Walter yawned and tucked the jean-jacket he'd been carrying between his knees so he could stick his key into his apartment door. The hall light was out again and he could barely make out the keyhole. He missed it twice before he was successful and the door whined open. Cringing at the noise, he added a light bulb and a can of WD-40 to a mental shopping list. He hated squeaky doors!

Yawning again, Walter entered the darkened apartment. It had been a long day, and as much as he was getting to enjoy working with the new recruits, the energy of those kids was wearing him out.

Tossing his jacket onto the couch, he ambled into the kitchen, slowly opened the refrigerator and drew out a cold beer. Standing with the refrigerator door open, Walter screwed off the top and took two deep draughts before a soft voice spoke his name from across the room.

Walter's eyes opened wide as he choked on his beer and spun around.

"Michael?"

"Yes." Came the soft, ever so soft reply from the dark figure seated in Walter's recliner.

With a hand that shook from the surprise, Walter carefully turned on the lamp in the living room. The sudden light made Michael close his eyes and turn his face away, but not quickly enough to hide his features from Walter.

"My God! Michael, what have you done to yourself?" Walter said aghast.

* * *

Nikita reviewed the screen for a forth time then stopped to rub her eyes. How had Michael managed to run the teams, construct profiles, keep on top of the latest intel and still have time to keep an eye on Section intrigue?

She sighed and looked around her office. It still felt like Michael's office and she hadn't had the heart or the nerve to put anything on the desk or in the room that hadn't been there before.

Even if prevented by the inducing drugs from missing him emotionally, she still missed him intellectually. There was no one to speak to, no one to ask advice from, and no sounding board to bounce off ideas or plans.

Nikita stood, walked to the window and opened the blinds. It was nearly three in the morning and she had been working steadily for sixteen hours without a break. Walter, if he had been there, would have nagged her to stop and eat or to go home, but Walter wasn't there anymore. Nor was Birkoff, or any other living person that cared for her.

Was this what she had wanted? Had Madeline's prediction come true? Had the taste of power that Petrosian had given her, created a need in her for more?

Nikita frowned, bit her lower lip and walked away from the window, still questioning. Had she finally become her worst fear? Was she totally Section now?

A sudden chill made her shiver. "I'm just tired," she told herself aloud. "Just tired."

Shouldering her purse, she left her office and made the short trek across the main floor of the Section to the elevators. A few of the night crew looked up, then away. She knew them only by their last names. None of them acknowledged her presence. She was alone, as Michael had been, and induced or not, she found she didn't like it.

Her house was impressive though she thought-in the modern style, with lots of glass brick, chrome, and free form art, but it also sat largely vacant. She had no time to buy furniture, and even if she had, she wasn't home often enough to use it. Many nights she saved the twenty-minute drive and simply bunked in Section quarters.

Her new home had one asset that Nikita truly enjoyed, a large glass brick fireplace in the living room. She slumped down on her white leather couch, wineglass in hand and turned on the gas logs. The light flickered through the glass brick and sent wavering bits of rainbows against all the walls of the room. Like a child she sat transfixed, watching the play of light making magic around the room.

In minutes, however, the wine and the long hours teamed to capture her in a net of sleep. It was so deep and so profound a rest that she never heard the intruder enter the room.

* * *

Michael stood staring at Nikita for a long time. She had changed in the last four months. There were shadows beneath her eyes and even in dreams she frowned and murmured restless words. And yet, his lovely betrayer was still beautiful. Oh, God! So beautiful!

He knelt at her side, not touching, not daring to touch, despite the drugs he placed in her wine to make her sleep. For now he only wanted to see her, to know she still existed on the same plane as he. He needed hope, a reason to go on, and almost as if she was somehow aware of him, Nikita whispered his name.

"Michael."

So, she dreamed of him still.

But the word wounded as well as gave hope. He wanted to cry, to shout to heaven, to beg one answer from the universe. He wanted to know why.

'Why Nikita, why?' He lived in torment for an answer to be given.

He stood and strolled aimlessly around her new home. Is this what she wanted? A beautiful, but empty house? The Nikita he carried inside him had never wanted this. When had she changed? Had the Gelman process worked its evil after all?

But no. Her kisses on the sailboat had been real. He closed his eyes and relived those stolen moments . . .

Nikita giggled, and Michael looked over at her, adoring the sound of her laughter. His eyebrow raised up as if to ask the question, 'What's so funny?'

She answered his unasked question as if he had spoken it aloud. "Got sand between my toes and it tickles." Standing on one foot, Nikita leaned against the boat's wheel and dug at the offending grains with her forefinger. The wheel moved slightly, knocking her off balance and into his arms.

"Whoa!" She laughed and clung to him. "I don't have my sea legs yet!"

She was also a little intoxicated. The wine they'd shared could still be tasted in her kiss as Michael pulled her closer and investigated her mouth thoroughly with his tongue.

She smelled of fresh air and the sea and he felt her skin bead up with goose bumps as his hands stroked the soft skin of her back and sides beneath her blouse.

Michael kissed her, pulled away, watched the impossible blue of her eyes shutter closed, then kissed her again, hungrily. Wanting. Giving. Needing.

He felt her cool hands touch his belly as they tugged at the buttoned top of his jeans. He felt the button come undone, her hand slip inside, the touch of silk on velvet as she caressed and held him. The sound of profound pleasure caught in his throat.

"I love you, Michael." Her words were serious, her kisses slow and sensuous.

They touched and kissed. They made love on the deck of the ship, in the breath of an icy wind, made warm with their passion. They traded promises of forever under stars that glittered in clear air. Their fires burned!

And in the ashes that remained of his heart, Michael knew that her love had been true. And he would have it back again!

Michael leaned closer, his mouth a hairsbreadth away from hers. He closed his eyes, smelled her scent, and listened intently to her breathing. "My love, come back to me," he whispered, before opening them again.

Nikita frowned in her sleep and turned her head slightly in his direction. Michael took that as his cue to leave.

* * *

"Hello, Walter."

"Sugar!" Walter's face lit up with a huge smile. "What brings you out to the Farm?"

She tucked her hands in the pockets of her white leather jacket and gave him a lop-sided smile. "Had a little down time, thought I'd drop by to see how you were doing. Do I get a hug?" She pulled her hands free from her pockets, and embraced him.

Walter extended the hug and then ended it with a squeeze. "Missed me, eh?" He quipped.

"Yeah. How have you been?"

He laughed. "Busy! Been cycling through a team every six weeks." Walter gestured to a chair and Nikita sat down in it.

"Sounds like you've been enjoying it." She replied, looking around his new office.

"I have, actually." He nodded. "I guess I have you to thank for that."

Nikita smiled faintly but didn't comment.

"What's up, Sugar?" He asked suddenly, his face turning serious.

"What do you mean?"

"Hey, it's me. No need to be evasive. What's the real reason you're here?"

She shook her head. "I told you. I've missed you, Walter."

"Uh huh," he said unconvinced. He folded his arms and leaned against the door jam of his office. "Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me."

"I deserved that." She said sadly.

Walter looked ashamed. "Look, Nikita . . . I "

"No, Walter, you're right to feel suspicious. I know I would in your shoes."

"You've changed," Walter said sadly.

"I have, haven't I?" She looked at him wistfully. "I guess we all do, eventually."

Walter's head bobbed in the affirmative. "I guess."

"But I really did come to see you. I need you to recommend a few recruits for the Section. With Michael and Madeline gone, yourself and Davenport, we need all the help we can get."

"I thought the Agency sent you help." Walter said coolly.

"Yes, but how did you know about that?"

"I see Jason now and then. He told me."

Hmmm," she murmured. "Got any suggestions?"

"I have a few promising students. They're due to graduate in a couple of days."

"Are they all kids, or are there some mature recruits?"

