then, the craving doesn't go away. But she should be over the worst of it in 36 to 48 hours."

"Is there anything I should do?"

"Keep her warm, keep fluids down her, and try and keep her quiet. Restrain her, if necessary." Walter paused, then added, "It's not gonna be pretty."

"You have the hotel reservations yet?"

"Yes-and I'll be standing by, if you need any help."

The was a long pause, then Michael said, "Thanks Walter."

The room was large and isolated. Walter had booked nearly the entire floor around them. "In case she gets noisy," he had explained.

Michael carried her into the room and put her in bed. He ordered some food for himself, ate, then lay down next to Nikita and following Walter's instructions, handcuffed her wrist to his own.

"Get as much sleep as you can. You're going to need it." Walter said. "Call me when she comes to."

Nikita awoke with a start. Her dreams had been dark and disturbing, leaving her disoriented and confused when she opened her eyes.

At first she wasn't sure whether to believe Michael was real. He lay asleep, with his head cradled on one arm against the pillow, and his other arm draped across Nikita's. She watched him for a full minute before deciding to touch him to be sure of his existence. When she moved her arm to reach out to him, she discovered her arm bound to his.

Michael immediately awoke, and pushed himself up on one arm to look at her.

"How do you feel?" He asked intently.

"Where are we?" She gazed around the room, then back at him. "And what's this?" She asked, meaning the handcuffs.

"I didn't want to lose you again." He said, with a faint smile. "Are you all right?"

"Just tired. How did I get here?"

"I retrieved you last night." He reached into his pocket for the key to the restraints and unlocked them.

Nikita sat up and nearly fell over. "Dizzy," she mumbled in the way of explanation. Michael put out a hand to steady her.

"Do you think you can eat anything?" He asked, hopefully.

"I think so. I'd also like to a have a bath." She ran her hand through her hair and grimaced. "I'd like to wash my hair too."

"The bathroom is there," he said, pointing at a nearby door. "What would you like to eat?"

"Anything-Michael, God, I feel like I have rubber legs." She said, trying to stand.

Without a word, Michael slipped an arm around her waist and helped her across to the bathroom. He sat her on the closed toilet seat and turned on the bath water.

Nikita smiled at him, feeling silly having him do such mundane things for her. After all, this was Michael, a class five operative, for pity's sake!

"Thanks for coming back for me," she said, tugging her shirt over her head.

She got it half-way off, then got entangled. Michael came immediately to her aid, and pulled her free of it. If it bothered him to see her half-naked, he didn't show it. In fact, he seemed almost clinically detached, and helped her off with the rest of her clothes in the same way.

"I'll be back. I'm going to call and order some breakfast. Call me if you need me." Michael said, handing her a small bottle of shampoo.

Nikita nodded and leaned back in the warm water to wet her hair. She felt as if she had in inch of crud all over.

"It's a wonder Michael doesn't jump up and run in another direction!' She thought to herself, as she lathered her hair. She hadn't been allowed a bath in days.

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

Feeling cleaner and a little more human, Nikita came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

Breakfast had arrived and Michael insisted Nikita have it in bed.

"I'm not an invalid," she argued. "I'll be fine."

Michael didn't dismiss her argument, but he didn't relent either. Nikita found herself wrapped in blankets with a tray in her lap.

After a few bites of breakfast, Nikita asked, "Michael, where are we?"

"Lebanon."

"As in the country?" She asked in amazement.

"Beirut, to be precise."

"The last few days are hazy. . . . did we conclude the mission?"

Michael gave her a brief rundown of all that had happened.

"Ms Popovich is safely home with her family." Michael said soberly.

"And Ivanovich?"

"Still active but targeted."

"Then why did Operations allow you to get me out?"

Michael took one of her hands in his and traced a pattern over her palm with the tips of his fingers. "You were compromised." He returned simply.

Nikita let loose with a snort of laughter. "Why not just cancel me?"

Michael expression changed fractionally, but Nikita caught it.

"You were sent in to kill me?" The hand, Michael held, changed into a fist.

"No." Michael smoothed it open again.

"But that was Operations' first choice." It was a statement, not a question.

Michael's green eyes blinked once, but he didn't respond to Nikita's supposition one way or another.

Nikita pulled her hand free of his. "I just don't understand you, Michael. Why can't you just admit that's what Operations wanted? It's like you want to protect him, or something." She shoved back the tray and the blankets, got out of bed, then began to pace the floor, still wrapped in only a towel. "Isn't there anyone in Section with the guts to stand up to him? How did he get so much power over everyone, anyway?" She jerked the towel off her damp hair and tossed it onto the floor in frustration.

Michael watched her silently. It was beginning, just as Walter had told him it would. First came general irritability. In a couple of hours irritability would turn to anger, then anxiousness, and finally acute pain. And there was nothing at all he could do to stop the course of it-nothing at all.

"Well, when are we getting out of here?" She asked, petulantly.

"Soon." He responded, knowing that to move her anywhere now was impossible. At least here he could keep her safe and contained while she fought her way through withdrawal. Walter had said 36 to 48 hours. He prayed Nikita was strong enough to shake the habit. If she wasn't, Operations would assuredly use it as another excuse to have her canceled. Fear of that, had made Michael avoid the "safehouse".

Nikita was strong, and Michael believed she would come through this crisis, if given the opportunity. And he intended that she get the opportunity, without interference from Operations or the Section.

"Michael!" Nikita looked at him in alarm, then bolted for the bathroom. Michael knelt and held her head as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

When the first bout of illness subsided, she started to cry. "It's happening again-God, I don't think I can go through this again. Michael, isn't there anything I can take?"

