---

Nikita sorted through color swatches looking for the exact shade of shell pink that would match Mrs. Byron's shower curtains. When she had located the color she needed, she clipped it to the shower curtain. Tomorrow she would have her presentation completed and if Mrs. Byron liked the design, the painters could begin working in the bathroom.

With a stretch, she turned off her computer and got up from her desk. It wasn't too late, nearly seven. She went to see where Michael was and found him asleep on the couch with Anna draped over his chest. Just as she was going to get Anna to put her to bed, there was a knock at the front door.

Wondering who it could be at that hour, Nikita went to the door and opened it.

"Hi ya, Sugar." Came a familiar voice.

"Walter!" Nikita threw her arms around him and hugged him close.

"Hey! Careful! I'm an about-to-be-married guy!" He said laughing.

Nikita then noticed Walter wasn't alone. "Dr. Ingles!"

"Naw, call me Brigitte. Hello, Nikita. You look wonderful!"

Nikita hugged her too. "You and Walter?"

"Yeah, well, he's kinda cute, in a grouchy sort of way." Brigitte said drolly.

"Come on in!"

"Where's Michael?" Walter asked as they stepped inside.

Nikita put her finger to her lips and indicated they were to follow on tiptoe. The three peered around the corner at the two asleep on the couch.

Walter had to cover his mouth to keep from laughing too loud. "God, why didn't I bring a camera!"

"Ohhhh, what a sweetie!" Brigitte cooed at Anna. "She's beautiful! Look at all those curls! How old is she now?"

"About five months." Nikita leaned down to pick up her daughter and whispered, "Michael, wake up. We have company."

As soon as Nikita moved Anna, Michael woke up and kissed his daughter.

"Walter?" He sat up with surprise, and a little concern.

"Don't worry," Walter said, able to read every nuance of stress, "No one knows we're here. Besides, it doesn't matter. I'm free of Section. We both are," he added, taking Brigitte's hand in his.

"What?" Wide-eyed, Nikita sat down next to Michael, after offering seats to her guests.

"You won't believe the changes since you two left," Walter began.

"For the better?" Nikita asked, patting Anna's back as she held her on her shoulder.

Walter nodded. "For starters, they retired Operations."

"Operations? Retired? Did he go willingly?" Nikita asked.

Walter grinned, "Not exactly, but Oversight didn't give him any options."

"How did Madeline take that?" Michael asked softly.

"I don't know. Madeline was transferred to Section Six about two months after you two left. Operations was fit to be tied over that!"

"Did Davenport take my position?" Michael asked quietly.

Walter nodded. "He's done quite well for himself. His command style is different from yours of course, but he honestly tries to do his best with those kids. He was a good choice."

"Who is running Section One now that Operations is gone?" Nikita asked curiously.

"Would you believe, Helmut Volker?"

"Helmut?" Nikita said with stunned surprise.

"Helmut—and the word is, George is grooming him to take over at Oversight when he retires next year." Walter continued with a wide grin.

Nikita smiled. "How is he to work for?"

"Day and Night, Sugar. He's tough, but he's fair. He really seems to care for his people, and after Operations and his little power trips, that's an incredible relief. It's almost pleasant to work there now."

"How's Birkoff?" Nikita asked, shifting Anna off her shoulder onto her lap, to change her.

"You can ask him yourself. He's flying in tomorrow. He's my best man."

"When's the wedding?" Michael asked, smiling faintly.

"In three days. I thought you'd like to give the bride away, and Brigitte needs a matron of honor."

Nikita's smile widened. "We'd be delighted!"

"Okay, enough, let me hold that baby now!" Walter growled, holding out his arms.

Anna stared at Walter with large hazel eyes, then looked around with rising discomfort for her Daddy. Her lower lip extended just as tears began.

Nikita shook her head, "Anna, Daddy's right over here. See? Here's Daddy."

Anna turned to see Michael sitting next to Nikita and smiled.

"Ah, a Daddy's girl, are we?" Walter chuckled.

Anna turned her attention back to Walter. Confident that her father was close by, she relaxed and smiled at her new friend.

"Say Grandpa!" Walter said to the little girl in his lap, then looked over at Nikita. "Would you mind?"

Nikita's eyes got misty, "No, not at all!"

"Thanks." Walter returned with genuine pleasure. He looked at his new grandchild and officially christened her, "Hi ya Sugar Doll!"

* * *

"It's late. We'd better get going," Walter said as Michael got up to put his sleeping daughter to bed.

"Oh, why don't you stay here?" Nikita asked, not ready to relinquish her friends quite yet.

"No, Sugar. I hate company that arrives unannounced and stays! Besides," he added with a smirk, "we make a lot of noise in bed, and I wouldn't want to keep you two kids up!"

"Walter! I'm going to beat you!" Brigitte said, folding her arms and blushing.

"I know. I can't wait!" He grinned at Nikita as he slipped an arm around Brigitte's waist.

"Walter, you're incorrigible!" Nikita laughed, with a shake of her head.

Michael returned to the den to see his guests getting ready to leave.

"Wouldn't you like to stay with us?" He offered politely.

"No, we already have a place for the night and . . ."

"Walter!" Brigitte warned.

". . . us old folks have to get to bed early," Walter continuing, yawning for effect. "Nikita gave us your phone number. We'll call you later tomorrow and get together then." He offered Michael his hand, which Michael took.

"Thanks, man." Walter said seriously.

"For what?"

"For getting yourselves out of there. For starting the chain-reaction that changed everything for the better for those of us that remained behind."

"How'd we do all of that?" Nikita asked as she hugged Walter goodbye.

"For starters, Michael's recommendation to George that Volker should be in charge. Volker's done wonders. But more than that; your actions got Madeline moved and Operations retired. Without the two of you, things were never quite as successful. George used that as an excuse to clean house."

"Come on, Walter. Plenty of time to talk tomorrow." Brigitte said, tugging on his arm. Walter winked at Nikita.

"She's so impatient." He wagged his eyebrows mischievously.

"Walter." Brigitte said ominously.

"Coming, dear." Walter said playfully.

* * *

Nikita leaned against Michael as they watched their friends drive away.

"It was so good to see them again," Nikita sighed as Michael closed the door. "I can hardly believe all the things Walter said have changed. It's wonderful!"

Michael nodded, but didn't say anything as they walked into the kitchen.

"Michael? Is something wrong? You were awfully quiet all evening."

"Why would anything be wrong?" he asked, as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out some bottled water.

Nikita's eyes narrowed, as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Truth, Michael. What's wrong? Are you worried about Walter's visit? Do you think he'd betray us to Section?"

"No." He shook his head, but still hadn't turned to look at her.

Then with a flash of sudden insight Nikita knew what it was. She sat down on a nearby kitchen stool.

"You miss it. You miss Section." It was not an accusation, simply a statement of fact. Nikita wasn't even sure how she felt about it.

Michael looked at her, not sure what to say. He couldn't lie. For one, he'd promised her he wouldn't; for another, even if he did, he knew she would recognize it.

"Not Section. I just miss the importance of what we did there, sometimes."

"Oh, Michael, why didn't you say something?" Nikita asked sadly.

"There's nothing to say," he said softly. "I made my choice. I chose you and Anna. It was just a job, Nikita. You and Anna are my life." He came over to her and drew her into his arms.

"I know." She said, laying her head against his shoulder. "But it was a job that you were superb at doing, Michael. I know how much that meant to you—doing the best job you could."

They both knew what she referred to that time that Michael had been temporarily demoted from his Level Five status.

