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"Where are we going, daddy?"
Michael gazed down into his son's face as they boarded the train out of Paris. His thumb rubbed against the soft, baby skin of his little boy's hand.
His mind answered, 'Somewhere safe'-as if such a place really existed.
"America."
Adam's big brown eyes looked up at him curiously, then he smiled. "On an airplane?"
"If you'd like. Maybe even a boat."
"Mommy said you were in heaven. What was it like?" His son asked suddenly.
"I can't tell you that now. It's a secret." Michael replied.
"Will Mommy be coming back too?" He asked hopefully.
Michael closed his eyes and turned his face away until he could compose himself, then lifted his son into his arms and hugged him.
"I don't know, Adam."
* * *
Nikita returned to her father's home and to her sister, who remained a stranger, to tell her of their father's fate.
"Michelle?" Nikita entered the house and tossed her gloves on a nearby table.
How ironic, Nikita thought. Michelle, Michael-the feminine and masculine version of the same name. She remembered Walter's suggestion that her mysterious sibling might be Michael. Happily, he was wrong, but it had been a sickening moment. Not that it mattered now. The literal chain of command weighed heavily around her neck. She fingered it and the command key that hung on it, absently. The burden of command, it was a term she had often heard. Until now, she hadn't really understood what that meant.
"Michelle?" She walked into her father's office and found her sister sitting in the dark.
"So, he was successful." Michelle said bitterly, seeing the chain around her sister's neck.
Nikita bit her lower lip. She should have known her sister would have been well informed.
"Yes." Nikita said, not knowing what else to say.
Her sister stood and walked over to a nearby window.
"You know, I've hated you for years." Michelle said, leaning her forehead against the cool glass.
"Why?" Nikita asked, both surprised and hurt by the angry admission.
"Because it's always been about you, big sister. Everything. I've had to listen to your accolades for years. You're the second coming of Christ, don't you know that? You're all father's ever thought about."
Nikita took in a deep breath. She could understand Michelle's bitterness, but none of it was of Nikita's doing. She wanted to be friends with her sister. Certainly, she didn't want her for an enemy.
"I'm sorry." Nikita said honestly. "Until a month ago, I didn't even know you or father existed."
"Yeah, I know. And I suppose you want me to feel sorry for you?" Her sister turned to look at Nikita with true hatred on her face.
"Look, Michelle, I didn't ask for any of this. And I don't want it! At least you got to have a father. He was always with you."
"And where is he now? Dead! Because of you!"
"It was his choice. He died to save Michael's son." Nikita's hand rubbed across her aching forehead caused by the tears that she couldn't let fall.
"He died because it was the only way he could make you the head of Section One! Why couldn't you have just done what he asked?"
It was pointless to continue the conversation, Nikita realized. Perhaps it was simple grief that was making her sister act this way. In hopes of that, she decided not to continue the argument further.
I've made preparations for the funeral," Nikita said quietly. "It will be held tomorrow afternoon. If you want to see him before ... call the Section and speak with Sandoval." That said, she picked up her gloves and left her father's house.
* * *
"Hey, Sugar." Walter said, leaning against the doorjamb leading to the operation's aerie.
Nikita turned to look at him and a flicker of amusement lifted the corner of her mouth briefly.
"Yeah, I know. I'm an insubordinate old sonofabitch. I just happen to be too old to change."
"Just don't call me Sugar in front of Quinn, please." She said, pressing a button on a remote, causing the aerie to go dark to those below.
"How you holding up?"
She shrugged. "I'm not sure I know yet." Her arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the railing in front of the darkened glass.
"Sorry about your father," Walter said gently.
"Thanks." There was a long pause then she added. "It's hard to grieve for someone you never really knew. If you want the truth, you were more a father to me than he was."
Walter looked humbled by the statement, but couldn't resist a comical, "Ouch! At worst, I thought was your dirty, old scumbag of an uncle."
She flashed him a look of amusement that faded into sadness.
"So now what?" Walter asked, looking down at Nikita's new domain.
"We begin to rebuild Section One. Hopefully, better than it was before," she said simply.
Walter sighed. "It's going to be hard, Sugar. Personnel wise, we've been bled white."
She nodded. As much as she had hated them, Operations and Madeline had been good at what they did, and Michael-well, that was a void that would never be filled. She thought about Birkoff, and her face became wistful. It was hard sometimes, seeing Jason, and having him not be Seymour. So many people gone. So many.
"I'll be needing your help rebuilding, Walter. You're the only one left I trust."
Walter sighed. "That means spending some time at the Farm, looking at prospective recruits, doesn't it?"
She nodded. "Only for a while. I have a prospective replacement for Madeline in mind, but that leaves Michael's slot and my old one to fill. Jason is fully capable to take over in comm."
"Who you got in mind for Madeline's slot?"
"Quinn."
"Ah. Well, that's an interesting move."
"She's ambitious, and frankly, I think it's better to put her somewhere where I can watch her closely. She doesn't like me, but if I put her in Madeline's job, it might make her think twice about taking me down. If I go, then my successor will put in their own people. Watching my back will preserve her in that higher position."
"Well, she certainly has the temperament for Madeline's job. She was bucking for it when Operations-I mean Paul, was alive."
"That's okay. I don't know if I want to be called by that title anyway. Operations will always Paul's identity."
"So what do you want to be called?"
"How about Miss Jones?" Nikita said wistfully. "I suppose that's my real name."
"In this place? I wouldn't place a bet on it."
There was a sudden buzzing sound. Nikita sighed. It was the Agency.
"I have to take this call," Nikita told Walter. "But come back this evening and have dinner with me. We have a lot of planning ahead of us."
* * *
Summoned to the Agency, Nikita sighed and left Quinn in command.
For her part, Quinn didn't quite know how to take her sudden promotion. She was both delighted and suspicious.
"You're joking, right?" Had been Quinn's initial reaction.
No matter, Nikita thought. At least Quinn was halfway capable.
"Mr. Sands will see you now." Nikita was told upon her arrival at the Agency. Since she had no idea who Mr. Sands might be, Nikita shrugged and entered his office.
Seated at a smoke-colored, Plexiglas desk was a man near to her father's age, or perhaps a little older. He had near white hair, and vivid blue eyes.
"Good morning Miss ..."
"Jones." Nikita finished for him.
"Jones? Yes, of course. Miss Jones." He gestured for her to be seated.
"It seems your father tricked us all." Sands began.
"What do you mean?" Nikita asked, feeling peevishly protective of her father's memory.
"I just received the coroner's report. Your father was dying. His death on the bridge simply accelerated the inevitable. Leave it to your father to manipulate his enemies to the last." The man smiled briefly and leaned back in his chair. "He wanted them to kill him." Sands continued. "He sacrificed himself to ensure you would stay to serve the Section, since he could no longer serve it himself."