He gave a wry chuckle, "Sugar, to me they're all kids-but yeah, I have a few older ones as well."

"Anything you can send us will be appreciated." She stood to leave.

"Nikita," Walter came over to her and held her by her shoulders. She looked up at him with curiosity. He studied her face intently. "You know no matter what, I'm here to help you, don't you?"

She leaned her head on his shoulder briefly, then replied, "Thanks, Walter. I needed to hear that."

"You look tired," he commented as she moved to leave.

She smiled faintly. "I've been busy too. Bye, Walter."

"Goodbye, Sugar."

* * *

"How is she?" Came Michael's soft question.

"On drugs of some kind, in my opinion. Her pupils were dilated. She looks exhausted." Walter answered.

"What did she want?"

"My help, in the form of new recruits. Seems Section One is hurting for talent."

Michael drifted over to the window and lifted the curtain to gaze out. "Do you think she's back on the Gelman process?"

"Could be."

"Can you find out?"

"I can try. I'll have to get some help from Jason."

"Thank you." Michael replied.

"Sure." Walter said, watching the former operative worriedly. "You know it couldn't hurt if you got some rest as well."

"All right." Michael said absently.

Walter watched him leave and felt a wave a sadness well up inside. He didn't know whom he felt sorriest for, Nikita, or Michael. Section had effectively destroyed them both.

* * *

"Nikita."

Nikita looked up from her desk and saw Jason standing in the doorway.

"Yes, what is it?"

"The conscripts from the Farm have arrived. Do you want to meet with them before they are assigned quarters?"

With a sense of relief, Nikita nodded. "Yes. Have them assemble in Ops. Do you have their files?"

Jason held out a small disk. "Walter sent it for your review."

"How many did Walter send over?"

"Four. He said you only wanted the best."

Nikita took the disk. "Send O'Brien in, will you?"

"Okay." Jason turned and left.

While she waited for O'Brien, Nikita popped the small disk into a reader. Walter's craggy face suddenly appeared on the monitor.

"Hi ya, sugar. Well, you asked for them. I'm sending you four. The first is Chase, age 29. He's a little wild, but an excellent shot. One of the best in hand to hand combat that I've seen in a long time."

A photograph of a handsome, black male appeared, while Walter's narration continued. "He's weak in languages, but that's not my department anyway. Recommend you get him scheduled for some schooling in that area later on. Next is Rhea, age 31. Another marksman . . ."

Walter grinned, "Make that marks-woman. She's tiny, but strong. Weak in hand to hand, because of her size, but with time, she'll come along. I'd put her in for sniper duty. A photo of a short, but athletic-looking brunette flashed on the screen.

"Tomas is probably the strongest all-round candidate. He's got talent in several areas-excels in martial arts, shooting, and is strong tactically. Doesn't say much, but could be a leader, if given a chance." The accompanying photo showed a man in his early thirties, with short-cropped dark hair, a mustache, goatee, and brown eyes. "Not exactly Valentine material with that broken nose of his, though." Walter added.

"Last, but not least is Chris. He could teach me things when it comes to bombs. He's my suggestion for my old position, if you still need someone in that area. He's ex-military-was a mercenary in South America for several years, before he started running drugs. Said 'it paid better'." Walter concluded. Chris looked to be in his mid-thirties, was handsome, well muscled and blond.

"Hope these help. If not, I'll have another batch in about six weeks."

Nikita left reading the remaining details of their files for later and switched off her computer. Just as she did, there was a knock at her door. It was O'Brien."

"Come in Marc," Nikita said, getting to her feet.

"You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah. I just got a batch of new recruits. I'm assigning them to you. Think you can work them up fast enough for the mission in Indonesia?"

"I'll try."

"Let's go take a look." Nikita said, leading him out.

* * *

The four recruits were assembled in the Ops area, their duffel bags at their feet.

Chris seemed to be having a heated conversation with Chase, while Rhea and Tomas looked on. Nikita and O'Brien arrived just in time to see Chris take a swing at Chase and miss.

"Hey! Knock it off!" O'Brien shouted. "Unless you want to end up dead, I suggest you pay attention." He turned to Nikita. "Looks like they have some pent up energy to burn. Let's take them to the gym and let them get rid of it."

"They're all yours," Nikita said with a wave of her hand.

"You heard the lady," O'Brien said with a little grin, "let's go."

Nikita stood by as O'Brien put the recruits through their paces. Of the men, Tomas seemed to be the only one without a short fuse. Walter had been correct in his assumption that Tomas was the best choice amongst them to be a leader.

Chris, while handsome, was obnoxious and full of himself. Even though his saving grace might be munitions, Nikita didn't like him.

Rhea seemed embittered over something and snapped at everyone. Nikita sighed, thinking she reminded her of Viscano.

The one that had a pleasant personality was Chase, and even if he wasn't exactly the brightest bulb in the socket, Nikita enjoyed his playfulness. Or perhaps it was the fact that he could get under Chris's skin in a second. She smiled at the thought.

"All right. Play time's over." O'Brien announced, after evaluating two hours of hand-to-hand practice. "Here are your room assignments. Roll call is 0600 tomorrow morning, right here." He handed each recruit a PDA. "Tomorrow we begin prepping for a mission, so you'd better get some rest. Dismissed."

The exhausted recruits filed out of the gym while Nikita and O'Brien looked on.

"Well, they're a little rough around the edges, but there's a lot of potential there." O'Brien asked.

"Agreed. Work them up and keep me posted."

* * *

It was late when Nikita turned the key and entered her house. She found Mr. Jones waiting for her, seated before her fireplace smoking a cigar.

"Evening, Nikita."

"Evening sir," she said wondering what he wanted at so late an hour.

"Take a seat. I'll only be a moment." He patted the couch next to him.

Nikita took a seat opposite him, slinging her coat over the back of the chair.

"How are things going?"

Nikita shrugged. "Routine. No surprises. I've got some surveillance on Operations, but it's impossible to keep it on him 24 hours a day without him getting suspicious. So far, he seems to have accepted things. He's still not the most pleasant person to work for, but then, he never was."

"What about you?" Jones said quietly, studying her.

"Me?" She said sounding surprised.

"You look tired."

Nikita shrugged. "It's been a long day."

Mr. Jones slowly reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a bottle of pills and tossed it into her lap.

Nikita picked them up and looked at the label. They were her inducing drugs.

"I thought you were past this," he said curtly.

She frowned. "They give me an edge over Operations."

"We hunt down and kill drug dealers who specialize in selling that kind of ridiculous idea! Section induces for a reason, not for recreation, and certainly not for an edge."

"I need them to get the job done." She argued.

"No! You don't! If you need down time, you can have it, but I need you sharp and clear-headed. Now, hand them back."

Reluctantly, she tossed them over to him.

"Good girl," he commented, and stood to leave. "Take a few days to get straightened out, if you need to. But no more of this, understood?"

She put her hands on her hips and nodded.

Jones walked over to her and touched her shoulder briefly. "You'll be fine, Cupcake. Right?"

She nodded again, then watched him leave, taking her chemical salvation with him.

* * *

The servos in the tiny camera whirred silently as Michael followed his subject with the lens. So now he knew. It all made sense. She'd been inducing herself, probably from the very beginning. He mentally thanked Mr. Jones for his action. Now, given time, he would be able to reach her.

Without being weaned from the medication, in few days, perhaps a week, she would be in a bad way, as he had been, when all the pain he was carrying suddenly fell on him at once. The only thing that had kept him from a bullet in the brain was Nikita's memories-her love for him. Focusing on that, and only that, kept him going even now.

Michael continued to watch, hungry for the sight of her, until Nikita turned out her light to sleep.

* * *

"I called you in this morning because there has been a change to the Indonesia mission," Operations began to the two seated there.

"What change? The profile's been set," Nikita returned, somewhat annoyed.