"I'm doing well, where I am now." Michael reminded her. His job as a security specialist in a growing communications company, wasn't exciting by any stretch of the imagination, but he'd already been promoted twice since being hired.

"Michael, you'd do brilliantly no matter where you were," Nikita assured him before she kissed him.

The kiss was an invitation to come to bed. Whether Michael would admit it or not, Nikita understood on some level that he needed her reassurance. He needed to know that she didn't think less of him for the choice he made.

Michael's self-esteem had been somewhat battered by the work he had chosen on the outside, but Nikita was sure, given time, he'd find a place for himself where he could thrive again. He only needed time. Until then, she had to make sure he knew how much she loved and supported him.

She missed being an operative sometimes herself. What they had both accomplished had been remarkable. But compared to the love they shared, Section was at best, only an ugly memory.

She understood him. Michael looked down into Nikita's face with tenderness and gratitude. After all Section had done to them both, she still understood what his job had meant to him. Could he possibly love her more than he did now?

"Thank you," he said softly against her mouth.

"Welcome," she sighed the word against his lips before deepening her invitation.

They kissed their way down the hall to their bedroom, bumping into dark corners, laughing as quietly as they could as not to wake their daughter.

Michael bounced a little on his back as Nikita shoved him onto their bed.

"You're all mine, now!" She teased, leaning down to peel him naked of his shirt and jeans.

"Am I?" He asked when she'd completed the task, then reached up with one arm, grabbed her around the waist, yanked her on top of him, then rolled over with her. In one fluid motion, he had her pinned to the bed.

"I beg to differ," he whispered playfully, "I think you're all mine."

"Oh?" She slipped one hand between them, cupped a vital piece of his anatomy gently and giggled. "Yeah? Who's got who?"

He looked down, raised an eyebrow and asked, "Now that you have me in your power, what do you intend to do with me? Hmmm?" His hazel eyes smiled at her.

"Ohhh, I don't know. What are these things good for, anyway?" She inquired, stroking him lightly.

"Quite . . . " Michael closed his eyes with a soft grunt of pleasure at the sensation before answering, "a number of things, actually. Would you like a written list?"

"They say actions speak louder than words . . ." She reminded.

"Thought you'd never ask . . ."

Nikita's breasts were fuller now, their tips darker from nursing, but little else had changed, Michael noted, as she arched up to meet him, mid-stroke. She was so beautiful! He never tired of looking at her.

He slipped his hands beneath her bottom and pushed himself inside as deeply as he could—My God, she felt good!

She was close, straining for completion, panting his name, unconsciously pulling him closer. Like little signposts they led him on to what came next. He reached between them, his fingers touching and stroking gently around a moist, hard pearl hidden in her warmth.

"Come," he whispered, holding on to his own pleasure through strength of will. "Come my love, come for me."

"Oh, Michael!" She lifted up and grabbed his arms to hold on.

Intimately, he felt her explosion of pleasure. He gratefully let it engulf him into one of his own.

Afterward, when Nikita cuddled against his shoulder and whispered a sleepy, "I love you," Michael stroked her hair and watched her drift off into dreams.

"Merci," he whispered tenderly against her hair, "merci." Saying "I love you, too" never seemed to be enough for what she'd given him. The words were wholly inadequate to explain how he felt.

What was it worth? Being loved? Being accepted, despite having so dark a past? What value could you put on the feeling of simply being safe? Of not having to watch every action, every word you spoke? Of being able to sleep, without dreams that destroyed?

Did she know how much it meant to him to have a home? To see his baby's smile? To live a normal life?

Michael sighed and closed his eyes. Even with all the words he knew—all twelve different languages worth—there was still no way to tell her how much it meant.

"I love you, too" would just have to do.

* * *

"Oh, wow! Who's this?" Birkoff said, having hugged Nikita, and turning to Michael, who was holding Anna.

"Anna," Nikita said introducing her daughter proudly.

"Do you think she'd let me hold her?" Birkoff asked, sounding unsure of himself.

Nikita took Anna from Michael, as Birkoff sat his carry-on bag on the floor of the airport.

"Anna, this is your Uncle Seymour," Nikita grinned as she handed him the baby.

"Wow," Birkoff said with some awe, "she's a little doll!"

Anna cooed up at him and laughed.

"Hey, I think she likes me!" Birkoff laughed as Anna made a shaky grab at his glasses with one chubby hand. Nikita laughed, and rescued Birkoff from her daughter's attack.

"No, no, Anna. Don't eat Uncle Seymour's glasses."

"Well, there's no accounting for taste!" Walter commented cheerfully as he stepped up. "How's it going, amigo?"

"Walter!"

The two men embraced briefly.

"How's life in the real world?" Birkoff asked with a smile.

"Livable!" Walter replied. "How long a reprieve did they give you?"

"Two weeks."

Birkoff turned to Michael and held out his hand. "I can't tell you how glad I am that you're not dead!"

Michael's lips barely twitched up at the corners. "So am I." He said dryly, taking Birkoff's hand to shake.

Nikita observed Michael with mild amusement. Despite his extraordinary leadership abilities, he seemed a little uncomfortable in social gatherings. It occurred to her that the only real friend that she remembered Michael ever having, was the ill-fated Chuck. While Michael and Chuck weren't what one would call close friends, they had been close enough to exchange mild insults with each other. However, after Chuck was killed, Michael never again allowed himself to get close to anyone in Section—with the one exception of herself.

Nikita wondered how it felt for Michael to suddenly be adopted by a somewhat impromptu "family", made up of Walter, Birkoff and now Brigitte. In two days, Michael's family had increased by a set of Grand parents and an Uncle for his daughter—quite daunting for a man used to being pretty much alone in the world!

As for how Nikita felt about her new extended family, she couldn't have been happier. Walter and Birkoff had always been her closest and dearest friends; having them become adopted family was icing on the proverbial cake. If only Michael wasn't so . . . uneasy? Nikita wasn't sure why, but she sensed he was.

"Okay," Birkoff grinned, "where's the bride-to-be?"

"Out trying on her dress." Walter smiled.

"Well, after you take me to my hotel, us guys have to go out for a drink—no offense Nikita, no babes allowed. It's bachelor party—guy type stuff." Seymour grinned widely.

Nikita smiled, but raised an eyebrow at Michael. Just the thought of him going out with the boys for a beer was a new concept altogether. She almost wished she could be a fly on the wall for this get together.

"Well, if you insist," Nikita said with a little grin, "just drop me and Anna home first."

At first, Nikita thought Michael was going to make an excuse not to go, but he didn't say anything, one way or another. She hoped that he would go. He needed to know he had other people who cared for him.

When they reached home, Michael carried Anna inside and put her to bed.

"You don't mind?" Michael asked, cupped Nikita's face gently in his hand.

She put her arms around him.

"No. Go and have a good time." She gave him a little smack of a kiss on his lips, then raised an eyebrow, "On second thought, go and but don't have too good a time. Walter and bachelor party in the same sentence makes me nervous," she teased. "I see visions of naked ladies parading out of giant cakes."

"You're all the naked I can handle," he whispered against her neck, unhooking her bra at the same moment.

"Michael!" She laughed, "they're outside waiting!"

"Let them," he said with a gleam in his eye, pulling up her shirt.

"No," She giggled, tugging it down again, "now be good!"

Michael gave her a playful, half-hearted sigh, "If I must. . ." Then he gave her a sensual, open mouthed kiss. "Wait up for me?" he begged softly.

"Oh, all-right. If I have to." She joked against his mouth.

* * *

In the intimacy of the darkened bar, Walter sat back and sipped his beer. He quietly observed the former Level Five operative while Birkoff chatted happily about the many changes that had been made in Section during the last year.