Nikita felt numb over the news. She had been manipulated once again. She'd given up her freedom, given up Michael, for a man who had lied about everything. Even his seeming sacrifice for Michael's son had been a lie.
"Is that all you brought me down here to tell me?" Nikita said grimly.
"Not at all. Your father was a friend of mine. He left me certain instructions, should he ever pass away. You are here that I might honor those instructions." He reached into a drawer and pulled out a box of micro-discs.
"Your father kept tabs on you since your birth, Nikita, and he kept a diary of his thoughts about you. He left me a message that I received on a delay, to give you his papers-rather his discs-so that you might learn all that he didn't have the time to explain to you."
The proverbial story of my life?" Nikita asked sarcastically.
The man pushed the box of discs towards her and answered, "Something like that."
* * *
"Daddy, why can't I go to school?" Adam asked plaintively.
Michael stared out of the kitchen window of their new apartment at the rain that was so heavy it fell in sheets.
"You are going to school, Adam. I'm going to teach you."
"By myself?" The child asked puzzled.
"Why not?" His father asked, placing a glass of milk on the table.
"I miss my friends." The child answered solemnly.
Michael sighed. Of course he did. Any normal kid would. But what was normal? His life with Elena had been as close to normal as was possible being in Section, but it was always Elena that had managed Adam. Michael only saw his son in between long absences and never attended any school functions-Section duties had been time prohibitive. Elena had been father and mother most of Adam's short life.
As he watched Adam eat, Michael decided they had to settle down somewhere. He couldn't keep moving, despite his fears that terrorists might be following them, and he couldn't deny Adam the normalcy of school and playmates. He would also have to make a new start at life-find something to occupy his time and his mind. Financially, Section had set them both up for life, but it went against Michael's nature to sit and do nothing.
"All right. Monday morning, we will take you and get you registered in school. Would you like that?"
Adam's milk-mustached mouth widened in a grin. He nodded, his bright, dark eyes full of expectant delight.
Michael smiled back, thinking how little it took to make his son happy.
* * *
Mohamed Abu Nadir, the newest leader of the Collective sat back in his chair and laughed. He thought himself a genius, and genius he was. He had finally proven that to the others.
There had been a raging debate when he first suggested killing Jones instead of bringing him back for torture. But why torture Jones for information, that may or may not be true, even if Jones wasn't rigged to die by his own hand in some way? Why not use him to bring down all of Section One?
Fortunately, Mohamed had been successful, beyond his wildest dreams! Of course now, the members of the Collective chafed at the wait to close the trap.
"But not yet. Not quite yet." Mohamed had told them. There were more Sections than just the one. With a little patience, they could have the location of them all. Once they had all seven locations, they would attack them simultaneously. Without the Sections, the world would be their oyster, to be swallowed whole.
As for the man had that betrayed the Collective into near disaster, well, there too, it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of time.
* * *
Michael waved goodbye to Adam as his son's school bus left. For the first few days, Michael had waited and followed the bus in his car, until this simple act of paranoia was caught by Adam, who demanded to know why his father was following him to school each day.
Michael gave his son a lame excuse about wanting to know the route the bus took, just in case there ever came a time the bus would have a flat and Adam would need to call for Michael to pick him up.
The excuse mollified his five-year-old son, but made Michael acutely aware of how pathetic it all sounded. He could almost hear Nikita telling him 'to get a life.'
He looked around his furnished apartment and realized just how bad it was. He and Adam led a Spartan existence. There were no photos, no hand-drawn pictures with Adam's signature, nothing that might identify the occupants of the apartment. The only personal items were their clothes and a few toys recently purchased for Adam. Michael even kept his car locked inside the garage, so no one could easily record what kind of car it was or write down its license plate number. He had no phone line to the house, preferring to use a cell phone so his location could not be traced.
Was it simple paranoia? Or prudence? Michael wasn't really sure any more. After all, they had been on their own for nearly a month without one single incident to conclude they had been followed by Section or anyone else.
Michael closed the door on the breakfast dishes and turned on the dishwasher. He looked around for something else to do, but the room was tidy to a fault. Worse than that, the room was silent, silent and lonely.
He went over and turned on the only luxury he allowed himself, his computer. He carefully typed in the code to unlock it and spoke one word into the built-in microphone. "Nikita" Anyone trying to access his computer without that word, spoken in Michael's voice, and the data on the computer would instantly destroy itself.
Michael used the machine to play music while he restlessly surfed the net. He pondered the idea of what to do next. He should apply for a job. That's what normal people did. Get a job, buy another house, settle down ...
He sadly remembered Nikita's half-hearted comment about a minivan, a white picket fence and a cocker spaniel. He'd been fighting thoughts of her daily. They only made him miserable with longing.
She had had no choice from the beginning. Neither of them had. Michael understood that with his head, but his heart still hurt; it ached; it mourned what could have been.
Nikita mourned too; he knew that because he knew her. But she had Section to keep her mind occupied. She had the job.
And Michael had his son. He reminded himself of that fact. He had Adam-when he wasn't at school or out playing with his friends. The problem was, what was Michael to do with himself in the meantime?
* * *
Nikita sat in her Section office and stared at the discs she'd been given. There was a time that she had been desperate to know the how's and why's of her Section captivity; now, she dreaded knowing.
So what would she find? A dissection of her life? Or simple words of Section wisdom from her oh-so-adoring (in her sister's estimation) father?
Nikita didn't know if she could handle any more disillusionment, not now, at any rate. She had too much on her plate to worry about as it was.
There was a buzz at her door.
"Come." She called out, moving aside the discs and returning to duty mode.
"Hi ya, Sugar. I've got some prospective clients for you." Walter said cheerfully. He sat in the proffered chair and leaned over to hand her a computer file.
Nikita took the file and stared at it dolefully. What were the chances of finding another Michael in this life? Few to none. She sighed and uploaded the data.
There were three candidates, all male, all handsome. Nikita eyed Walter with the mild suspicion that he was trying to provide her with as near a substitute as he could. He was such a romantic old softie, God love him. She smiled faintly at the thought. Then, as she paged through the data, she heard him casually clear his throat.
"Yes, Walter?"
"I was gonna ask, how was your jaunt to Center? What'd they want?"
Nikita paused, looked at the discs, and gestured at them.
"Behold, my father's last will and testament," she said bitterly, " or everything I wanted to know about being recruited into Section but was afraid to ask."
"So why were you recruited?" Walter asked with some hesitation.
"I'm afraid to ask," she repeated with a sarcastic toss of her head. "I don't even know if I want to know anymore, Walter. Maybe it will only make things worse. He made my bed and now I have to lie in it. What's the point of wondering why?"