"Only a change in personnel. O'Brien, I have a special assignment for you, so that means you'll have to find someone to temporarily fill in for him, Nikita."

"What's the special assignment?" O'Brien asked.

"I'll discuss that with you this afternoon. In the meantime, Nikita you will rewrite the profile to exclude Mr. O'Brien. The timeline remains the same. You leave in 24 hours. That's all." Operations terminated the discussion by turning to leave.

"What's going on?" O'Brien turned to Nikita. "Is he always this abrupt?"

"Get used to it. It's how he is." Nikita replied with a frown, getting to her feet.

"Do you have anyone ready to replace me?" O'Brien asked.

"That's my problem." She said coldly. "You have your own to worry about."

He looked at her and frowned, "Now why does that give me a bad feeling about all this?"

"It should. Watch your back." Nikita said cryptically and walked away.

O'Brien watched her leave and muttered aloud, "Watch my back from whom? You, or him?" He ran his hand through his hair making it stand on end. "Great. Intrigue. This is all I need!"

* * *

Nikita went to Jason. "Where's the new recruit, Tomas?"

"Hmmm. In the gym. Do you need . . ." Jason turned to continue, but Nikita had already turned and walked away.

She arrived in the gym in the middle of a sparring match between Tomas and another operative Nikita knew as Rosewood. Knowing Rosewood was an expert, Nikita took a moment to evaluate Tomas' prowess against such an opponent.

The two men circled the mat, trading blows, looking equally matched. Tomas was the slighter in build of the two men, but agile and fluid in his moves. He reminded her of Michael, who had a natural grace that few men attained.

She watched him carefully; a sudden thought wondered if it could be Michael. Then she looked closer. This man was slightly more muscled than Michael had been. She admired the Celtic tattooed bands that encircled Tomas' biceps. No, the body type was wrong. Besides, why would Michael return to Section?

A minute went by and then the match was over, with Rosewood the victor.

Nikita walked over and offered Tomas a hand up, which he took.

"I need to talk to you," she told him.

"About what?" He asked, his voice Irish accented.

Nikita looked at his bare throat. There was no voice modulator visible.

Insanely disappointed, Nikita continued. "There's been a mission change. I'll need you to lead the team. Do you think you can do that?"

He shrugged. "I can try."

"Get changed and meet me in my office in fifteen minutes."

"Where is your office?"

"Ask Jason. He'll point you in the right direction."

* * *

"When do you leave?" Walter asked.

"In the morning." Michael answered.

"Are you sure you know what's going down?"

"I know how Operations thinks. I know his goals and how he plans to achieve them."

"And just how would you know that?" Walter argued sarcastically.

Michael slipped his hand into a small leather case and retrieved a small box of disks. "Remember these?" He handed Walter one.

Walter turned it over in his hand and frowned. "No. What are they?"

"The brain scrapes that George ordered."

"And?"

"I found a way to use them."

"Why don't I like the sound of that? Michael, what exactly did you do with these?" Walter turned the disks over in his hand like they were poisonous snakes.

"I have to go."

Walter grabbed Michael's sleeve. "I mean it Michael, exactly what have you done with these?"

"I have to go," Michael repeated, his face totally blank.

Knowing he would get no answers, Walter let out a huff of a sigh, "All right. Just try not to get yourself killed and take care of Sugar!"

"In case something does happen, . . . " Michael handed Walter a small box.

"What's this?" Walter asked taking it.

"Instructions." Michael replied.

Walter watched him leave with misgivings. Ever since Michael arrived on Walter's doorstep, all bruised and battered, he hadn't been himself. It was more than the change in appearance; it was a change in his soul. He seemed lost and gone deeper into himself than Walter had ever seen.

In Walter's opinion, the only thing keeping Michael together was the hope of restoring Nikita to the way she had been. And that, Walter thought sadly, didn't seem at all possible anymore.

* * *

"Michael, it's over. You can relax now. They're never going to find us."

Nikita knew that Michael hadn't believed that for a moment. It was in the little-boy-lost expression on his face, as he stood on the deck of the boat, gun in hand. He wanted to believe, but couldn't.

She felt it too, as she held him, that indwelling sadness, that sense of time running out for the both of them. Yes, he wanted to believe. It made him vulnerable; it made him easy to deceive and finally, to destroy.

Nikita's tears dampened her pillow in her dreams. She'd hurt him to save him. Michael would never forgive her, but at least he was alive and free.

When Mr. Jones had recruited Nikita she hadn't known of Michael's feelings for her. True, he risked his life to free her, but that wasn't the same as a declaration of love. If he loved her, Nikita thought that he would have gone with her. He hadn't.

Of course, she learned later why he hadn't. There was Elena and Adam. By then, however, she was deep undercover. She'd made promises, to Mr. Jones and the Agency and to herself.

For the first time, Nikita felt proud of what she was doing with her life. She valued the job she did. It meant something. For an uneducated girl who ran wild in the streets-in her own eyes, and the eyes of society-worthless, to finally feel of value, to have purpose, was impossible to resist.

Her return to Section One was originally unplanned; the Agency had had other uses for her talents. However, when the situation happened that she could return, the Agency had ordered her to do so. She went reluctantly, save for the fact that she would be with Michael once again. Despite everything, she loved him.

It had been her one consolation that the Agency allowed her relationship with Michael. Of course at the time, she hadn't realized that being with Michael had suited the Agency's needs as well. Nikita was to be a test of Michael's loyalty. A test that Michael would ultimately fail.

* * *

"Jason?"

"Walter? What are you doing on this channel?" Jason whispered fiercely.

"I wanted an update on the Indonesia mission."

Jason's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"Just anxious to know how the new team is doing, is all."

"Well, they just arrived on site fifteen minutes ago. It's five minutes until the first mark."

"Can you keep me in the loop on the open channel?"

Jason shrugged, "Sure, if you want."

"Thanks." Walter said, sounding a little relieved.

Nikita checked the time then turned to her team leaders. "We go in five. Chase, you and Rhea will take the south wall. Chris, you're with Tomas. Once we have insertion, set up the neuro-gas and retreat. Has everyone checked their masks?"

There was a round of nods.

"Good. Okay. Jason, this is a comm check. Do we have a go to take the perimeter?"

"You have a go, on my mark, in sixty seconds."

The team used the time to pull the black balaclavas over their faces. The bulk of their gas masks stretched the knitted material to the limit.

"Go!" Nikita's voice echoed that of Jason's, and the first team leapt out of the van, their boots pounding the pavement as they made for the south wall.

"First mark taken," Chase reported a minute later.

"Tomas, move up." Nikita ordered from the van.

Tomas followed the pathway taken by the first team, with Chris bringing up the rear. They entered the inner courtyard of the besieged embassy in the gloom of midnight, and spread out along the outer wall of the embassy building itself.

Chris moved silently to the closest window and using a small laser cutter, made a small hole in the window glass. Once that was completed, he inserted a small tube and turned a spigot on a small canister of neuro-gas. The odorless, colorless gas would take effect in ten minutes, effectively knocking out embassy hostages and their captors alike.

The gas had its risks. Too little and the captor's might awaken too soon, too much and anyone with a weak heart, or other underlying medical condition, could die. It was, however, much safer than storming a building full of hostages, where casualties would be a certainty.

Nikita watched her security screen, monitoring her team from the van. Suddenly, the icon representing Tomas's tracking chip disappeared off her screen.

"Tomas?" Nikita called out.

There was no answer.

"Chris! Report. Where's Tomas?"

Again, there was no answer, even though Chris's tracking chip showed him inside the embassy courtyard. As she watched, the red dot that indicated Chris's tracker began to move towards the van.

"First team. Status-do you have a visual on Chris or Tomas?" Nikita asked.

"Negative," Rhea replied. "I don't see either of them."

"Same here," Chase added. "You want me to go look for them?"