Making comparisons between the 'old' Michael of Section One and the 'new' Michael, husband and father, was difficult. For one thing, the 'old' Michael had kept himself so aloof, that few people, Walter included, knew a lot about what made him tick.

Michael had been both envied and feared by most people in Section One. If asked, they could list his personal attributes—well-read, skilled operative, brilliant tactician, master martial artist, natural leader, but beyond the outer shell of Michael's Section persona, few, if any, knew Michael the man.

Still, there were a few remarkably visible changes in this 'new' Michael. His wardrobe, for one. Gone were the tailored suits in forbidding black. Instead Michael was attired in jeans, with a comfortable sage-green cotton shirt, that brought out the color in his eyes.

Even so, there was nothing casual about his attitude. Michael still carried himself with a lethal grace, always completely aware of his surroundings. His speech was still politely formal, softly spoken and succinct. He got his point across using an economy of words, using few adjectives that would betray his emotions on a subject. And yet, there was a softness to Michael's expression whenever the subject of the conversation strayed to Nikita or Anna. Without doubt, Walter knew Michael loved, and loved deeply.

And this 'new' Michael smiled, even chuckled on occasion, Walter noted with some satisfaction. While he never would be "one of the boys", Walter thought it made Michael at least more approachable.

"Uh, hello." There was a voice from behind and Walter turned to see who had spoken. It turned out to be a fiery redhead, with bright blue eyes, and a body poured into her clothes.

"Hello," Walter returned politely, but the woman was staring past him at Michael, with an expression on her face that practically screamed 'f**k me, I'm yours!'

Walter, smiled, shook his head and took another long pull off his beer. Michael had yet to acknowledge the woman's existence, although Walter was sure he was aware of her. Birkoff was certainly aware of her; his silly half-grin gave that away immediately.

Whatever Michael 'had', it was a crying shame it couldn't be bottled, Walter thought with amusement. Women flocked to him like metal filings to a magnet.

"You come here often?" The woman attempted contact once again.

Birkoff, who was feeling the alcohol in his system, shook his head and grinned wider.

"Nope. Just got into town." Birkoff answered.

The redhead glanced over at Birkoff with a slight frown, but quickly returned her penetrating gaze to Michael.

Walter looked at Michael, wondering how he was going to handle the situation, and noticed him covertly toying with his wedding ring. With a twinge of shock, he saw Michael pull it off his finger and cup it in his hand, as he turned his attention to the redhead.

"Hi." He told her, pleasantly.

"Hi." She replied, with cloying sweetness.

"Were you speaking to me?" Michael inquired softly.

She nodded, and confident of his interest, stepped closer. "Would you mind if I joined you?"

Without missing a beat, and with the purest of expressions, Michael looked up at her and softly spoke: "Sure, if you don't mind that I'm gay."

Walter was glad he hadn't had a mouthful of beer at that moment, because he was sure he would have spewed it all over the bar. The woman looked like she'd been stunned with a cattle prod and Birkoff looked like he had swallowed a mouthful of alum.

"Oh . . . I uhm, well, I didn't know this was a gay bar," the redhead stammered, taking a step back.

"It's not. My friends are straight." Michael continued mildly.

She smiled uneasily and nodded at Birkoff and Walter. "H-hi."

"Would you like to dance?" Birkoff asked, recovering from Michael's prank and deciding to make the most of the opportunity.

"Sure," she said weakly. With one last lingering look at Michael, she turned towards the dance floor.

"Great," Birkoff pushed out of his chair and followed her over.

Walter waited until the two were out of earshot before he lost it, laughing.

"Now, I've seen and heard it all!"

Michael smiled faintly and slipped his wedding ring back on his finger.

"You had me worried for a moment, though." Walter said, taking another long sip of his beer. "I thought I might have to take you outside and knock some crap out of you."

Michael looked over at Walter and smiled wider, genuinely amused at the thought.

"Okay, let's say I would have tried to knock some crap out of you," Walter amended with a laugh.

"I never got a chance to thank you," Michael said softly, changing the topic.

"For what?" Walter asked.

"For helping me get Nikita free of Section."

Walter smiled and shook his head. "Was my pleasure, Michael. I love Sugar, like she was my own. Section was slowly killing her—hell, it was killing all of us! I'm just glad she's happy—that you're both happy."

"We are." Michael said simply. He raised his beer in salute and Walter's bottle clinked against it.

* * *

"Mr. Samuelle? Mr. McAffee needs to see you in his office." Mrs. Riffen stuck her graying head into Michael's office and smiled pleasantly.

"Of course," Michael said quietly to the elderly secretary, and got to his feet.

The mood at the Phoenix corporation, while not on par with the coldness of Section One, was quite formal. The President and owner of the company was David McAffee, a grizzled paraplegic veteran of the Vietnam war, and an electronics wizard. Confined to a wheel chair for the past twenty-five years from a car accident, made him testy and stern, though not quite a tyrant. Michael found him abrupt, but not cruel. He was a man driven by dark demons, with a no-nonsense approach to life and business. In short, he was a man that Michael completely understood.

McAffee looked up as his junior vice-president entered his office with a sense of—pride?

David had been married briefly to a woman who had been unable to cope with his disabilities and left. Had she been kind enough to give him a son, when he had still able to produce one, David was sure he would have liked him to have been exactly like Michael Samuelle.

There was a military precision to Michael. He was polite, direct, and unafraid to disagree, even with the president of the company. And God, how David loathed "yes" men!

Michael was a man's man; handsome, but not vain; brilliant, but not cocky; firm with subordinates, yet fair, and never profane. He took problems that would have given lessor men killer ulcers, completely in stride. In a cutthroat business, Michael was completely unflappable. He could chill a competitor with a look, or charm them into submission with a word.

"You asked to see me, sir?" Michael said softly.

David wanted to ask the young man if he'd ever spent time in the military; Michael's stance was similar to parade rest, except he always held his hands clasped in front. His tone of voice was respectful, but not submissive.

David began speaking in Vietnamese, to which Michael replied in the same language. That he did so without so much as a raised eyebrow, and with a fluency of a native, intrigued McAffee.

"I've been thinking about opening a small manufacturing plant in Southeast Asia—Vietnam, to be precise. I just found out you are fluent in the language. You're much too young to ever have served—where did you learn to speak it so well?"

"My first wife was Vietnamese, and a former employer was an American POW in Vietnam. Between the two of them, I picked it up."

"Hmmm. Divorced?" David raised an eyebrow. Had he uncovered a fault in his favorite protege?

"Widowed." Michael said softly.

"Oh. Sorry to hear it." David said regretfully.

"Thank you." Michael said, dropping his eyes briefly, "It was a long time ago."

"I see you speak several languages." He held up Michael's personnel file.

"I've been told I have a knack for them," Michael replied.

There wasn't so much as an ounce of pride in his statement, David noted. As if speaking twelve languages was as common as speaking one!

"The reason I asked to see you, Michael, is that I need someone to take charge of the negotiations for the Far East project. Would you be interested?"

Michael thought about it for a moment. "Would I be required to move?"

"No. But it would involve lots of travel for a while, but nothing long term. I understand you are married with a family."

"May I discuss this with my wife, before I give you my answer?"

"Of course." David looked at his watch. "It's nearly twelve. How about I give you the details over lunch?"

* * *

"Nervous?" Michael asked, as he watched Birkoff straightening the bow tie on Walter's tux. The three men were standing in Michael's living room with the preacher installed in one corner, ready to officiate.

"S-shit!" Walter muttered, "I think it just hit me. I'm getting married!"