"The point is, you got this far. You have the information in your hands that you've worked seven years to get. If you don't look at it, they've won." Walter said rather agitated.
Nikita looked at the discs again. The urge to know still tugged at her. Perhaps Walter was right. Knowing couldn't be much worse than this maddening puzzle as to "why" she was here. But she didn't want to think about it just now. For now she had a job to finish.
"I want to interview all three," Nikita said, turning off the computer.
"Can they be here by this afternoon?"
"A couple of them are already here." Walter said, watching her as she got to her feet.
"Good. That means I can get an early start."
"And the discs?" Walter said, nodding at them.
"I'll think about it, Walter," was all she would say.
* * *
"Daddy! Daddy!"
Michael awoke with a start, flung himself out of bed and raced down the short hallway to his son's bedroom.
He found Adam curled in a ball beneath the blankets, shrieking with terror. He pulled him free from the blankets and cradled him close.
"It's okay, Adam. Daddy's here. It's just a bad dream. Just a dream."
"They shot grandpa! They shot mommy!"
"No Adam. No one shot mommy. I promise. It's just a bad dream. Wake up now."
The little boy wept and wouldn't be consoled until Michael carried him to his own room and crawled beneath the covers with him.
"Do you want to be in the castle?" Michael asked softly.
Adam nodded, so Michael placed himself on one side of Adam and used pillows to build a wall on the other side of him, so that the child was surrounded on both sides, by his father and by pillows.
"Okay, you're safe now. No dragon dreams can get in now." Michael told him, gently stroking his son's hair.
Adam nodded, hiccupped, and then gradually calmed back to sleep again.
Michael lay awake listening to the child breathing next to him. Elena, from what he had gathered from talking to Adam, had told their son that bad men had shot and killed his grandfather and Michael as well. The child wasn't sophisticated enough yet to question how his dead father had suddenly shown up again, but Michael knew the day was coming. The explanation he had in mind was one in which Michael had only been kidnapped by the bad men and had finally gotten away. It wasn't the truth, but it was close enough, if one considered Section One the "bad men". Michael had certainly gotten away from them.
* * *
"You rang?" Quinn stood in the doorway of the operations aerie with her arms folded across her chest.
Nikita ignored the sarcasm tinged with suspicion in Quinn's voice and answered, "Yes. I have three candidates for the TacOps position. I want you to review their files and give me your recommendation." Nikita held out a disc.
Quinn took the disc with some reluctance. "When do you want it?"
"Is tomorrow too soon?"
"I think I can have a psyche profile by then. Yes. By tomorrow afternoon." Quinn replied.
"Good. In the meantime, you can send in the first candidate. I believe his name is Spragnola."
Quinn nodded and disappeared down the staircase. A few moments later the first candidate appeared. The square outline of his shoulders nearly filled the doorway. He had the solid shape and stance of a body builder, and a square jaw to match. He gazed at Nikita out of chocolate brown eyes, with an amused smirk on his face, as if he was sure of his attractiveness to women and counted on that fact to win the day.
"Mr. Spragnola?"
He grinned, his eyes admiring her. "Yes, ma'am." He stepped into the room.
Nikita smiled benignly. "Do you know why you're here?"
He folded his arms, his grin growing wider. "Well, I suppose ..."
With one well-aimed blow to Spragnola's throat, Nikita dropped him where he stood.
Standing over the stunned and coughing operative, Nikita asked, "You haven't answered my question, Mr. Spragnola."
For a fraction of a second, Spragnola glared up at her, then he grinned and finally laughed. "Nice to meet you, too." He said, getting warily to his feet.
"Do you find me amusing?" Nikita asked soberly.
"No, ma'am. I find you ..." He rubbed his throat and finished with, "amazing." He immediately raised his arms to ward off any other attack, and added, "And I mean that in the nicest, most politically correct way."
Nikita smiled faintly. He had a sense of humor. She liked that in people.
Looking a little relieved, Spragnola ran one hand through his dark brown hair to smooth it back in place.
"I'm looking for a chief of tactical operations. Your name was forwarded to me by Center. Give me a reason to give you the position."
"I get the mission done, and I get my people back alive." He answered confidently, his hands finding a perch on his hips.
Nikita walked over to the window, leaned on the aerie railing and looked down on her domain.
"What makes you think it's so important to get your people back alive?" She asked, facing away from him.
"Well, other than the fact they are human beings-its stupid to waste your assets. Operatives take time to train and they don't grow on trees." He retorted with an edge to his voice that suggested he was annoyed.
'Good answer,' Nikita nodded to herself. She turned back around.
"What are your feelings about valentine missions?"
He grinned, the cockiness returning. "It's like dying and going to heaven ... or as close to heaven as I'll ever get."
Nikita's lips twisted slightly, trying not to openly smile. The man was as much a rogue as Walter!
"All right, Mr. Spragnola. I have a task for you. We have a kidnap and retrieval mission on the pad that hasn't been profiled. I want you to take the lead, pick your team and run the assignment. Jason Birkoff will provide you with the details."
Spragnola smiled and gave Nikita a little cavalier nod of his head. "Consider it done."
"Good. You're dismissed."
She watched him turn and saunter confidently out the door.
"Walter, you sure can pick 'em." She said softly, smiling.
* * *
Michael stood on his balcony overlooking the woodland behind the apartments. The early evening air was sweet and the trees stood tall and black against a deepening blue-gray sky. He could hear the giggles of children enjoying their twilight game of chasing fireflies and could see the bright bits of light flashing on and off around them.
"Adam. It's time to come in, now."
Adam looked up at his father and pouted. He was the youngest of the group of kids and wanted to stay out as long as the rest of them did.
"Can't I stay out longer?"
"No. But if you come in now, you'll have time to play one video game before bedtime." Michael answered, leaning against the railing and regarding his son with an understanding smile. Five-year-olds, Michael was beginning to learn, thought they could go forever. He imagined he had been the same way at the same age.
Adam hesitated, and gazed over his shoulder at the other kids. One by one, they began to disappear, called home by their own parents. Since they too, had to go in, Adam saw the logic of obeying his father without complaint.
"Okay, I'm coming."
Michael mentally timed his son's ascent and opened the door to greet him at the exact moment of his arrival.
"Bath first," Michael told Adam. "Then your teeth, then the game."
Adam sighed, but it was the routine he was used to, so he went to the bathroom, undressed and hopped into the tub of warm bubbles to play with his action figures and boats. Michael appeared, washed his son's hair, and bundled him out of the tub in a large bath towel. He watched his son brush his teeth then carried Adam into his bedroom.
"Daddy?"