"No! Stand fast. I'm calling in back up. Tomas must be dead. Watch for hostiles on the perimeter. Back up teams, converge on second mark!" Nikita ordered as she grabbed her 9mm and chambered a round. "Jason, I'm going active. I'm ceding you tactical control."

"Okay, Nikita. Be advised, neuro gas will reach maximum effectiveness in five minutes."

"Understood." She slapped the door release with the heel of her hand.

The van door opened to reveal Tomas standing outside. In one hand was a field router, in the other, his weapon, pointed at Nikita's heart.

Nikita felt immediate surprise, followed by anger.

"Why have you broken position?" She asked Tomas, staring down the barrel of his gun.

He didn't answer except to wave her to the left with the weapon.

She hesitated, again wondering if he was Michael after all and this was a kidnapping attempt of some kind. She glanced at the field router in his hand and realized this was what was blocking his tracking signal. Her close proximity to it would also effectively block her own tracker, as well as her comm unit. If this was Michael, then she would have to convince him she did not wish to go; if it wasn't, then Tomas was most likely going to kill her. Or was he? Puzzled, she remembered she was still holding her gun. Tomas had made no attempt to make her drop it, or take it from her. Why?

Tomas gave her a quick shove with the hand carrying the field router.

Nikita staggered two steps, before stopping again and turning to face him.

"Look, what do you want?" She asked, beginning to get annoyed. "Michael?" She added to get a reaction.

The man laughed behind his masked face, but still didn't answer.

The laughter chilled Nikita. Michael wouldn't laugh. Then she noticed something else. Tomas was left-handed.

Nikita closed her eyes to concentrate. But if Michael were in disguise, he would be good at it. He would change his looks and his mannerisms, perhaps pretend to be left-handed.

Was he Michael or wasn't he? She really didn't know. The only thing she knew for sure was that she couldn't go with him; to do so would get them both killed. She had only one option. Shoot Tomas-to wound him.

She quickly raised her pistol and fired one silenced round into his leg.

Tomas flinched, but did not go down.

Nikita was shocked. Had she missed?

The fact that he was still standing suggested she had, but at so close a range, Nikita's brain was telling her it was impossible to have missed. And still, Tomas made no attempt to take her weapon from her, instead he shoved her again.

The answer soon became obvious. Nikita's magazine had been loaded with blanks. It was something Michael was capable of. He would have left nothing to chance.

If this was Michael. If it wasn't, then where was Tomas taking her, and why?

Nikita decided the only way to find out was to cooperate.

* * *

"Sir?" Jason's voice spoke from the speaker in Operations' office.

"Yes, what is it?" Operations asked, turning to look down to where Jason was seated.

"There's a problem with the Indonesia mission. I've lost two operatives. One of them is Nikita."

"What do you mean, you've lost them?"

"Their trackers just suddenly disappeared off my board."

"So? Lost of tracker just means we have a dead operative." Operations replied coolly.

"But neither of them were in a fire fight, and I lost Nikita at the van. That might mean we have enemy infiltration from behind."

"What have you done to lessen exposure?"

"I sent Chris back to investigate."

"And?"

"I haven't heard anything from him either."

"What's the status of the mission otherwise?"

"We have closure. The embassy is secured and the hostages are being turned over for medical treatment. Other than losing Tomas and Nikita, there were no casualties."

"And the hostiles?"

"Some were turned over to the Indonesian authorities. We kept two for interrogation."

"Good." Operations smiled.

"But what about Tomas and Nikita?" Jason asked.

"Have the rest of the team do a sweep. If they aren't found, then we may have an escape attempt. If so, my orders are to find and terminate them both."

* * *

Tomas guided Nikita through a maze of back alleys of a rather impoverished neighborhood. Since the Indonesian government had ordered a curfew due to several orchestrated terrorist attacks, they saw no one in the darkened streets.

"Far enough." Tomas finally said softly. "Now, give me your weapon."

Nikita turned to see that he had tucked the router in his field jacket, and stripped off his balaclava and gas mask.

Curious as to what came next, Nikita handed him her gun.

Tomas popped the magazine from Nikita's weapon, then slapped in another. To demonstrate there was live ammo in the new clip, he fired the silenced weapon against a nearby wall. Nikita heard the bullet ricochet.

"So now what?" She asked.

"So? You tried to escape. I came after you. You resisted, " he held up her still smoking gun in his right hand and smiled, "and I killed you."

Tomas raised his own weapon to fire.

For a fleeting second, Nikita wondered once again if Tomas was Michael. Perhaps she had hurt him so much that he hated her enough to kill her. But even as she looked death in the face, a part of her refused to believe it.

No, Michael wouldn't kill her, so this wasn't Michael!

She kicked out with her foot to knock the weapon away, but almost instantaneously, Tomas's body jerked forward and fell at her feet.

Nikita staggered backwards against a rough brick wall, then glanced down at Tomas. She squatted and felt the carotid artery, keeping her eyes alert to any other dangers around her. She felt no pulse, then in the dim light from a distant street light, she saw that the back of his head was completely gone from a sniper's bullet.

Looking around for the assailant, she groped for and found both weapons that Tomas had in his possession, and his field router.

Now she had another question on her mind. Who had killed Tomas? If one of her team, why didn't they show themselves?

Cautiously, she made her way through the darkened alley and headed back towards the van. She saw no one until she arrived. Chris and Rhea suddenly ran up from different directions, their upraised weapons pointed directly at her.

"Where the hell have you been?" Chris demanded to know. "We've been out looking for you."

"Yeah, and where's Tomas?" Rhea asked, coldly.

"Dead."

"You killed him?" Rhea said incredulously.

"No." Nikita answered, ignoring their raised weapons. "How did the mission go?"

"What's the matter, you weren't paying attention?" Rhea asked, sounding annoyed. Still, she lowered and holstered her pistol.

"Look Tomas kidnapped me, using a field router." She held it out to Chris as supporting evidence. He still held his weapon trained on her. "I had no comm."

"Now why would he do that?" Chris asked with disdain.

"Good question!" Nikita snapped back. She slapped the router into Chris's gloved, free hand then called Section.

"Jason, are you there?"

"Nikita! What's going on?"

"I don't know. I had an anomaly. Tomas is dead. I lost comm-what's the mission status?"

"We have closure, and no casualties-well except for Tomas."

"Good. Stand by." Nikita turned to Rhea, "Where's Chase?"

"He stayed with the backup team to mop up. We have two hostile prisoners ready for transport." Rhea gestured behind her towards the embassy building.

"All right. I want a housekeeping team to recover Tomas's body." Nikita ordered. "I don't like anomalies!"

* * *

The gentle vibrations of the aircraft rocked Nikita into a restless sleep. She'd been awake for nearly thirty-six hours, supervising the mop up operations, interrogating prisoners, writing battle-logs, and all the loose-end tying that was required of the Ops Chief. Flying home would take nearly twelve hours, and she and the entire Red Team knew exactly what to do with the time-sleep.

But with sleep, came dreams . . .

"Hmmm! This is delicious, Michael. What is it?" Nikita asked as she sat on the deck, under the stars. The night was calm, but cool, and much too beautiful to miss by staying below decks.

"Blackberry Merlot." Michael said, as he poured some into his own glass. He sat the bottle down and sat down behind Nikita, effectively shielding her from the cool breeze of the ocean, and giving her something warm and sturdy to lean back against.

For a long while they sat in silence, watching the sky and listening to the waves lap gently against the side of the yacht. Michael began to stroke her hair, sifting it like fragile strands of gold, through his fingers.

Nikita closed her eyes, turned, and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. She loved his touch, hungered and thirsted for it. As a girl her mother rarely showed her any affection, and she remembered wishing that once, just once her mother would touch her like this. She had always longed for security, and warmth, and Michael gave her that without hesitation or expecting anything in return.