"No. The drugs have to work their way out of your system." He wet a bath cloth and handed it to her.

"But you gave me something last night. Can't you give me some more? Just until we get back to Section?"

"No."

She started to retch again, then pleaded, "Michael-please?"

"There isn't anything to give you, Nikita." He tried to hold her, but she squirmed away, with angry tears. "I won't leave you," he promised.

"Why the hell not? You left me behind on the boat!" She shouted, pushing him away. "You and your precious Section just wrote me off! This wouldn't have happened to me if you hadn't have left me!"

"Nikita. . . " Michael tried to calm her.

"No! Damn you-leave me alone!" She slapped him twice before he caught her hands in his.

Anger turned to hysteria, and Michael had to wrestle her to the floor and dodge both feet and arms, as she attacked him.

"I hate you! If you hadn't have killed him-I'd be free!" She screamed through tears. "I'd be free!"

Michael felt her body suddenly relax, as if she had exhausted all of her strength. He eased off her, and watched as she curled herself in to a trembling, sobbing ball on the bathroom floor.

Walter had warned him of this too-that it would be the drugs talking, and yet, every word was the truth and it convicted him. He left her for a moment, to get a blanket from the bed to cover her. He mentally willed her to be strong. She had to do this on her own. He was helpless to assist her now, except to accompany her through the pain.

Hours passed like centuries. One moment Nikita was pleading, the next she was cursing. Michael sat with his back against the closed bathroom door, his bare feet planted firmly on the cool tile floor, warily watching her. She sat, half-naked, slumped against the side of the bathtub, staring at him with a half hostile, half glazed expression on her face. Her hair was tangled and damp from tears and sweat.

The bathroom floor was spotted with blood from Michael's split lip-the result of Nikita's unsuccessful bid to get past him. She was surprisingly strong, despite her illness. Michael could only hope it was a good sign.

"Michael." Her voice was wavering and contrite. "Help me, please?" She started to cry again, but softly. "Please, help me." She slid over until she was lying on her side. "Please. . . . " She wrapped her arms around her naked shoulders and shivered.

He scooted closer and tried to cover her with the blanket. She crawled to him and laid her head in his lap.

"Michael, I love you-" she sobbed. "It hurts so much."

Michael squeezed his eyes shut. 'I love you'-the words were daggers into his heart. He watched her relax a little more and hoped she might sleep for a while.

"Want some water. . ." She said wearily, her eyes drifting shut.

"All right." He said, gently stroking her hair off her forehead.

Michael eased her onto the floor, folded a towel into a make-shift pillow and tucked it under her head. "Lie still," he said, "I'll get you some water."

Nikita waited until he had gone into the bedroom for a glass, then crawled over to where her jeans were lying on the floor. She shivered with pain as she searched feebly for Walter's hypodermics that were still in her pockets. If one would put out a two hundred and fifty pound male, two would certainly put her out of her pain. . . .

Walter looked at his watch for the fifth time in five minutes wondering if the plane was ever going to land. In the past week he had been to Australia, then back to Section, and now was on his way to Beirut. He was still stunned that Madeline had been the one to smooth his way. He never would figure that woman out, he thought. 'Not in a billion years.'

"I think it's an excellent idea." She'd said, when he first proposed going to help Nikita through withdrawal. At the time Walter thought it might have been to take over for Michael, but no one mentioned Michael returning, and when Walter mentioned it as an additional reason to go, Madeline just smiled faintly, shook her head and said it wasn't necessary for Michael to return right away.

'Yep-not in a billion years. . . '

Walter listened a moment before knocking on the door. It was quiet inside. Hopefully that meant that Nikita was asleep.

Gun drawn, Michael carefully opened the door. He looked both surprised and genuinely relieved to see Walter.

"How is she?" Walter asked briskly, entering with a black medical bag in one hand and suitcase in the other.

"She's about the same." Michael replied. He put down his gun and picked up a glass. She's in the bathroom."

"I thought you might like some help." Walter said by way of an explanation as he put down his suitcase on the bed, and began to open it. "I brought her some clothes-your passports-" he handed Michael a nightgown.

There was a plaintive cry from the bathroom, and both men immediately responded.

They found Nikita trying desperately to open the cardboard tube that concealed the tranq dart. Her first attempt had failed--in her haste several days before, she had grabbed one of real tampons along with a tranq dart. It lay shredded on the floor.

Walter immediately realized what she was trying to do.

"No, Nikita!" He reached for her hand, but she pivoted away from him and managed to kick out with one foot, knocking him backwards into the door.

Michael tackled her bodily, pinning her the floor with one arm, while the other engaged in a waving battle to capture Nikita's free hand, and the tranq dart that she clutched in her fist.

"No!" She screamed furiously, her body bucking beneath his as she struggled to get free. Fury turned to more tears and he pried the hypodermic out of her hand and tossed it aside.

Michael held her down until she finally lost the strength to continue. Walter picked up the tranq, injected its contents into the sink and tossed the empty shell into the trashcan.

"Okay, first things first," Walter said with a sigh. "Let's get her dressed and in bed."

Michael nodded, gently pulled her into his arms and lifted her off the floor. He carried her to the bed and eased her down on it. She continued to cry softly and didn't resist.

While Walter set up a telescoping IV pole and bag, Michael dressed her in the gown Walter had brought.

"Is there anything we can give her?" Michael asked, watching Walter swab her hand and insert the IV needle.

"No. Coming down off 'horse', you gotta do it cold turkey. Best thing we can do for her, is keep her warm and hope s