"Yes?" The two sat on Adam's bed while Michael finished towel-drying his son's dark hair.
"How come you don't go to work? Mathew's daddy works and so does Joshua's daddy. Does that mean we're homeless?"
"I'm on vacation from work for a while and we aren't homeless. This is our home." Michael combed out Adam's glossy hair as he spoke.
"I want our real home, Daddy. Why can't we go back?"
"We can't, Adam. The bad men are there. We wouldn't be safe. We are safe here. Do you understand?"
His son nodded soberly, then leaned wearily against his father's chest.
"I miss mommy. If she comes back, she won't be able to find us here."
"Mommy knows where we are. She watches over us from heaven," Michael said hugging his child closely.
"But why won't God let her come back?"
"Adam, when Mommy told you I was in heaven, it wasn't true. She only thought I was in heaven."
"But where were you?"
"Remember the bad men? They took me away to a bad place for a while. I finally was able to get away from them and come and get you."
"Did Aunt Nikita help find you?" Adam asked sleepily.
"Yes," Michael said wistfully. "Aunt Nikita came and saved me and helped me find you."
"Is she going to come see us?"
"Maybe, someday," Michael whispered as he lay Adam on his bed and tucked him in.
"I was supposed to play games," Adam protested, his eyes half closed.
"Tomorrow." Michael suggested, but his son was already fast asleep.
"Goodnight, sweet prince," Michael whispered as he kissed his child, and left the bedroom door ajar.
The apartment was silent as Michael went into the living room. He hated this time of the day; hated being so alone.
His bare feet made no sound on the carpet as he switched on the stereo and to the soft passage of music began to focus his mind and body upon the rigors of the martial arts. Muscle and bone strained and fought imaginary warriors until Michael was exhausted enough to sleep.
"To sleep, perchance not to dream," he whispered to himself as the hot water in the shower pounded against his back and shoulders.
His skin was still damp as he stretched out upon his bed and pressed his face against his pillow. Alone.
* * *
Nikita sat at her desk, sipping her morning coffee and staring off into space. She wondered where Michael was and whether or not he was happy. Surely he was, with Adam back safe and sound. She wondered now, why she hadn't taken him up on the white picket fence and the minivan when she had the chance. She dreaded what she was about to do, but could no longer help herself.
Reaching for the disc labeled "number one", she placed it in the player and waited for it to load.
* * *
'There has been a complication,' the report in front of Nikita read. 'A complication.' So read her father's report on one of his early missions in Section One. Nikita was shocked to learn that her father had been the first man to hold the position of Chief of Tactical Operations and his immediate boss had been Adrian.
The complication her father had spoken of in his notes was none other than herself. According to Jones' mission brief, his temporary cover assignment had required him to establish himself with the "lower orders'. Enter Roberta Wirth, an attractive, naïve, young woman, involved in the drug culture of the late 1960s, and Jones' ticket inside the operation of a midlevel drug cartel in Western Europe, run by the Soviets.
Any hope Nikita had that her parents had somehow loved one another was dashed, somewhat cruelly. Her father's irritated comment in the report stated that "Section should look elsewhere when purchasing rubbers", indicating the one he used the night of Nikita's conception had failed-hence the 'complication'. Nikita was simply the product of a valentine mission gone awry.
There were several in-house memos on what to do about said 'complication' with termination of the pregnancy the most quoted suggestion. In the early days of Section history, however, this did not sit well with those at the Agency who believed in the sanctity of life, at least innocent life, and the idea of aborting the baby and/or simply canceling its mother, fell by the wayside.
If Nikita's father ever chafed at the old-fashioned notion of abortion being a great evil, he never said so in his reports. He did, however, request to take the child once it was born and raise it himself. This was denied almost immediately, mostly because they believed a man was not an ideal candidate to raise a child alone.
Nikita gave out a huff of disgust at this "stone-age" thinking, but was at least grateful her father had tried. Michael was a good father; she'd seen that first hand! Ironic, though, that she and Adam had been products of valentine missions. Had Michael wanted his son at first? Or had Adam simply been an unplanned pregnancy too? With a sigh, Nikita read on.
And so, the decision was made to leave well enough alone. Roberta would be left on her own to raise the baby and that was to be that ... except, Jones couldn't quite let it go. It was, after all, as he stated in a letter to the Agency, his child they were talking about. He wanted to be allowed to see the child and support it. The Agency categorically denied him on both requests.
It was Adrian that finally stepped in and set up a compromise. Jones would be allowed to keep tabs on his child as long as he never revealed himself to Roberta or the child. And Adrian, who never missed an opportunity to further her own agenda, decided to use Jones' child as a test case to "study the origins of criminal tendencies".
It was believed, quite erroneously at the time, that being brought up in a criminal element would quite naturally make any child a criminal as well. Jones coolly disagreed. He believed that hardship more often than not, gave a person character.
Adrian pleasantly agreed to disagree. "Time," she said, "would tell."
Nikita sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. First, she'd been a mistake, then a lab rat used for study. At least now she knew why Adrian had singled her out and had known so much about her life.
So when had it been decided to bring her into Section One, and who had made that decision? Her father? Adrian?
She scanned through the next few files seeking the answer to that question, stopping and reading through two documents, one written by her father, the other by Adrian.
Adrian's report seemed to indicate that Section One had intercepted her school records to include intelligence and mental acuity test results.
"Subject scores highly in every category. Recommend personality profile test be given at age 15. Unusual personal code of honor noted; rarely seen in this socioeconomic strata."
Her father's notes were more of a personal nature and included a photograph of herself at age 13.
"Nikita is more of an adult than Roberta is! Think I have Adrian doubting the reigning theory is correct, but she won't admit it. She still insists Nikita is anomaly. Well, perhaps Nikita is simply unique. She is my daughter, after all."
There was more data gathered on her grades, how many friends she had made, whether her classmates considered her a leader, her attitudes towards authority ...
"Wow, they missed counting the holes in my underwear," Nikita sneered at the seeming endless detail.
She continued reading until she reached an ominously titled report: "The Positive Aspects of Genetic Manipulation".
Remembering the young girl she had seen in Section, that she had sworn was herself at an earlier age, Nikita read on with trepidation.
After a few paragraphs, she relaxed somewhat. The report simply suggested allowing operatives with special abilities to choose partners with complimenting skills and allowing them to have children-an in-house breeding program, as it were. These children would hopefully inherit the abilities of their parents and after time, Section could breed the operatives it needed, rather than take chances on criminals taken from the streets.
There followed the argument over whether such a program was morally right, as the children would have no rights to refuse recruitment into Section One. One person at the Agency, who was vehemently opposed to the entire idea, quoted Brave New World throughout their rebuttal. Others argued there was no proof such a program would even work; Adrian's report on Nikita, daughter of Operative Jones, suggested otherwise.