Nikita's eyes welled with tears. She wanted to tell him the truth, wanted to confess her secrets. She had been stupid and selfish to take this time to be with him. It was a lie that couldn't last. She knew that when she asked Mr. Jones for the time. But she wanted to know what it would be like, to be with Michael, free. She wanted to know how it would be, to save a bit of it in memory for the rest of her life. Just once, she wanted to know what true happiness was like.

But she wasn't truly happy; not knowing what she knew; not knowing it was all a lie; not knowing how much she was going to have to hurt Michael to get him to say goodbye.

"What's wrong?" Michael asked softly, as his fingertips brushed a tear from her cheek.

"Have you ever been so happy, and so terrified it will go away, at the same time?"

Michael nodded, his fingers continuing to caress her face. "Every moment we're together."

He sounded so sad, that Nikita's tears flowed anew.

Perhaps it was simply Section fatalism, or perhaps deep down Michael sensed it couldn't last, either way, it grieved Nikita's guilty heart.

To make amends, she reached up and kissed him, then led him down below.

They made love slowly, like they had centuries of time, while their boat rocked gently in the arms of the sea.

Nikita remembered the warmth of him: his mouth hot against her mouth, the hard length of his body covering hers like a blanket. She had been cold, her body trembling, before it began to leech heat from his. The weight of him made her feel protected, wanted.

In the dark, all sensation became tactile: firm planes meshed with rounded softness, hard velvet found itself enclosed by hot satin. She remembered the taste of his mouth, his beard gently abrading her skin, the fire of his tongue, as he kissed her intimately and sent her over the edge of existence.

After it was over, she lay in his arms trying to think of a way to express to him what she was feeling. All that came out was: "Michael, I love you."

"I love you, too." Michael had answered quietly, his arms tightening around her.

The words shattered her. Only once before had he told her he loved her. Only once, when it wasn't Section manufactured. But then, Michael had not been himself, and Nikita hadn't really taken his words to be the truth.

Now he told her what she had waited long to hear. Now, when it was too late-too late!

Nikita wept bitterly in Michael's arms, unable to stop or explain. Perhaps he understood, or even sensed the truth, but he said nothing, just held her until the storm was past.

* * *

Nikita awoke with a jerk, feeling as if someone or something had touched her face. She found herself still aboard the plane, her head resting against someone's shoulder in the next seat. It was Chris.

"Bad dreams, Sugar?" He asked with a knowing grin.

Nikita didn't think it any of his business to answer the question, and it annoyed her no end that Chris was using a nickname reserved for Walter's use only. To keep from biting his head off, she asked him what time it was instead.

"It's 0830 Zulu. We land in forty minutes." Chris answered, before shifting in his seat. He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes again.

Nikita got up and stretched her legs, taking a moment to check on the prisoners, who still slept. A quick trip to the bathroom revealed dried tear tracks on her face. She scrubbed them away, hoping Chris had not noticed. To show any weakness, especially to a subordinate was dangerous. What Michael once advised, she'd since found to be true. If she couldn't be ruthless, the next best thing was to appear that way. Crying, even in her sleep was unacceptable.

* * *

"So? How'd it go?" Walter asked, seated at his kitchen table.

"As expected." Michael replied, cleaning his weapon.

"Since I have no idea what was expected, that doesn't enlighten me very much." Walter grumped.

"Operations orchestrated Nikita's assassination. It failed." Michael explained.

"It had help to fail. What if he tries again?"

"He will try again." Michael assured him.

"Then what? You going to keep playing guardian angel forever?"

Michael ignored Walter's direct question and continued with: "Operations has something else planned, besides Nikita."

"Like what?"

Michael looked thoughtful, "I'm not sure yet, but based on past experience, it will be something unexpected and significant."

"Why don't you just tell Sugar what's going down? Maybe she can help."

"She doesn't trust me." He said quietly, concentrating on reloading his clip.

"Maybe not, but she does love you," Walter returned sincerely.

Michael didn't so much as indicate he heard a word Walter had said.

"I said, she still loves you!" Walter repeated more forcefully.

"It doesn't matter." Michael replied.

"It does to her." Walter returned stubbornly.

* * *

O'Brien puzzled over the data and instructions that Operations had given him. He had been tasked to track down and place under surveillance, a former Section informant. O'Brien wondered why Section was bothering. If the informant was no longer of use, or no longer reliable, O'Brien had been in Section long enough to know they would simply be canceled.

And why the secrecy? Operations' order clearly instructed that the mission O'Brien was working on was classified, to the point that O'Brien was the only operative working the profile.

"Why me?" O'Brien had asked.

"Because of your background as a police investigator." Operations had replied.

"And once I find this guy-then what?"

"You keep him under surveillance and contact me. I want to know where he is at all times."

"For how long?"

"Until I tell you otherwise."

"Well, that sounds easy enough except for one small problem."

"And that is?"

"Occasionally I need to eat, sleep and take a crap." O'Brien said, folding his arms across his chest.

As soon as the words left his mouth, O'Brien realized he might have verbally cut his own throat; Operations was not known for his ready sense of humor. However, to O'Brien's intense relief, Operations cracked a smile.

"In other words, you need someone to back you up."

"In other words," O'Brien agreed.

"Take Ken Stillman as your backup. Report to me as soon as you have located our target."

"Okay, sir."

O'Brien mulled over the instructions as he sat at his desk. His gut told him to be careful, that something was proverbially stinking in Denmark, but he knew better than to question the Section-at least for now.

* * *

Operations waited until O'Brien left then called down to Jason on his intercom and briskly ordered, "I want you to start the Mirror program."

Jason looked up at his superior and frowned, but answered "Yes, sir," despite his misgivings.

Immediately afterward, Operations darkened his aerie and waited. A familiar voice and face suddenly appeared; a holographic ghost come back to haunt him. It was Madeline.

"Yes?" Madeline's voice asked.

Operations walked up to the image, his hand reached out to touch the computer-generated cheek.

"Hello, Madeline. Glad to have you back."

The image smiled, and gave a slight bow of its head. "Glad to be back. How can I help?"

Operations smiled broadly and began to explain.

* * *

"Walter?"

"Sugar?" Walter turned with some surprise then smiled. However, Nikita didn't return it.

"Where did you get Tomas from?"

"Excuse me?"

"Was Tomas a Section regular at the Farm for retraining, or was he fresh off the street?"

"Off the street, at least that's what his paperwork said. Why?" Walter asked knowing full well why she was asking.

"He tried to kill me, that's why."

"Well, you have to ask yourself, why he would want to do that? " Walter said after a moment's pause. "And since I assume, you and Tomas just met, he couldn't have had time to want to kill you for personal reasons, could he?"

Nikita gave him a frown and folded her arms. "Not likely."

"Then Sherlock, who do you suspect?" Walter quipped back.

"Operations."

Walter gave her a grin, "Give the girl a kewpie doll! Got any proof?"

"No." She said in disgust.

Walter shook his bandana swathed head. "Gotta have proof. You get proof-you get Operations. If you don't, he'll keep trying until he succeeds."

"I know." She snapped. "That's why I need to find out how he got into the Farm. Was there a particular reason you assigned Tomas to Section One?"

"I sent him because he met your criteria-not too young and good at what he does."

"I need to track Tomas to the source." Nikita returned.

"You need an investigator." Walter said with a nod.

Nikita suddenly smiled. "I have one of those already."

"Who?"

"O'Brien! You're a genius, Walter!" She said giving him a noisy smack on the cheek.

"Yeah, that's me," Walter said with a wistful sigh, as he watched her leave. "All brains and no brawn."

* * *

Madeline's image looked around itself. "You integrated Mr. Birkoff's bridge program and the brain scrapes," it commented, matter-of-factly.

"With a little assistance from brother Jason, yes." Operations replied.