Birkoff giggled, "Too late to back out now, man."

"Yeah, right," Walter said with a nervous grin. "How do I look?"

"Like you're going to your own execution," Birkoff laughed, clapping him on the shoulder.

Michael shook his head and countered softly, "Like a very lucky man."

Walter ignored Birkoff, and smiled at Michael. Michael gave a nod of his head and left to collect the bride.

Michael knocked on the bedroom door, "Nikita?"

The door immediately opened and Nikita stood before him, smiling, and attired in a peach satin dress. Brigitte was behind her in ivory satin, looking just as nervous as her bridegroom.

"Are we ready?" Nikita asked.

Michael nodded, and leaned in to kiss Nikita's cheek.

"Has Walter run off yet?" Brigitte asked dryly, as Michael took her arm.

"No, I shot him in the leg. He can't get far now," Michael deadpanned.

Nikita's face lit up as a giggle escaped. Brigitte was quick to join in.

"So, okay," Brigitte laughed, "let's get this over with!"

Nikita leaned her head against Michael's shoulder as she watched Walter slip the ring onto Brigitte's finger. Walter's cheeks were pink, she noticed. Walter, blushing? She smiled. He looked so happy, Nikita thought, and she was so happy for him. Who would have thought, a year ago, that all of this would be happening? And all because of Michael.

Nikita looked up at her husband with pride and overwhelming love and caught him looking back at her. He took her hand and tenderly kissed the back of it, as the preacher's voice declared in the background, that Walter and Brigitte were husband and wife.

There were hugs all around and Brigitte tossed her bouquet at Birkoff. Startled, Birkoff caught it. Walter, who had instigated the flower toss, pointed at him and warned, "You're next, amigo!"

"Ohhh, no," Birkoff tossed the flowers at Nikita instead. "Those are for Anna! I'm too young to get married!"

* * *

"What are you thinking about?" Nikita asked, as she lay in Michael's arms.

"Anna, . . . growing up and getting married." Michael replied.

Nikita lifted her head and raised an amused eyebrow at him. "That's kind of far off in the future, isn't it?"

"Hmmm. Would you mind, . . . if we had her christened?"

"Christened? You mean, like in church with godparents and stuff?"

"Yes."

"Well, I've never thought about it. Why?"

"For my mother." He said softly, his fingers combing gently through her hair.

Nikita looked up at him and saw that he was serious.

She thought of her own mother and how Michael had risked cancellation to help her see her one last time. That he was thinking of his own mother, touched her. He rarely spoke of his parents or his sister. She sensed it was because of what he had done to land in Section, although they had never actually discussed it.

"I think that would be really nice, Michael. Do you think Walter and Brigitte will do us the honor?"

He didn't answer immediately except to hold her tighter. After a long while he said, "Merci. I want everything to be right for her."

* * *

There was a scream, and then another, followed by gunfire and the sound of terrorized panic.

"What the hell?" David said aloud, looking up from his desk. Michael had already leaped to his feet at the sound.

The office door was flung open suddenly and Mrs. Riffen nearly collapsed into the room. Michael caught her before she fell.

"Men!" She cried. "Men with guns!"

"Shirley, get over here, behind the desk, now!" David ordered, moving his wheel chair to accommodate his suggestion.

Michael helped her over and pressed her down behind the desk. "Stay still and be silent," Michael ordered her calmly. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand and nodded.

"Good girl," David said softly, as he watched Michael walk to the door and peer out of it.

"One man, armed, coming this way." Michael announced to David. "Stay in place." He opened the door wider, then stepped out of sight behind it.

David nodded, instantly understanding that Michael was setting up an ambush, with David as bait.

The gunman would have to step into the room completely in order to line up his target and a lone man in a wheelchair would be no threat. The gunman would feel secure.

Almost immediately, the enemy arrived. Dressed head to toe in combat clothing, his face covered with a ski mask, he stepped inside.

"What the hell do you want?" David shouted, drawing the gunman's entire attention.

The gunman leveled his machine pistol at David, then had it torn from his grasp from behind.

The heel of Michael's hand rammed into the gunman's nose. The impact and location of the blow, shoved cartilage and bone into the man's brain killing him instantly. It happened so quickly that even David, who had been expecting it, was startled.

Without a word, Michael checked the weapon's ammunition, then handed the gun to David. A quick search of the body exposed a second weapon, a 9mm pistol. Michael popped out the clip, checked the number of rounds, and slapped the clip back home.

"Stay here," he ordered softly. He chambered a round as he stepped to the door.

"The hell—you'll need someone to watch your back!" David rolled the chair forward, with the weapon cradled in his lap. "I do know how to use this thing," he argued, nodding down at the gun.

"All right. Give me two minutes, then come out." With that, Michael curled his body around the door and disappeared.

Keeping low to the floor, Michael crept to where the hallway intersected into the next major room.

He found a woman huddled in a corner and a man near her, unconscious and bleeding from a chest wound.

Michael grabbed her hand and made her put pressure on the wound. She saw the gun and there was a sudden look of hope on her face.

"Which way, Carol?" Michael whispered. She pointed past the desk where she and the man had been sitting. "Stay quiet. Keep the pressure on."

She nodded, and wiped away tears with one hand, before covering her other hand and pushing down harder.

"How many?" He asked.

She shrugged, quickly held up two fingers then shook her head. She wasn't sure.

Michael nodded. That meant there was probably more than one gunman. He peered around the desk, then got to his feet and moved, as quietly and lethally as a panther looking for prey.

He stepped around dead and groaning bodies, waving a few that were uninjured, or ambulatory to get to safety behind him. Those that could move dragged those that couldn't. After the initial panic, most were simply stunned; a few women wept silently.

At first thought, Michael worried the attack had been by Section. He quickly dismissed that belief when he noticed the weapons and uniforms were not Section issue, and the attack was unorganized. He suspected amateurs, probably disgruntled ex-employees.

No experienced terrorist would have split up his teams in so large a building, especially one with armed security. The situation demanded at least a two-by two, cover formation protocol. And professional terrorists never left live targets in their wake either, especially when those targets were in their avenue of retreat. Both the elevators and stairwells were to Michael's rear. To leave the building, the attackers would have to return this way, unless they planned to shoot through glass windows and repel seven stories to the ground.

Michael wondered what their objective might be. Personnel on this floor were almost entirely of upper management, to include company's president and vice-presidents. Was it simply someone going postal? An attempted kidnapping? Or were there other motives? The company vault, and one of its more important laboratories was on this floor as well.

David rolled his wheelchair over to where the elevators and stairs were located. By this time, someone must have heard the shots and called for help. It wouldn't do to have the police SWAT team take out his best vice-president thinking he was part of the problem. It also wouldn't be smart to sit there waiting with a machine pistol in his lap. The cops might shoot first and ask questions later.

Still, he didn't want to let go of his only protection. He compromised by placing the weapon, between his knees, barrel pointing to the floor. Frowning, he waited, wondering what the hell had happened to the building's armed security officers!

There were three more, Michael realized, as he saw them running down the hallway towards his position. Two of them were carrying canvas duffel bags. They looked heavy. Michael surmised it was loot or more weapons.

He decided to kill two, wound and question the third. He fired three times. The first two targets dropped in place, with fatal head wounds. The third man, hampered by one of the duffel bags, was hit in the right knee and screamed as he hit the floor clutching it.

Michael calmly walked over and retrieved the wounded man's weapon.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" He asked quietly.

The man lay on the floor moaning, but didn't answer. Michael stood and took aim, shooting him a second time in the other knee. The man screamed again.