"Subject seems to have inherited the best traits of her operative father, (intelligent, athletic, inquisitive) paired with the rebelliousness and risk taking of her mother. Taken together, the subject fits the profile of an ideal operative."
"The idea has merit, however, the theory needs to be proven. Suggest using Jones, Nikita as test case as data has already been compiled since birth of child," came the reply and final decision from the Agency. "If subject meets criteria set for profile, instigate recruitment at age 17."
Nikita pushed herself away from her desk and began to pace the floor, half sick, half enraged over the way her life had been decided by others. Throughout it all, her father had said nothing in her defense. If anything, he was her greatest cheerleader, proud she was proving Adrian wrong and himself right. He wasn't proud of her as his daughter; he was proud of her use of his genes!
"Didn't you ever think I might have something to say about this?" She shouted aloud to the ceiling. "That I might have wanted another life?"
She thought of Michael's proposal, the life with the picket fence, the minivan, the cocker spaniel-the life with children of their own-and started to cry. It was never in the profile. Her entire life was one, goddamned Section profile!
The cop that had been murdered, had been a dirty cop, aligned with an organized crime family. Section used an operative to assassinate him and frame Nikita for his murder-nice and neat and tidy-a classic Section profile.
There was a buzz-Section One wanted her attention. Nikita wiped her tears and instantly composed herself.
"Yes, what is it?" She asked aloud in a professional sounding voice, returning to the computer on her desk.
"Candidate number two is waiting for you in the gym," Walter's voice broke in over her office intercom.
"I'll be there in five." She replied and switched off her computer. "Later, ... Dad." She said bitterly and left.
* * *
Michael browsed through the bookstore searching for something to occupy his mind. His hand skimmed across poetry and art, political works and best selling novels, but nothing caught his eye or attracted his interest.
With Adam in school, Michael's days were long ones. He was listless, bored, and lonelier than he'd ever been in his life. He couldn't even remember the last conversation he'd had with an adult, other than the principal at Adam's school, when he took his son to get him registered.
After nearly fifteen years of knowing what to do, when to do it, and why, Michael found himself aimlessly adrift. He gazed at the people around him, each living their lives, each serving a purpose. He caught slivers of conversations and occasional laughter and it seemed he was sealed in a bubble of silence, alone in his own universe.
"This isn't freedom ..."
Michael closed his eyes at the memory of Nikita standing nude on the boat in Lyons.
"This isn't freedom," she had said of her life on the outside. And now, Michael understood exactly what she meant.
A wave of longing crashed over him. He missed her. It was like a hunger in his soul that wouldn't be satisfied.
He tried to console himself. He had Adam. He could come and go as he pleased-be anything he wanted-go anywhere he wanted... but what purpose did it serve, to have the whole world, and lose his soul?
A deep sigh escaped him. Nikita had sacrificed her future, her freedom, and her father so that Michael could be with his son. He owed it to her to be happy so that her sacrifice was not in vain. Somehow, he had to find his way in the world; to find something positive to do with his life, other than being Adam's father.
Michael stared down at an art book-paintings by Renoir. Idly, he paged through the gauzy, soft pastel portraits by the French master, and imagined seeing Nikita's face and figure painted and framed on a wall.
It had been well over a decade since Michael had held a paintbrush in his hand. He wondered if he had lost the ability. The idea of painting Nikita's portrait suddenly intrigued him. It would occupy his mind, and if his talent hadn't deserted him, in the end he would have a visual keepsake to comfort him in the years to come.
He bought the book, then sought out a hobby store, to purchase oils, brushes and a canvas.
* * *
Nikita watched the graceful moves of her second candidate, Jon Sakira. Sakira was a slender Eurasian, with straight, shoulder-length, jet-black hair, and oddly enough, olive green eyes.
Walter's report highlighted his talents as being in the martial arts field, and profiling. Transferred to Section One for the crime of kidnapping the daughter of a wealthy Singapore businessman, Sakira had proved himself to be a model operative ever since. The footnote to his crime had been that Sakira had fallen in love with the girl he'd abducted for a Eurasian gang, only to have her killed in a police shootout during a rescue attempt.
Nikita waved the young man over. He bowed once in her direction upon arrival.
"Do you now why you are here?" Nikita asked him.
"Yes."
"Are you interested in the position?"
"Are you saying, I have a choice?" He asked quietly surprised.
"Point of fact, yes, I am."
Sakira was silent for a long moment, then said, "Are you sure I am appropriate for the job? I've never occupied the lead tactical position."
"Based on your abilities as a profiler, you have the tactical knowledge to do the job. I've read your profiles. You have a talent for getting the mission done and the people back alive."
His face looked bleak. "Not always."
Nikita nodded slightly. Here was a man who understood his limitations and who understood the pain of failure. He also cared enough to want to do a good job, even if it meant not getting the promotion.
"I have other candidates for the position, and the choice will ultimately be mine," Nikita said, "but I think you should think about it. Based on your record, I think you would be an asset in any position here in Section."
"Thank you. As you say, I will think about it. When will you make your decision?"
"I have another candidate to interview. I hope to promote by next week."
Sakira nodded.
"You're dismissed then," Nikita said.
Sakira gave her another polite little bow, which she returned, out of habit, being that they were on the practice mat.
When he turned away, Nikita sighed. Although they physically looked nothing alike, Sakira painfully reminded her of Michael, in the graceful way that he moved, and the quietness of his personality.
Lost in her memories of Michael, Nikita walked past Walter without seeing him.
"Well?" He called out to get her attention.
"Oh, hi Walter. Well, what?"
"What did you think of Sakira?"
"Seems to be a good candidate. So is Spragnola, for that matter. When do I get to meet the third candidate?"
Walter smiled saucily. "She's waiting for you in your office."
"She? What happened to Thorberg?" Nikita asked, remembering the name of the large blond operative whose records had been impressive.
Walter sighed. "Got himself killed this morning."
"How?"
"Traffic accident. A truck pulled out in front of his motorcycle. Wasn't his fault, but he's still just as dead. I got the word half an hour ago."
"How did you replace him so fast?"
"Well, I haven't actually. What I mean is, I think this next candidate might fit better in your old position, instead of Michael's."
"Well, Spragnola and Sakira are both good candidates. I suppose I could make my choice between the two of them. And you're right, I still need to backfill my position. What's her name?"
* * *
Michael stepped back from the canvas and the face he'd painted from memory. His own skill struck him; it was Nikita, so real and vibrant, that he expected the painted mouth to speak his name.
He stared at it, willing it to speak, remembering how her mouth moved, that pink and lovely set of lips ... against his.