"I'm impressed," it said with a smile. "Now, back to the situation at hand. Your attempt to cancel Nikita failed?"

"Yes. Somehow she managed to survive," Operations said grimly. "I'll have to wait to try again. This time, I think it should look like an accident, instead of a mission loss."

"We trained her too well," Madeline's image noted. "Are you sure you want to waste that much talent? You have lost Michael. That alone has greatly affected Section efficiency statistics."

"I want her dead! She's a liability I can no longer tolerate. If it weren't for her, Michael would still be here and I would be at Oversight. I'll find new talent, I always have."

"Perhaps. Shall I run through all Agency personnel to find you a replacement for Michael and Nikita?"

"That would be helpful." Operations said.

"Anything else?"

"Yes. I need a strategy to replace Mr. Jones with myself."

"That would mean killing Mr. Jones," Madeline's voice said coolly.

"Exactly."

"Are there time constraints?"

"The sooner the better, but nothing specific, no."

"What mode?"

"A Red Cell assassination would be nice, or something that looks like it." Operations smiled.

"Have you Mr. Jones' location? I would advise against killing him at the Agency."

"Agreed. I'm working the location issue now."

"I'll begin a profile, once you have a position. In fact, perhaps we can arrange for Nikita to be terminated along with Mr. Jones. Would you like that?"

"Nothing would please me more."

Madeline's doppelganger smiled and faded from sight.

* * *

Nikita wandered aimlessly through her new house, listening to the rain as it rattled against the roof. While beautiful, the size of the house was just too much for one person. She's never felt truly alone at her old apartment; but in this place, she not only felt alone, but totally lost as well.

Of course, Mr. Jones meant well. A new place to live for her new life. More prestige. Now she had relative freedom, and material things. Her closet was full of lovely clothes. She had everything money could buy, in fact. But she was miserable.

She missed Birkoff. She missed Walter. She missed Michael.

Sadly, Nikita went into her kitchen and made herself a steaming cup of tea. Looking at the solitary cup sitting by itself on her kitchen table made her feel lonelier still.

She opened up the laptop sitting on the table and typed out a message for O'Brien. She would give him instructions to try and track down Tomas' origins in person tomorrow. She sipped her tea then typed some more.

Perhaps, she thought, once O'Brien had tracked down Tomas, perhaps she could get his help in locating Michael. Just to know he was well, she told herself. Just to know that he was still alive. She had no right to know more than that. No right at all.

* * *

"You know, I still can't get used to that face of yours. You sure it's not permanent?" Walter asked, watching Michael chopping vegetables for their dinner.

Michael looked over at Walter with a raised eyebrow but didn't respond.

"Not that it's bad looking or anything," Walter tried to assure Michael. "It's just not you, if you know what I mean."

"You said you spoke to Nikita yesterday." Michael said, ignoring Walter's comments. "What did she say?"

"She wanted to know why I had sent Tomas to her. She thinks Tomas was planted at the Farm by Operations. I think she's right."

"And?"

"And she's determined to trace Tomas back to Operations. She's going to get O'Brien to help."

Michael looked thoughtful, then gazed over to one of several small television screens that both men were watching. On it, Nikita was quietly sipping her tea as she worked on her laptop.

"She'd kill us both if she knew she was on Candid Camera again," Walter quipped lightly.

"Operations probably won't try to kill her on a mission since the first attempt failed. I think he'll try to make the next attempt look like an accident, or a hit from an enemy. She's in more danger alone and isolated at home than anywhere else." Michael said, as if to justify the invasion of Nikita's privacy.

"Yeah. You're right. But if she's attacked at home, how the hell will we be any good sitting here?"

"You'll be here. As soon as it's dark, I'm going over there."

Walter sighed. "Michael, why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?" He answered softly.

"Staying away. Why not just go to her-be with her?"

"If she wanted to be with me, she would have come with me. She didn't."

"I'm sure there was a reason, Michael."

"The same reason she betrayed you?" Michael asked bitterly.

"Look," Walter said after a long pause, "I won't pretend that I understood her reasons for that, or anything else, for that matter. All I know is she loves you. Always has loved you. Whatever her reasons for what's she's done, she loved you enough to leave you breathing."

"Breathing?" Michael softly repeated. "Just barely." * * * "You wanted to see me?" O'Brien asked, shoving an unruly lock of hair off his forehead as he sat down in the chair opposite Nikita.

"Yes. I know Operations pulled you off on another assignment. Can you tell me what that is?"

"Sure, I could tell you, if I wanted to die five minutes later. You know I can't do that." O'Brien said, his voice comically sarcastic.

Nikita folded her arms across her chest and gave him a wry smile. "No, of course not. Just testing."

"Was that what you wanted?"

Nikita pursed her lips together, "No. I need you to find out about a recently deceased operative by the name of Tomas. He came to us, supposedly from the Farm. I think he was a plant."

"A plant? By whom?"

She cocked her head to one side. "That's what I need you to find out."

"Well, who do you suspect?"

"Let's just say this person or persons wants me dead."

"Hmmm," O'Brien rolled his eyes then shook his head. "We aren't talking about who I think we're talking about, are we?"

"And who would that be?" Nikita asked, mildly.

"Ouch! I think this is known as being between a rock and a hard place."

"Can you help me? Covertly?"

"You sending flowers to my funeral?" He asked, running both hands through his hair in distress.

"Please?"

He sighed deeply. "Okay. I don't tell you what Operations wants me to do and I don't tell him what you want me to do, deal?"

Nikita gave a little chuckle. "'Kay. Deal. Can you handle both taskings?"

"In Section, does that matter?"

"It matters to me."

He gave her a quirky grin, "That's a first!"

"Hopefully, if things work out, it won't be the last. I'm going to try and change things around here." Nikita said firmly. "You can help me do that."

He shook his head, but smiled. "Optimist."

"So, can you handle it?"

"Yeah. I think so. I'll need some help."

"Ask Jason. He can get you access to nearly everything. Come to me if you run into road blocks and I'll see what I can do."

"All right. I'll report back as soon as I find out anything."

* * *

Nikita looked up from her desk and grimaced at the time. It was nearly midnight and she hadn't made it to the gym for her daily workout. If Michael could do all this and keep up, she knew she had to do the same. Tired or not, she made the decision to go spend at least thirty minutes breaking a sweat.

At first she thought she'd be alone to exercise, but the room had another occupant. It was Chris, going through a martial art routine.

Nikita sighed. Not her favorite person, but by default, probably her next team leader. She decided she might as well tell him now. Maybe he wouldn't preen too much if he had a smaller audience.

"Chris? Do you have a minute?"

"For you? Anything." He said with a calculating smile.

"With the loss of Tomas, I need to field promote someone . . . ."

"When do I start?" He finished her sentence for her, draping a towel across his neck.

"Tomorrow." She said, too tired to argue or comment on his egotism.

"Fine. How about a few falls?" He glanced over his shoulder at the mat.

The thought of beating a little hot air out of him intrigued her. "Sure, why not?"

She quickly put her hair into a ponytail and got in first position. They bowed and began a brief match. Nikita put him on the mat almost immediately. But Chris followed by knocking her legs from out from under her and pinning her to the mat with his body.

"A little tired, are we?" He grinned down at her.

"Yeah, a little." She struggled to get leverage to move him off. He wouldn't budge.

"Okay, uncle. Let me up." She said with annoyance at not being able to move him.

"Say please," he said softly, studying her mouth as he spoke.

Furious Nikita struggled some more. "Let me up or I'll put you in abeyance!"

He gave her an odd look then stroked her face with the tips of his fingers, the only part of his hands that weren't gloved in black leather. "Yes, I believe you would."

He let her go, stood, picked up his towel and left without another word.