"Answer the question, or my next shot will be in your groin." Michael explained, aiming the pistol in the specified area.

"No! Wait! Wait!" The man pleaded, as he writhed on the bloodied floor.

"Name!" Michael repeated.

"Mark T-treadwell. I—we . . . "

"Freeze!"

Michael looked up and felt a moment of frustrated anger. He'd been about to find out what the attack was all about and now the police had arrived.

"Place the weapon on the ground, put your hands behind your head!" The team leader of the SWAT team ordered, as he held his rifle tight against his shoulder and pointed at Michael.

Michael did as he was ordered, allowing himself to be hand cuffed and hauled away. Explanations would have to wait until the crime scene was secured.

"That's him!" David exclaimed, upon seeing Michael. "Michael, are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Michael returned.

"I told you, he was protecting us!" David growled angrily, at seeing the handcuffs.

"Sir, he had a weapon. We have to be careful." The commander of the team argued tersely.

"Well, you've been careful enough! Uncuff him!"

"Sir, until we get this whole mess sorted out, anyone in this building found with a weapon, including yourself, is under arrest."

"Arrest? I'm one of the fucking victims, you asshole!" David growled furiously.

"That may well be, sir, but until I know for sure, we're all going downtown." The policeman said firmly.

"Sir," Michael interrupted softly.

David turned to Michael, his face red with anger.

"It's standard police procedure. It won't take them long to clear us. It is best that you cooperate."

David took a long, deep breath and tried to get a hold of his temper.

"Yeah, I guess you're right—but I won't be hand cuffed! I can't drive this damn chair with my hands cuffed!" He directed the last of his tirade towards the SWAT commander, who nodded at the request.

Due to the difficulty of placing David inside a patrol unit, his wheelchair was rolled into the SWAT van. As a courtesy, since the SWAT team leader was fairly sure of the innocence of his captives, Michael was allowed to accompany his boss in the van.

"I wonder what it was all about," David muttered. "Do you have any idea why we were attacked today?" He asked Michael.

"I might have found out, if the police hadn't have arrived so soon," Michael said quietly. "I kept one alive for that purpose."

"That's the cops for you—never around when you need them, and when you don't, they come in droves! Do you have any theories?"

"Only one. They weren't professionals. They may have come to get something. They were carrying heavy duffel bags, but I don't know if it simply contained their equipment, or they were taking something out of the building.

David frowned. "The vault and the prototype lab is on that floor. It could have been theft. What I really want to know is what happened to our security guards? How did four armed men get so far inside without anyone stopping them?"

"Perhaps it was an inside job. They may have had this planned for a long time. They could be employees---or ex-employees. They could have smuggled their weapons inside the building and kept them hidden until they were ready to make their hit, then walked by security as employees or customers and changed their clothes after they got through the check points."

"Remind me to add facility security to your growing list of responsibilities. If you can do comm security, I don't see any reason not to let you do all security. You handled yourself brilliantly today, Michael. I'm grateful. I wonder how many people we lost today." The older man sighed. "Did you see how many?"

I saw two dead, ten wounded. Maybe more."

"Why do you think they weren't professionals?" David asked suddenly intrigued by Michael's statement.

"Because they didn't kill everyone and they were caught. Even if I hadn't delayed their departure, they would have been trapped by the SWAT team. A professional hit wouldn't have been this careless."

"Well, I guess we won't know anything until we find out what they had in those bags or the surviving terrorist talks."

* * *

"Nikita! Turn on the television!" It was Brigitte.

"Telly?" Nikita asked, hugging the phone beneath her chin as she shifted Anna to her other hip.

"It's Michael's office. There's been a shooting!"

Nikita dropped the phone in horror and ran into the den and turned on the television. She sank to her knees in front of it, clutching Anna tightly to her chest.

". . . and the death count has climbed to seven . . ." the newsman reported from the scene.

The Phoenix facility was surrounded by fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances. Seemingly endless streams of bodies on gurneys were being loading into ambulances in the background.

"Not Michael. Please. Not Michael." Nikita chanted softly. She watched for several minutes before getting up and calling Michael's cell phone. There was no answer. Frightened, she called Brigitte back.

"Can you come watch Anna for me?"

"I'm on my way now." Brigitte answered from her cell phone. "I should be there in five minutes. Have you heard anything?"

Nikita swallowed, "No. Nothing yet. There's a phone number to call . . ."

"Wait until I get there, hon. Then call. Okay?"

Nikita nodded, then realizing it, added, "Yes. I'll wait."

She walked back to the television, her mind awhirl of possibilities. Was it a Section hit? If so, if they knew where Michael was, maybe they were on their way here?

Nikita blanched at the thought and held Anna closer. If so, she had to be prepared. Grabbing her cell phone, she redialed Brigitte.

"Brigitte, this is Nikita. Don't come to the house. Meet me at the grocery store on Stiles Street. I'll be in the baby food isle." She said, running to Anna's room.

"Why, I'm almost there?"

"Maybe the hit at Michael's company was Section." She snatched up Anna's blanket and diaper bag and trotted back into the den.

Nikita heard Brigitte's sudden intake of breath.

"Okay, I'll meet you there. Be careful!" Brigitte said. "Leave now!"

"I'm out the door as we speak."

Nikita flipped the phone closed, shouldered Anna's diaper bag, her purse and pulled her 9mm out of the front closet.

Cautiously, she peeked out the front window. So far, the street was deserted. So far, so good.

Nikita took Anna and put her in her car seat. Even though the car was parked in a locked garage, she got down on her hands and knees and searched beneath it with a flashlight for anything that might be a bomb or a trigger mechanism. She also popped the hood, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, she held her breath when she turned on the ignition.

"Okay, Anna, hang on sweetie." Nikita said softly, as the garage door slowly opened. She let the car roll out, stopped, looked around, then reasonably sure there was no one watching, sped away for her rendezvous with Brigitte.

Nikita arrived at the store five minutes after Brigitte, who hugged her with relief as she arrived.

"Are you all right? Did you see anyone? Have you heard from Michael?"

"No, to all three questions. I tried calling Michael's cell phone. There's no answer. I have to go to the scene."

"It's too dangerous! If it's Section, they may still be in the area."

"I'm armed. I have to find Michael. Just take Anna and keep her safe for me. I'll call you when I know something."

Nikita hugged her baby daughter one last time before handing her off to Brigitte. "Be good, sweetheart. I'm going to find Daddy." She kissed Anna's downy cheek, and her tousled curls, and reluctantly turned to leave.

"Be careful! And call me as soon as you can!" Brigitte said, taking Anna against her shoulder.

* * *

Nikita drove as close to the Phoenix building as the police would permit. When she explained that she was a relative to one of the building occupants, she was taken to a small SWAT team command van.

"Yes, ma'am, can I help you?" Asked the lead officer.

"I'm looking for my husband."

"Ma'am, I have two lists here. Known dead and wounded, and those that were questioned and released. You're welcome to look them over." He looked around briefly, "Are you here alone?"

The question bothered Nikita. "Yes, why?" She asked suspiciously.

"Ma'am," his face looked troubled, "it's better, should the worse happen, not to be alone. Is there someone you can call, if you need to?"

Nikita breathed a sigh of relief. The officer only meant to be kind.

"Yes. Thank you."

He nodded, then handed her the lists.

Nikita quickly scanned the lists and didn't find Michael's name on either of them.

"What does it mean, if his name isn't here?"

The officer sighed. "Not much of anything ma'am. In these situations, those lists are down and dirty—as accurate as we can make them in the middle of total chaos. If you want the truth, they may only be fifty percent accurate at this point. It happens that way, I'm sorry."