Michael turned away suddenly, and set about cleaning his brushes. It was nearly time for Adam's bus to arrive and seeing his beloved's face again had been more painful than he had expected it to be.
* * *
"You asked to see me?" Jasmine Kwong stood expectantly in the hall outside the Operations perch when Nikita arrived.
"Yes, I did. Let's go into my office," Nikita replied, gesturing to Jasmine to follow.
They reached the large room dominated by a wall of video screens showing an undersea kelp bed and tropical fish.
"Have a seat," Nikita ordered, as she too sat down.
"I'm sorry about your father," Jasmine said, as she slipped into the chair across from Nikita's.
"Thanks." Nikita said solemnly. "I didn't know him very well."
Jasmine made a derisive sound. "I never knew mine either."
Remembering that Jasmine's parents had given her away so that they could have another try at having a son, Nikita answered, "Just goes to prove it takes more than fathering a child to be a father."
Jasmine smiled sadly. "Yeah, I guess so." After a pause, she added, "So, you wanted to see me?"
"Yep. As you know Section's been hard hit in the personnel department. I have slots to fill and I need good people to fill them. You've come highly recommended to fill a specific vacancy."
Jasmine's expression was expectant, wary, but interested.
"Which position?"
"My old one-tactical team leader."
"Whom would I be working for?"
"That, I can't answer yet. I have two, very well qualified candidates in mind. When my decision is made, one will be Chief of TacOps, the other will be another tactical team leader, working in tandem with you."
"You think I'm ready for this?" Jasmine asked earnestly.
"Yeah, I think you are." Nikita said with a pleasant smile. "Are you interested?"
Jasmine smiled back. "Yes, yes I am."
"Then, the job's yours. Along with it, you get your own apartment outside of Section. Get with Quinn. I'll have her assign you a place."
"Outside . . my own place?"
"Yes. A car and civilian clothes as well."
"Thanks!"
"Do a good job, and maybe, if I can turn this place around, maybe one day, you'll be able to walk out of here a free woman in a few years."
Jasmine stood. "I know you'll try-but whatever happens, Nikita, thanks. Thanks for believing in me."
The two women shook hands and Jasmine left.
Nikita punched a button on her desktop.
"Quinn, can I see you in my office, please?"
"I'll be right there."
* * *
"How much longer do we wait?" A Collective operative named Feehan inquired impatiently.
Mohamed Abu Nadir shook his head. "Not much longer. A month, maybe two. We have the location on the majority of the sections, and have secondary locations on most section operatives. Now all we need to find is the location of the Agency. Once we have that, we can move to the tactical phase."
"And Samuelle?"
Nadir smiled faintly. "You know, we should actually thank him. Trading Jones for his son made all this possible."
Feehan smiled for the first time. "Do you think we ought to let him know how much help he's been, before we kill him?"
Nadir chuckled. "Do you think he would appreciate the irony?"
Feehan shrugged, "But the look on his face when he realizes he was the key to bringing down all the Sections, now that would be priceless."
"No. I have something special in mind for Michael Samuelle. I'm going to sentence him to life-life in a hell made especially for him."
* * *
Nikita sat on the edge of her bed in Section quarters. Her father had left her his house, but living there meant living with Michelle, and at the moment, that idea wasn't a pleasant one.
She had inherited Paul Wolfe's quarters, but had managed in a few short weeks to make it over into something she could live with, at least temporarily. She had kept some of Wolfe's conveniences however.
"Lights off," she called out and her wish was granted. "Music, Françoise Hardy."
A fragile guitar, violins, and a gentle feminine voice filled the darkness. Nikita closed her eyes and pulled a pillow into her arms. The song she remembered from the night she and Michael had shared in his farmhouse in Belgium. Somehow, when she listened to it, she felt closer to him.
"So where are you, Michael? And what are you doing?" Nikita whispered aloud. She imagined his hand gently stroking her hair as she lay in his lap.
"I have to pick someone to replace you tomorrow. There are two good candidates, Sakira and Spragnola; do you know either one?" She sighed. "Probably not. Both of them are new to Section One. Quinn has her recommendation, but I'm not sure I agree."
'The decision is yours,' Nikita heard him say.
"I know. But you are a hard man to replace. Neither of them can fully fill your shoes."
'You'll make the right decision.' Michael's soft voice assured her.
"Hope so ... I love you, Michael." Nikita whispered as she drifted off to sleep.
'Love you too...'
* * *
Michael awoke suddenly, drenched in sweat, his heart racing. He sat up and listened intently, but heard nothing. Just to be safe, he pulled on his robe and went to check on Adam.
In the faint yellow glow of the nightlight, Adam's face was relaxed. No nightmares here, just a sleeping child. Michael listened to his breathing, and finally satisfied that all was well, he returned to his room. Fifteen minutes later, however, unable to sleep, he got up again and went into the living room.
The faint odor of linseed oil and turpentine dragged his attention over to the nearly finished painting of Nikita. He sat in a chair, switched on a light and stared at it.
"Hi. I miss you." He said. "I wish ... but no, that wouldn't have been fair. Your father knew you so well. You had no choice. I had no choice. We are creatures of duty, you and I. He knew that. He counted on it."
Michael leaned his cheek on his hand. "I love you. I wish I could have told you more than once. I wanted to, but I never thought I had the right. After all that had passed between us, I wasn't sure you would have believed me."
He glanced down the hallway.
"And I love Adam. And I love that you understand that. He's the only person on earth that has the power to keep me from your side. I meant what I said. One day, when he no longer needs me..."
'You'll know where I am.'
Michael closed his eyes and remembered the last glimpse he had of her face and her eyes, filled with tears…
* * *
"Daddy?"
When Michael opened his eyes, it was morning and Adam was looking at him curiously.
Michael welcomed Adam into his lap and kissed his cheek. His son returned it, and added a hug around his neck.
"Thanks, Daddy needed that," Michael whispered lovingly to his son. "Hungry?"
"Can we have pancakes?" Adams asked as his father carried him into the kitchen.
"With bananas and whipped cream?' Michael asked.
Adam grinned and nodded.
"Then it's your job to peel the bananas." Michael said and set him on his feet.
* * *
"Have you made your decision?" Walter asked.
"Yes. It's in direct contradiction to Quinn's recommendation, but..."
"But the decision is yours to make, not hers. What did you decide?"
"I'm giving the job to Sakira, and making Spragnola the Alpha team leader, and Jasmine Bravo team leader. Spragnola has more combat experience than Sakira; Sakira excels at profiling." Nikita explained.
"I take it Quinn chose Spragnola for Michael's position."
"Yes. Her reasoning was sound-he does have more combat experience. But we need someone in Michael's position that can plan the missions. I get the best of both worlds-Sakira, writes the battle plans, Spragnola can lead them."