Nikita lay on the mat for a long while afterwards, feeling emotionally raw. She had actually threatened someone with abeyance and meant it. She actually wanted to kill someone for something as simple as making her feel uncomfortable. Was it happening to her like it had Operations and Madeline? Was having the power of life and death making her a monster as well?

* * *

"Michael?" Walter's words seemed to infringe upon the dark solitude of the room.

"Yes?" Came a soft reply.

"Why are you sitting in the dark, man?" Walter asked, leaning towards the light switch on the lamp.

"Don't." Michael ordered quietly.

"Sure. Okay." He glanced at the small screens where Michael's attention seemed to be fixed.

"Sugar home?" Walter asked, tossing his jacket over the back of the couch.

"No."

Walter frowned then scratched his head. Having a conversation with Michael lately was like talking to a sphinx. When he answered, if he answered, his replies were short or cryptic. Not that Michael had ever been a talkative person, but Walter worried over his silences much more now than he had before.

"How is she doing?" Walter asked, stepping closer. He saw Michael's face fall and turn away. Alarmed, he touched Michael's shoulder.

"What's wrong?"

Michael gently brushed off Walter's touch, stood and walked over to the window to look out of it.

"She's changed." Michael admitted, sadly.

"Sugar? No, she hasn't. She's just a little confused right now, that's all." Walter tried to assure him.

"The essence of what she was, her innocence, it's gone."

"Hell, Michael, no one in Section retains that for long, you know that." Walter reminded grimly. "Sugar kept hers longer than anyone else, and somewhere, most of it is still there. You know it is."

Michael shook his head, but let Walter's verbal statement stand uncontested, if only because he desperately wanted it to be true.

Walter wagged his thumb at one of the small surveillance screens. "You think it's not getting to her? Think again. Take a look at that."

* * *

Nikita had managed to wait until she reached home to come apart. The long-dreaded moment had finally arrived. The inducing drugs had worn off, uncovering a month's accumulation of guilt and regret that rolled over her all at once. Walter watched as Nikita sobbed out Michael's name in a voice ravaged by grief.

"You have to go to her, Michael," Walter said worriedly.

"I can't." Michael replied quietly as he leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window.

Walter was about to argue, then realized Michael was right. Nikita wouldn't accept solace from Michael at this point, especially since Michael was no longer "Michael". And even though his physical transformation wasn't permanent, Michael still needed his disguise if he were to thwart Operations' plans.

"You go." Michael said, then added softly, "Please?"

Walter watched Michael's face. There was desperation there couched in sorrow so deep that Walter wasn't sure which of the two-Michael or Nikita-needed comforting more.

"All right. I'll . . . make some excuse. . . was just in the neighborhood or something." Walter muttered, pulling on his jacket.

"Thank you." Michael returned.

* * *

Operations sat back in his chair as the computer conjured Madeline to his side. This Madeline had its advantages; for one, it was more agreeable. Still, Paul Wolfe regretted the loss of the original on a daily basis. The living Madeline had kept him on his toes with her logical and sound arguments where the computer program was too willing to agree with whatever Paul suggested. It was evident the program needed fine tuning, yet Paul knew it would never ever be the same.

You've made progress?" Madeline's voice asked.

"Yes. I have Mr. Jones under 24-hour observation."

"I would recommend several weeks pass before you make an attempt."

"Why? There's more danger in delaying. He's most likely expecting something anyway."

"All the more reason to delay. Let him anticipate and when nothing immediately happens, he will be more likely to relax his vigil."

"How long?" Operations asked.

"Have you assigned Nikita's next mission?"

"No, not yet, but I am thinking about sending her to Spain. The Basque nationalists have started a new reign of terror."

"Would it be possible, I wonder, to have Mr. Jones personally involved in this mission in some way?" Madeline's doppelganger mimicked its original's posture and stance with unnerving accuracy. For a moment, Paul Wolfe almost believed the real Madeline stood before him.

"You mean set up two birds for one well cast stone?" Operations asked with a grin.

"Precisely." The image smiled that oh-so-familiar Mona Lisa smile.

"All we need is a plausible reason for Nikita to want to meet with Mr. Jones. It shouldn't be too difficult to arrange."

"Good. I shall provide you with several scenarios that I feel might be of assistance."

* * *

Nikita sat, head-bowed, in front of a roaring fire in her much-admired fireplace, but she got no pleasure from it that evening. Her face was wet with constant tears and red from the emotional effort of an hour-long fit of crying.

The knock at her door both disturbed and annoyed her. Only Mr. Jones had visited her new home, and she really wasn't up to seeing him at the moment, especially since she blamed him for how she was feeling.

Nikita got to her feet, quickly wiping her eyes and trying to calm herself before going to the door. Taking a deep breath, she yanked it open-only to find Walter standing on her doorstep.

"Walter? How did you . . . "?

"Jason told me where you lived." Water interrupted, providing her with an answer to her partially asked question. "I thought I'd stop by and see how things were going." He stopped a moment, reached into his jacket pocket, withdrew a large bandana and handed it to her. "Looks like you need this," he added uncomfortably.

Her face crumpled up into renewed grief, and Walter caught her in his arms as she launched herself into them.

"Okay, Sugar," Walter said, holding her with one arm and shoving the door closed behind himself with the other. "Tell me your troubles." * * *

"I never meant to hurt him. I just didn't see any other way." Nikita said, taking a shaky sip out of her hot tea.

"You could have told him what was going on," Walter argued firmly.

"How would that have accomplished anything? Michael's been through so much, Walter. It's made him lose his edge. If he had stayed, sooner or later, he would have been killed. Protecting me has made him reckless. You saw how he flaunted Section rules because of me. If I had to lose him, at least this way he's still alive!"

Walter bit his lip. The "still alive" comment was debatable. Yes, Michael was still breathing, much more than that couldn't be said.

"And so, you just go on without him, is that it?" Walter asked, taking off his jacket and slipping it around Nikita's shoulders. She was shaking uncontrollably-withdrawal from the drugs, he surmised.

"Yes." Thoroughly depressed, Nikita hunkered down over her cup, letting the steam warm her face. "It's what I have to do."

"For how long?" Walter asked quietly.

"For as long as it takes." Nikita said, beginning to cry again.

"Okay, no more of that." Walter said, taking the cup from her hands and pulling her against his shoulder. "You're exhausted. Let's put you to bed. He pulled her to her feet and guided her to her bedroom.

Yanking the sheets down with one hand, Walter eased Nikita down with the other. He watched as she kicked off her shoes and lay upon the bed.

With a shuttering sob, that became a sigh, Nikita turned on her side and buried her tear-stained face in a pillow. Walter covered her with the blankets and tucked them close.

"Get some sleep, Alice. This is the White Rabbit talking, and that's an order." Walter's voice filtered down through the depths of Nikita's sleepy mind.

Michael stood for a long watching Nikita sleep. The sedative that Walter had slipped her had made it safe for him to visit her in person, yet still made it impossible to do what he wanted, which was to crawl into bed with her and hold her close.

'Just hold her,' he thought regretfully.

He had been witness to her conversation with Walter, and now had some hope for the future. He knelt next to her bed and studied her face.

'Open your eyes and see me,' Michael's heart pleaded with Nikita's. 'I'm here, Nikita. Come back to me.' He kissed the words against her mouth . . .

Nikita awoke with a start and stared into the gloom of her night-shrouded room.

"Michael?" She lifted her head and whispered his name. It only took a moment to realize that she was quite alone. Disappointed, she closed her eyes again and slept.

* * *

"It's a simple plan," Operations noted, reading over the data on his screen.

"The best plans are always the simplest. It does require action on your part."

Operations scowled, but nodded. "It's not what I'd like, but the fewer involved with the plan, the better."

"You can manage this, can't you?" Madeline's image asked pointedly.

Paul Wolfe gave a snort of disgust, "Just because I haven't been in the field in a while, does not mean I can't handle a simple assassination."