Nikita nodded. "Can you tell me where they took the wounded and dead."

He nodded. "They took all the dead to Memorial—it has the largest morgue. The wounded, they spread throughout the metro area—mainly these four hospitals. He handed her a list.

"Can I keep this?" Nikita asked of the list.

"Yes ma'am. That's what I have them for."

"Thanks."

The officer nodded at her, "Best of luck, ma'am."

* * *

Nikita drove to Memorial first. She sat in her car for fifteen minutes, before she could get the courage to go inside. But once she got out of the car, she sifted into mission-mode, her body on autopilot.

"We have six bodies that have not been identified. One woman and five men."

"I'm looking for my husband." Nikita explained.

The middle-aged woman behind the desk at the morgue looked at her sympathetically. She nodded, stood and said, "Please sign in." She handed Nikita a clipboard, upon which Nikita scribbled her name and returned it.

"Come with me, please." The woman said, skirting the desk.

Nikita followed her into the room where the bodies were stored. She expected to see a wall of refrigerated drawers. Instead, she was taken into an entire room that was refrigerated. There were bodies stacked on shelving, everywhere.

"Here, put this on. It's very cold in here." The woman said, handing Nikita a small jacket to wear.

Nikita averted her face from all the body bags, and slipped the jacket on. Noticing it, the woman inquired, "Hon, have you ever seen a dead body before?"

Nikita almost laughed at the irony of the question. "Yes." She said instead.

"Well, okay, but if you get faint or sick, tell me right away, okay?" The woman put a comforting, but professional arm around Nikita's shoulders and gave her back a brief pat.

Nikita nodded and folded her arms across her chest at a sudden chill.

"It's this group." The woman said. She reached inside her pocket and pulled out a pair of latex gloves and slipped them on with a snap. She then unzipped the first body bag, just enough to expose the face.

Nikita took a breath, held it and looked. It wasn't Michael. She shook her head.

"Okay, these next two have gunshot wounds to the head. Are you ready for that?"

Nikita nodded.

Neither was Michael. Both had identical head wounds—one bullet hole centered in the middle of the forehead.

"That's good," the woman commented. "They're two of the alleged gunmen."

The process continued, until the woman commented, "That's all, hon." She yanked off the latex gloves and patted Nikita on the shoulder with her bare hand. "You going to be all right now?"

"Yes. Thank you. I'm fine."

* * *

Michael frowned. There was no answer at home, and no answer on Nikita's cell phone. His mind ran different scenarios—cell phone off, or inop, she was out shopping, with a client, or perhaps had heard about what had happened and was investigating. If the third scenario was correct, she would have taken Anna to Brigitte and Walter. She trusted no one else.

He punched in the number to Brigitte.

"Hello?"

"Brigitte, this is Michael."

"Oh, thank God!" She said with breathless relief. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Fine. Is Nikita there?"

"No." She tried calling you on your cell phone and got no answer. We saw it all on television. She went to look for you."

"Do you have Anna?"

"Yes. She's safe with me."

"If Nikita calls, tell her I'm all right. I was briefly detained by the police. I'll try to find her. If I can't, I'll come over there to wait for her. Do you know where she went first?"

"To the Phoenix building, I think."

"How long ago did she leave?"

"It's been over an hour and a half at least."

"Thank you. I will be there shortly." He hung up the phone, wishing his cell phone wasn't sitting in the pocket of his jacket back in his office. Since the entire area was now a crime scene, that's where it was going to stay for quite a while.

"Is something wrong?" David asked, rolling over to where Michael was standing to make his call.

"My wife heard what happened and is out looking for me."

"That means she's either at the Phoenix building, the morgue or searching the hospitals," David suggested.

Michael nodded in agreement. "I can't reach her on the cell phone. She's had plenty of time to visit the site. We have to find out where they took the bodies—specifically the John-Does."

"When we get the list, you call the morgue, I'll start calling the hospitals." David said, waving over one of the police inspectors. "Hey, we need some help over here!" He bellowed at one of them. "Now!"

For the next hour and a half, both men knew frustration. No matter where they called, Nikita had just left.

Michael called Brigitte back.

"Hello?" There was a baby sobbing in the background.

"It's Michael. Nikita isn't back yet." It was a statement. Anna was hungry, he could tell by the way she was crying.

"No, not yet, and Anna's starved. I've tried formula. She makes a face and won't drink it. Shhh, shhhh, Anna," She said, sounding like she was bouncing her to quiet her. "She's needs mama."

"I'm coming over there to wait. Nikita's just one step ahead of me. She'll have to give up soon. She probably needs Anna just as much by now."

"Okay. See you in a bit."

"Giving up?" David asked.

"Nikita's only logical move is to go to Anna. Would you like me to take you home?"

David shook his head. "I'd like to go with you, if you wouldn't mind. I'd like to know your family is all right, at least."

Michael nodded. "I'll call a taxi."

* * *

No Michael. Nikita sat down in the waiting room of the last hospital to think. Where would he go, if he wasn't hurt? Home. But she'd called there, and there was no answer. Then where? She closed her eyes and ran the situation through her head like a mission scenario.

"Oh, of course—Brigitte!" She said aloud, and ran to find a phone.

"Brigitte!"

"Oh, thank goodness! Where are you?"

"Have you heard from Michael?"

"Yes—he's fine. He's on his way here."

Nikita's eyes closed with relief.

"And Anna's starving! She won't touch her formula."

It was then that Nikita realized her own discomfort. Until that moment, she'd been too preoccupied to notice. "I'm on my way!"

Nikita barged into Brigitte's home without knocking, saw Michael holding their unhappy baby and ran to them both.

"God, Michael, I thought . . ." she said against his shoulder, before noticing the man in the wheel chair.

"I know," Michael warned softly. "I'm fine. Anna, though, isn't—she's gnawing on my shirt." He lifted his ravenous, sobbing daughter and handed her to her mother.

"Here, sit!" Brigitte said, holding out a lap blanket and pushing an old wooden rocker in Nikita's direction. "Walter's on his way—I sent him out for diapers. I have no idea what's taking him so long!" She added with a worried voice."

"Tell me what happened," Nikita said, as she sat and modestly put Anna to her breast. She uttered a brief "ow!" as her starving baby latched on, then laughed and peeked under the blanket at her. "Okay! Okay! Easy on the equipment!" She admonished gently.

David laughed into his hand.

Michael smiled then made an introduction. "Nikita, this is Mr. McAffee."

Nikita blushed at the situation, then smiled. "Hi, Mr. McAffee."

"You have a lovely daughter," David returned, "and please, call me David."

"Thank you. Nice to meet you at last, David." Nikita said, rocking her daughter as she nursed. "Now, please, Michael, tell me, what happened?"

Michael gave her a quick briefing on what had occurred.

David watched both Michael and his wife with interest. They spoke together as equals. Michael pulled no punches in his explanation of the day's carnage, and Nikita listened and commented, with very little emotion. Calm. So calm. Not an ounce of hysteria or any tears. He found it both remarkable and admirable, especially under the circumstances of what she had faced that day—at the morgue and the hospitals.

"I saw six dead—the John-Does," Nikita amended. "How many were killed altogether, do you know?" She took a moment to move Anna to the other breast.

The baby began to protest at being moved. Michael knelt down and caressed Anna's curls briefly. "Shhh. Be patient, Anna." Michael said, but the baby continued to fuss.

Nikita looked at her husband with a lop-sided grin. "She's like me. She hates that word!"

David observed the two of them exchange covert smiles. There was an intimacy between them that seemed to ignore their surroundings. He almost felt like an intruder, watching.