Walter nodded, then added with a wistful smile. "Michael could do both jobs at the same time."
"Michael was one of a kind." Nikita whispered, then sighed.
"So are you, Sugar. So are you." Walter patted her shoulder.
"Thanks Walter-you did a great job in finding me some replacements."
"Better go and break the news." Walter replied.
"Yes, there is that. Would you send Spragnola up first?"
"Your wish is my command," Walter quipped.
* * *
Spragnola appeared in the doorway of the perch with his hands behind his back, but did not enter until Nikita invited him to do so. She darkened the windows for privacy as he stepped inside.
"You've made your decision." He said with a smile.
"I have. It was a difficult one."
Spragnola's lips pressed together and he nodded his head once. "And I didn't get it."
"I'm sorry. I made my decision based on…"
Spragnola raised one hand to stop her.
"You don't have to explain. Frankly, I'm a little relieved it isn't me. I like the field. Are you going to send me to another Section?
"No. You're too talented to lose. I'm making you Alpha team leader."
Spragnola smiled with dimples showing. "Ahhhh. Nice consolation prize. I accept."
Nikita couldn't help herself. She smiled back.
"I'd like to thank you, Mr. Spragnola. You've made my first tough decision, a pleasure to make."
He laughed. "Look, call me Ace. My last name is an admitted mouthful."
"Ace?"
"I play poker a lot."
"Do you win?"
He grinned and gave her a little bow. "They don't call me Ace for nothing."
Nikita extended her hand, which he took.
"Welcome to the team."
Ace gave it a gentle shake and looked at her with mischievous brown eyes. "Thank you, ma'am."
"Report to Quinn. She'll assign you quarters outside of Section."
Ace's smile widened. "Better and better."
"You'll earn it."
"I don't doubt that for a moment." He quipped.
"You're dismissed." Nikita said, smiling again.
"Catch you later, boss." With a wink, Ace sauntered out the door.
* * *
Sakira took the news of his appointment solemnly.
"I shall do my best to uphold your expectations, Ms Jones."
"I've chosen your team leaders. Alpha team leader will be Ace Spragnola, and Bravo team leader will be Jasmine Kwong. Spragnola has a lot of combat field experience. Kwong, hasn't had as much, but she's a natural leader, and so far has not disappointed."
Nikita handed Sakira a PDA and continued.
"Their personnel files are on the PDA. I'm allowing them to pick their own teams, subject to your approval."
"Thank you."
"Do you have any questions?"
Sakira shook his head.
"Good. Look the data over. Arrange a meeting in an hour. I want to meet with you, Quinn, Walter, Jason, Kwong and Spragnola to discuss the reorganization of Section One."
Sakira gave her a nod of his head that was almost a bow.
As she had done with Spragnola, Nikita offered her hand. After a moment's hesitation, Sakira took it.
"Welcome to the team. I'm looking forward to working with you."
Sakira shook her hand in silence, as his olive eyes gazed at her with some puzzlement.
"Would you tell Quinn that I would like to see her?"
Sakira nodded, and considering himself dismissed, left.
Quinn appeared three minutes later, her face a mask of unhappiness, and her arms folded across her chest.
"No, I didn't take your recommendation." Nikita said as Quinn arrived.
"Why not? You asked for it."
"I did." Nikita said with a nod, "but after I reviewed the records of both men and interviewed them, I decided I had a greater need to have Spragnola as a team leader."
"That option was not considered when I made my recommendation." Quinn said defensively.
"I know. And I believe if it had been, then you would have come to the same conclusion I did. I don't have any quarrel with your decision-making processes, Kate. It was my fault; I didn't let you know I was considering filling the other position as well."
Quinn cocked her head to one side, wondering at Nikita's attempt at peacemaking. "Well, both candidates were pretty much on an even footing."
"Yes, they were." Nikita agreed. "And if I hadn't needed a team leader, I might have agreed with your assessment. But as it turns out, Spragnola didn't really want the TacOps position, so we would have been both wrong."
Quinn bit her lower lip, smiled, and rocked her folded arms.
"It doesn't matter." Nikita continued. "I just wanted to let you know why I disagreed with your assessment."
"You know, you are the boss. You don't have to explain anything." Quinn replied, her tone faintly quarrelsome.
"I'm Operations, Kate, but I'm not Paul Wolfe. He had his way, and I have mine. I'm new and I'm open to suggestion ... but I will make the final decisions here. I just wanted you to understand that I value what you do."
"So, it's peace you want, is that it?"
"That would be nice, but I'll settle for obedience."
"Obedience? Not respect?" Quinn inquired.
"Respect has to be earned, ... on both sides." Nikita returned.
Quinn nodded silently, then asked, "Am I dismissed?"
There was a long pause, before Nikita nodded back.
* * *
"Do we have a probable location on the Agency?" Nadir asked.
"Yes." Feehan replied, as he paced the floor.
"Verified?"
"Not yet."
"I want it verified! This is too important to make any mistakes! Is that understood?"
"Yes. Are we prepared for the aftermath?" Feehan's Irish accent had grown stronger under the stress of the day.
"Plans are in place."
"I don't like it. Red Cell and the others have different agendas. I don't trust them!"
"We don't have enough people to pull this off without sharing the wealth." Nadir replied. "We need the others, if only for the first strike."
"They don't trust us any more than we trust them. What's to keep them from double-crossing us?"
"They aren't stupid. They know their true enemies are the Agency and the Sections. It's worth as much to them as it is to us, to wipe them out. We'll all worry about the fallout later."
"And if we fail? We are using every bit of our stockpiled weapons on this mission, and every operative. We are risking it all!"
"If this is to succeed, we have no choice. That's why we must be sure we have the Agency's location. It has to be taken out in tandem with the Sections. We cut off the head, and the body will surely die."
* * *
Michael leaned his head back, took a deep breath and looked at the sky, all blue and balmy. Adam, on his shoulders, giggled and tightened his grip on his father's head as they jogged their way across the park. A fresh breeze ruffled through their hair causing Michael to comment, "Look's like a good day to fly a kite."
He swung Adam off his shoulders and took his hand as they approached a small kite-stand in the park. The two browsed through the kites on display, searching though Japanese kites and box kites, kites that looked like animals, and other's made like planes, until Adam was in an agony of indecision on what kite they should purchase.
Michael finally got him to choose between a rainbow-colored box kite, and a kite that looked like a goldfish-the brilliant orange goldfish made the final cut.
The two made their way into a large open field, dodging a few Frisbee throwers, and set about launching the kite into the sky.
A gust of wind caught the kite and set it soaring. The tugging on the string made Adam giggly as the kite's momentum pulled the boy's slight body forward.