"You realize however, if you fail . . . " The feminine apparition folded its arms.

"I won't fail!" Operations snapped.

"Do you have anyone in mind to take the fall?"

He smiled through a frown. "There is only one likely candidate-O'Brien."

"What of Mr. Stillman?"

"Not to worry. Both men will be dead within fifteen minutes of the hit. I'll make it look like O'Brien made the hit, then Stillman and O'Brien killed each other."

"You might need an alibi." Madeline's expression was doubtful.

"Why? No one will be left to ask questions. George is dead; Nikita and Jones soon will be. Besides, I have allies at the Agency who would defend me against any accusations and would support my promotion as well." Operations paused long enough to light a cigarette and take a puff before continuing. "I want it set up for the 9th-in Madrid. Jones is attending a meeting at Section 4. It should be easy to entice him into meeting with Nikita, especially if he believes she has something on me."

"You believe neither will think it odd that the other wants to speak in person?" Madeline inquired.

Operations chuckled. "Nikita will do as she's told. She has no reason to be suspicious of a meeting set up by Mr. Jones, and Jones-well, Jones has his own infatuation with Nikita. I'm sure if he's contacted, he'll show up in person."

* * *

"Walter!"

"Yeah-Jason, what is it?" Walter spoke into his cell phone at the Farm.

"We need to talk-now!"

The young computer wiz sounded more like his brother all the time, Walter thought, hearing the urgency in Jason's voice.

"About what?" Walter frowned.

"About something that's about to go down." Jason's voice fell to a whisper.

"Sounds serious-"

"It is!"

"All right. Can you get away to meet?"

"In an hour-I have some equipment to deliver to the Farm."

"Right. See you then."

Walter folded his phone and pondered what could be so important that it could fluster the normally cool and collected Jason.

When Jason finally arrived, Walter pulled him off to a secured area where they could speak privately.

"Okay, so what's going down?" Walter asked.

"An assassination." Jason replied grimly.

"Whose assassination?" Walter asked.

"I'm not completely sure, but it's someone in Section."

How do you know?"

Jason took a deep breath. "Operations has been using one of my brother's programs for a special project that he was working on. The project involved using Seymour's bridge program and some personnel data downloads-brain scrapes for want of a better name."

"To do what?"

"To conjure up Madeline!"

"What?" Walter asked incredulously.

Jason wrapped his arms around himself and gave a little shiver.

"At first I thought it was some kind of sick joke, or maybe misplaced grief over Madeline's death, but Operations wanted to speak to Madeline, so he had me recreate her through Seymour's bridge program."

"For what reason?" Walter's face scrunched up with distaste.

"To plot some scheme-all I know is, I got curious and combed the program. Madeline was giving him advice on an assassination-I didn't have time to find out much more than that, except that Operations has it in for Nikita. I think he's going to kill her."

"Hell, Jason, he could do that anytime he wants! It's called abeyance!"

"Then why a plot?"

Walter thought about it for a long while. Was this what Michael was expecting? It seemed to be too simple-too pat.

"Maybe it's more than just Nikita," Walter muttered to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing-look, go back, and keep quiet. I need to do some checking."

"But what about Nikita? She's on her way to Madrid with a team. We need to warn her." Jason insisted.

"Don't worry. We will. Just get back there and keep an eye on things. I'll contact you later."

Nikita trotted up the steps of the building wondering why she had been ordered to break mid-mission for this meeting. Jones' message had not been specific, but it had stressed the need for secrecy. Putting the Madrid mission on hold had taken a bit of doing, especially when she knew she was under constant scrutiny by Operations. However, with a well-placed lie about the need for more intel, Nikita had managed to postpone her mission start by 45 minutes, just barely enough time for her meeting with Jones without causing suspicion on Operations part.

She made her way to the meeting place, a small first floor balcony, off a public restaurant. It was quite late in the evening, nearly midnight, which meant few people were still availing themselves of the cuisine and had instead moved on to the bar and dance floor.

She waited, and checked the time on her watch for a second time. The faint blue glow told her she still had a minute before Jones was scheduled to meet her, but when she looked up, he had arrived, walking with a Mick-like bump and grind to the music in the bar.

Mr. Jones looked about and sauntered casually over to where Nikita stood. As if to make the meeting look incidental, he ignored her for a few moments, before turning and leaning against the balcony railing.

"So, what's so important?" Jones asked, lighting a thin cigar.

Nikita looked startled, "I-I thought . . ."

She had no time to finish speaking. A bright red dot of light had lit up the back of Jones' skull.

With a rush of adrenaline, Nikita pulled her pistol and shoved Jones to the concrete floor of the balcony, just as a bullet exploded a chip out of an adjacent brick wall.

She glanced up to see if she could see a shooter and saw a small flash of light from a balcony on a nearby building. Instinctively, she aimed and fired at the spot, then saw movement, like a body falling.

Since all the weapons had been fired with silencers, no one inside the building was the wiser for the incident.

Nikita ducked down, waiting for another shot. When one didn't come, she reached over and helped Jones to his feet. They quickly made their way inside the building, with Nikita shoving her gun back into her purse and tucking her arm through Jones'. They walked with serious calm through the bar and out the hotel restaurant.

"I think we can safely say, Operations has made his move." Jones said, angrily.

"I may have killed him. " Nikita said quietly when they reached the street in front of the hotel. "I fired at a muzzle flash on the balcony on the building across from us on the west side."

Jones shook his head. "Couldn't have been. Based on the angle of the bullet, it had to have been fired from the opposite direction."

Nikita frowned. Having a moment to think about it, Jones had to have been correct. But if so, had she shot an innocent bystander by mistake? Her heart sank at the thought.

"What are you going to do?" Nikita asked.

"Find the shooter, for one." He opened his cell phone and snapped out a set of instructions for a team to search the two buildings from which the shooter may have fired.

"Send a team to the eastern building. I'll take the other building-I need to know if I've hit an innocent." Nikita said, frowning with worry.

"All right, but be careful, the shooter is still out there."

Nikita approached the building then closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the imprinted picture in her head. Like a photographic image, her mind's eye noted the floor upon which she had seen the flash of light. Fifth floor balcony, three windows from the corner of the building-she ran inside to make her search.

It took a good half hour of careful searching to find the room with the balcony that Nikita had fired upon. She quickly picked the lock and entered the room. It was both dark and empty.

Carefully she made her way towards the balcony. The glass patio door was half open, with the curtains fluttering gently in a breeze. Raising her pistol in a defensive posture she carefully pushed her way through the door.

In the faint glow of reflected city lights, Nikita could make out a body lying on the balcony floor. A weapon-a rifle, lay next to it. She nudged the body with her foot and got no response, then felt for a pulse and found none.

Laying her weapon aside, Nikita reached down and dragged the body inside the hotel room and turned on a light.

She gasped at a familiar face beneath a blond haircut, but it certainly wasn't Operations. It was Chris, her team leader.

A cell phone suddenly rang, causing Nikita to jump in response. She reached into Chris's coat pocket, flipped open the phone, and whispered faintly, "Yes?"

"Michael?"

Nikita was stunned. It was Walter's voice.

"Walter?" She gasped.

"Nikita?" Walter sounded just as surprised. "You all right?"

"Yes, but what . . ."

"Where's Michael?" Walter continued anxiously.

Nikita looked down and slowly slid to her knees next to the body.

"No . . . " The word came with a shudder. It couldn't be!

"Nikita." A voice called from the hallway. It was Jones.

"We found Operations, dead on a balcony in the other building." Jones walked further into the room, shadowed by two operatives, guns drawn.

"Who's that?" Jones asked, coming closer.

Nikita looked intently at the face then checked Chris's eyes. She found a blue contact lens covering a hazel green eye . . . and screamed . . . .