There was a familiarity about the situation too. About Nikita, specifically. It took a moment, then David realized what it was. She reminded him of his younger sister—same blue eyes, same full lips, same white-blonde hair. Paula had been nineteen when she died. He hadn't thought of her in years, despite the fact he still carried her picture in his wallet. He still carried a photo of his ex-wife too, though why he did, he didn't know. He supposed it was because he had no other family, and everyone else carried pictures in their wallets.

"Arrested! Why?" Nikita's voice rising, pulled David out of his thoughts.

"S. O. P. They arrested everyone with a weapon, including David." Michael answered. "Then they questioned us, and let us go."

"Does anyone know why there was an attack?" Nikita asked, patting Anna's bottom and rocking to calm her.

"Not yet." Michael replied. "We should know more tomorrow."

"Speaking of tomorrow, Michael." David interrupted. "I need to set up something to communicate to the employees. Do you think you could help me with that? You have outside access to the computer—I need to find out what I can do to help those injured, and try and comfort those who lost family. I'll need a list of phone numbers."

"I can have it for you tonight, if you'd like." Michael replied quietly.

"Great. I'd do it myself, but I've got a million calls to make outside of that—to lawyers," he made a face, "for one. And I still have to get to the bottom of the security guard situation. We had no security, as far as I can tell. I think contracting out security was a huge mistake."

Michael nodded, then added, "It lessens your liability, however."

"Big deal," David said bitterly. "People are dead."

Michael nodded. "True."

"Well, I best be leaving to make those calls."

"I'll take you home," Michael offered.

"No, no. Family first, Michael. Stay here, where you're needed. Call me a taxi. I'll be fine."

Michael nodded and went to phone a cab.

David watched Nikita put her sated, sleeping baby against her shoulder to burp her. The scene touched him and made his heart ache miserably at the same time. A heavy sense of loss covered him. Home and family. Wife and child. All the things that he never had and had always longed for.

Nikita looked up and noticed she was being watched. She smiled and whispered, "Please excuse me. I have to go put her down."

"I'll help," Brigitte offered.

David nodded, with a faint smile at Anna, whose tiny mouth was still making suckling movements in her sleep. "Kiss her goodnight for me," he said suddenly.

With a smile and a nod, Nikita stood and followed Brigitte out of the room.

David reached into his pocket, and with difficulty, took out his wallet to look at his sister's photo. Although Paula's hair was cut short, the resemblance between her and Nikita was striking. They could have been sisters.

"The taxi should be here in fifteen minutes," Michael said, returning. He sat down near David to wait with him.

"Who's that?" Michael asked politely, noting David's absorption over the photograph.

"Oh," David said looking up, "my sister. I was noticing how much your wife looks like her. It's remarkable. I guess what they say about everyone having a double is true." He handed his wallet to Michael for a closer look.

Michael studied the photo. The woman did look like Nikita a great deal. "Yes, she does." He replied softly.

His eyes shifted to the second photograph in the wallet and frowned. "Who is this?" Michael asked, pointing to it.

David paused before answering, to take back the wallet. "My wife—or rather ex-wife." He folded the wallet without further comment and Michael knew by his expression not to continue in that line of discussion.

Walter suddenly arrived, looking weary and harried all at the same time.

"There you are!" He said with relief, looking at Michael. He dumped a box of diapers on the floor and came over to where Michael was sitting.

After introductions were made, Walter demanded an explanation of what had happened.

Michael gave him a quick description, then asked, "Where did you go for diapers? Brigitte's been worried. You've been gone so long."

"Oh, I stopped by your house. Thought you might be there—saw the garage wide open and went to investigate. Just saw Nikita's car out in the drive as I drove up—I was getting worried about her too. Where is she?"

"She and Brigitte are putting Anna down."

"There's also a taxi." Walter thumbed the front door.

"Ah, that was quick," David said. "I'd better go. Call me later, Michael, when you get the list."

"Of course," Michael answered. "Do you need assistance?"

"No, thanks. I can manage."

Nevertheless, Michael escorted his employer to the front door and saw him to the taxi. When he returned, Walter had an immediate, worried question.

"Was it Section?"

"No. Nor was it a professional hit."

"Any guess as to who or why?"

"No. I wasn't able to ask the one surviving gunmen."

"Not Section," Nikita interrupted in relief, having overheard.

Michael opened his arms to her and they embraced.

"No, not Section." Michael assured her, holding her close. "How's Anna?"

"Sleeping." She looked to see that David had gone, then asked, "Was there anything else that happened that you couldn't tell me in front of your boss?"

"No." Michael stroked her hair. "He pretty much witnessed everything anyway."

"What happens now?" Walter asked.

"We'll have to wait until tomorrow, and hope we have enough evidence to figure out what the attack was all about. In the meantime, I'll have to help David salvage the company. We don't know how many people we've lost yet, dead and wounded."

"Want me to contact Birkoff? Maybe Section can help solve this one." Walter asked.

Michael shook his head. "No need. Once this attack hit the newswires, Section became aware of it."

Walter nodded, "That's true. Well, maybe Section has information on this that the police don't. Birkoff can feed it to us, if you need it."

"Walter, involving Section making me nervous," Nikita inserted, moving out of Michael's embrace and folding her arms.

"Why? Helmut and George know you two are alive and kicking. Neither one of them have any reason to hurt you. If they did, they would have already done it by this time. In fact, I'm sure both of them would appreciate any help you could give them—being that Michael witnessed the entire thing." Walter concluded.

Michael pondered the suggestion, under Nikita's scrutiny. She saw that Michael wanted to do it. It was in his nature, she decided. He'd spent most of his adult life fighting terrorists--once Section, always Section. Since Walter was right, what could be the harm?

"Go ahead, Michael. Call Birkoff." Nikita said softly.

He looked at her, his gray-green eyes, inquiring if she was sure.

"Do it." She repeated with a firm nod of her head.

He kissed her gently in appreciation for her understanding. "All right."

Walter nodded and handed Michael the phone.

"Birkoff," he began.

At the other end, Birkoff almost fell out of his chair.

"Michael! What are you doing on this-" he spun in his chair to make sure he hadn't been overheard, the continued with less volume. "Why are you calling here?"

"Are you aware of the armed hit against the Phoenix Corporation?"

"Yes. It made our boards an hour ago. That's where you work, isn't it?"

"Yes. I need to speak with Helmut."

"Geez, Michael, are you sure?"

"Yes.

"Okay. Give me a moment to get him." Birkoff took off his head set. "I'll be right back-I have an open channel, so don't touch anything." He ordered his assistant, before he scampered out of comm.

"Sir?"

"Mr. Birkoff, what is it?" Helmut asked, seated in Operations old office.

"It's umm, Michael." Birkoff almost whispered.

Helmut raised an eyebrow and asked softly, "Is anyone else aware of this?"

"No sir."

"Good. Keep it that way. Patch me in."

"Already done. He's on the landline."

"Thank you. You may go."

Birkoff nodded, with some disappointment. He was dying to know why Michael would risk contacting Section again.

In the last year, Michael had become something of a legend amongst the inmates of Section One. Despite reports that he was dead, many couldn't buy it. That Michael could have been killed, just as Nikita was strangely whisked away without a trace, seemed too much of a coincidence. The popular rumor was that Michael had done the impossible and taken Nikita with him. And as far as Section operatives were concerned, that gave Michael a mythically heroic status.

Birkoff knew the truth of course, and savored it. It made him one-up on everyone else in Section, save for Helmut. But for Michael to risk everything to contact Section, again, boggled the mind as far as Birkoff was concerned. Why would he?

Then again, Operations and Madeline were no longer around, and George also knew Michael was alive, so perhaps contacting Helmut wasn't that dangerous. Besides, Birkoff knew Michael would never unnecessarily endanger Anna or Nikita.

"Yes, Michael?" Helmut answered.

"I assume you heard of the attack on the Phoenix Corporation headquarters." Michael said softly.

"Yes. Only an hour or so ago."

"Have you come to any conclusions on who may have organized the hit?"

"No. My first guess would be amateurs, based on what little we know so far," Helmet said.

"Agreed. However, I have a name and description of one of the hit men."

"You could have given this to Mr. Birkoff." Helmut interrupted.

"You are the leader of Section One. I would not presume to give orders to your subordinates without your knowledge." Michael said quietly.

"Yes, of course. For that I thank you. So, what's the name?"

"Mark Treadwell, approximate age 29 to 30, light brown hair, blue eyes, . . ." Michael went on with height and weight, as well as the type of weapons the intruders were all carrying.

"Foreign or home-grown?" Helmut inquired.

"The surviving attacker is west-coast American by his accent."

"This will give us a leg up on the FBI. We've accessed their computer files, and they have been lagging in their reports. Thank you. Anything else?"

"No. I'll know more tomorrow." Michael replied.

"Why your interest in this case, Michael?"

Michael sighed, "I'm sure you'll know that soon enough."

"You're involved?"

"I work for the Phoenix Corporation." Michael said simply.

"I see. Well, I would appreciate any help you can give."

"I'll contact you tomorrow, then."

"Michael . . ."

There was much Helmut wanted to ask. Was Nikita involved? Was she safe? Was Michael interested in returning to Section in some capacity? But with a sigh, he realized now was not the time to ask any of those things. He settled for saying, "Thank you for your help."

* * *

"Tired?" Michael asked softly as he drove his family home.

"Yes, a little." Nikita leaned her head to one side and held his free hand. "I'll be glad to get home and put Anna to bed."

"We aren't going home." Michael said.

"Not . . . why?"

"Not until I'm sure it's safe. But I do have to go by and retrieve the computer. I promised I'd get that information for David."

"Where are we going then?"

"To a hotel out of town. For tonight at least."

"I thought you said it wasn't Section." Nikita said, puzzled at this latest turn of events.

"It wasn't. But it won't take long for the press to ferret out my participation in this. I can't think of anything more dangerous than to have my photograph plastered on the international news, can you?" He added grimly.

"Oh, my God! Have they photographed you?"

"Not yet. But it's going to be difficult to avoid once the full story of what happened gets out."

It didn't need to be said that such a scenario would be a disaster.

Madeline, while no longer in Section One, was still was at Section Six. Her move to Six and her separation from Operations couldn't have been taken as anything but a demotion, and Madeline was famous for her cunning and talent for wreaking revenge.

If Michael's face and location were to hit the international newswires and television screens, it would be the same as calling Madeline on the phone and taunting her to her face. And while they might have no more fear of anyone in Section One harming them, even with George at Oversight, Madeline had the power and will to kill them both and make it look like a random accident.

"I'm sorry," Michael said, as he pulled the car over to a curb, just inside their neighborhood, and cut the engine. "I've put us all in danger."

"Michael, I can't see that you had any choice in the matter. What else could you have done? Stood there and been slaughtered with the rest?"

"Better that than endanger you and Anna." He replied with remorse etched on his face.

Nikita unbuckled her seatbelt, scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him.

"We've been in much worse situations. We'll be fine. You're not alone anymore, Michael. Do you think there is a power on Earth stronger than the two of us, when we're together?" She teased lightly and hugged him tightly. "We'll get through this. We will."

Michael rested in her arms for a long while. She was so strong, this woman that held his heart.

He prayed he was worthy of her faith in him.

"I have to go. Do you have your weapon?" Michael asked.

"Yes. Here, take it." Nikita pulled it out of her purse.

"No, keep it. Wait for me here, but if I'm gone more than twenty minutes, get to a hotel out of the city."

"Michael," she began to protest.

"Anna is your first priority." He returned seriously, cupping her face in his hand. "Promise me."

Nikita sighed in resignation. "I promise. Be careful."

He kissed her and got out of the car as quietly as possible.

Staying in shadows, Michael walked through the neighborhood, on the way to his home. He climbed the fence that surrounded his backyard, and entered the house through the kitchen. It took a moment to retrieve his laptop. After a moment's afterthought, he went into Nikita's workroom and grabbed her computer as well. She had done so well for herself; he hated to see all her work lost.

It was possible that neither of them could ever return to this house. Michael looked around sadly. They had been so happy here and he was so tired of running and starting over. Fate, it seemed, was determined to give him no peace.

* * *

Nikita watched Michael leave, then scanned the area around the car for any sign of danger. She pulled the clip out of her 9mm and checked it, rammed it home again, and for good measure, chambered a round. The idea that Michael being photographed might give them all away made her shiver. And Madeline might be the least of their worries!

Although there were few Red Cell members that had seen Michael's face and lived to tell about it, Nikita knew the possibility of that terrorist organization, and others, finding them had just increased a thousand fold.

Add to that, the problem Oversight would have with discovering two of their top operatives had simply walked away free. It was bad for business.

While it was true that George knew they were alive and free, even George wasn't omnipotent. He had to answer to the others in Oversight. Failsafe or not, if George decided they were too great a liability, he might just sit back and let nature take its course and deal with the consequences as best as he could, later.

Nikita turned and looked at her daughter, innocently asleep, and a wave of hopelessness hit her. As much as she tried to shore up Michael's confidence, she wasn't as strong as she pretended to be. If it were only her and Michael—but with Anna's life, she couldn't afford to gamble. If it came down to it, she'd give her daughter up to keep her safe. Deep down, she knew Michael felt the same.

* * *

Michael sat up in bed, drenched in sweat. It took him a moment to sort out his surroundings from that of his nightmare. In the dim light of the motel room, he saw Nikita's form next to his then glanced over at the crib that held his baby daughter.

He silently and carefully slipped out of bed, so as not to wake Nikita. It was almost dawn, and neither of them had had much rest.

It had been years since Michael could remember really being afraid, but that hollow-gut sensation had returned with a vengeance. He sat on the floor next to his daughter's crib and gazed at her tiny face with despair.

Anna was the one thing in his life completely untainted by his life in Section One. She was the symbol of his love for Nikita and the symbol of their freedom together. The mere thought of losing it all, yet again, staggered him.

He leaned his face against the bars of Anna's crib and reached his fingers through them to touch her tiny hand.

'Oh God,' he pleaded mentally, 'please, please, . . .don't take it all away.'

"Michael," Nikita's arms came around him from behind, and the sheer warmth of her touch and the tenderness in her voice, brought him to tears. "Come back to bed," she whispered.

Michael curled his body around to face hers, his head dropping against her breast.

Nikita lay on the floor with him and held him close. Wordlessly, she gave him comfort by caressing his hair. She knew from the tears that fell upon her breast that he was silently weeping, but chose not to speak of it. She knew his fears, and had held him through nightmares several times before. All that had happened that day had simply dredged them all up again.

"It's okay," she crooned softly. "Go to sleep. It's okay."

Minutes later Nikita felt him relax and knew that he finally slept, and with his head a heavy, yet comforting weight upon her breast, she closed her eyes as well.

* * *

"Say good morning to daddy," Nikita said to her daughter in her lap. The two sat in the bathtub, enjoying a morning's soak.

Michael knelt to kiss them both, then sat naked on the floor next to the tub to watch the two of them at their bath.