"Daddy! It's trying to get away!"
Adam's laughter was infectious and Michael joined in.
"Hold on," Michael said, catching Adam about the waist with one arm and steadying him.
It struck Michael, that for the first time in a long, long time, he felt happy, really happy. He still missed Nikita, would always miss her, but today, he felt truly at peace with his life.
Michael released his son, and let him solo, while he sat, cross-legged in the grass to watch.
This was how life should be, Michael thought to himself-grass stains on your jeans, the sun, warm on your face, and a child's laughter in your ears.
"Daddy! Ice cream!" He heard Adam shout and point.
Michael turned to see a small, white truck parked on the edge of the park. The tune of Three Blind Mice filled the air, acting like a Pied Piper, enticing children from all directions.
Smiling at his own childhood memories, Michael got to his feet.
"Fudge or rainbow?" He asked Adam.
"Fudge!"
"Stay right here. I'll be right back."
* * *
It was late, well past 2300 hours when Nikita passed by Comm on her way to her quarters. Jason sat at his station frowning at his screen. His expression was so like his brother's for a moment that Nikita's heart clenched. It wasn't that Jason wasn't good at what he did, he was, but he just wasn't Seymour. Still, the frown bothered her.
"What is it, Jason?"
Jason made a face, folded his arms and looked puzzled.
"It's too quiet out there." He said, still looking at his computer screen.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we haven't seen any action in two weeks from anyone, anywhere. The Collective, Crystal Storm, Red Cell, you name it-they've all been good little boys and girls."
Nikita leaned over his shoulder and watched an anemic data stream run across his computer monitor.
"Hmmm. You're right. That is somewhat odd. Have you checked with the other Sections?"
"That's what's scary. They've noted the same thing. It's like the bad guys have suddenly given up and gone home. Nary a peep out of anybody."
Nikita frowned. "Have you forwarded this to the Agency?"
"Yeah. They don't seem to be overly concerned. They said to use the time to get in some Section training."
"I don't like anomalies." Nikita said quietly, feeling the hair on the back of her neck rise up. "Put everyone on alert status one-if the Agency questions this, tell them it's a training exercise. Run a net through your incoming data streams and cross ref with NSA, CIA and the rest. See if anyone else is spooked by this."
"I'll have something on your desk in the morning," Jason replied, as he set about his task.
"Copy Quinn and Sakira. I'll be in my quarters, if you need me." * * *
Nikita sat in bed with her laptop and continued reviewing her father's legacy. The mystery of her sister's existence was cleared up-she was a half-sister, the daughter of an Agency associate of her father's that had died in a plane crash when Michelle was only nine. Nikita could only assume that they loved one another-her father had married Michelle's mother, but nothing else was mentioned about her.
Letting loose a sigh, Nikita wondered if her sister's anger towards her had mitigated any during the past few days. There were things she wanted to ask Michelle, things that so far her father's notes had not yet explained.
When had her father decided to bring her in? Why had he chosen framing her for murder to bring her in? Was he aware of all the times that Operations and Madeline nearly had her killed? If he wanted her in Section, why hadn't he taken her from her mother and raised her as Seymour had been raised? Why couldn't he have told all these things himself?
It was two in the morning. Nikita yawned and commanded the computer to turn off the lights and play the music that nightly lulled her to sleep. Her last waking thought was of Michael and how much she missed having him to talk to.
* * *
Michael took his place in line, waiting to buy ice cream. Out of force of habit, he studied the faces around him. For the most part, they were ordinary faces, old and young. They were of the real world, a place Michael had only visited on occasion.
He glanced over his shoulder, peeking through the crowd at Adam, still playing with the kite on the lawn, and smiled, thinking they should do this more often.
Then his cell phone rang.
Taking it out of his pocket, Michael looked at the phone in surprise; he had given the number out to only two people, Adam's school, and Nikita.
With his heart racing with hopeful anticipation-after all it was Saturday, why would anyone call him from school?-He opened the phone.
"Hallo?"
"She's a beautiful woman," a man's voice began.
Michael frowned and glanced at the screen on his cell phone to see what number the person was calling from. He didn't recognize it or the voice speaking.
"I'm sorry, who is this?" He asked, thinking it was simply a wrong number.
"And you have a lot of talent. It's a flattering likeness-your painting."
Michael's heart leapt into this throat. Either someone was in their apartment or had it under close surveillance!
His mind screamed his son's name as he turned and sprinted out of line. Over the crowd he could only see the orange goldfish, still bobbing around in the sky.
In a panic, he shoved his way through a group of parents watching a soccer game. As he made it to the open field, he saw Adam still occupied with his kite, oblivious to his father or any sense of danger.
Michael froze on the edge of the field, his mind running scenarios and profile possibilities. Was an enemy trying to flush him from the crowd, using Adam as bait? Or were they hoping Michael would lead them to Adam-Adam was still the grandson of a terrorist. There were rival factions in every terrorist organization looking for an edge, or revenge of some kind.
He scanned the crowds, desperately searching for any clue, any face that he might recognize.
"Hello?" The voice on the phone said, mockingly. There was a trace of an accent-Irish?
"Yes." Michael countered, his eyes staring helplessly at his son, chasing his kite.
"Yes? I would think you would have something more than that to say."
"What do you want?"
There was laughter. "Revenge, redress, reprisal and retribution."
That told Michael nothing; he had any number of enemies that would gloat over his demise. Even Section.
"For?" Michael didn't really care; he needed time to think.
"Betrayal, for starters."
The Collective? Of course! They had seen Nikita on the bridge!
"What betrayal?" Michael said, stalling for time. Adam seemed safe enough, surrounded on all sides by dozens of people in a public place. But that meant nothing, when a bullet could be fired silently from any direction.
Michael had no choice. He had to get to Adam, even if it meant they died together. He wasn't going to leave his son again. Not ever. He broke into a run, still clutching the phone in his hand.
"Daddy?" Adam was startled as Michael snatched him off the ground and ran into the crowd with him.
"Daddy! My kite!" Adam squirmed in his father's arms, as his kite string slipped from his grasp.
"Adam," Michael whispered against his ear as they ducked around passersby. "The bad men are back. We have to leave. Do you understand?"
Adam's dark eyes grew wide, but it was a testament to the inherited courage in his veins that he didn't cry out. He simply hugged Michael closer and looked around fearfully.
Shielding Adam with his body as best as he could, Michael circled within the crowd, seeking a path that would afford the most cover and concealment. He didn't dare take Adam home, or even back to their car. He had to find public transportation out of the city.
"Samuelle!"
Michael realized the phone was still speaking. He pressed Adam into a corner between two small brick buildings on the edge of the park, hiding him from sight.
He put the phone to his ear and listened, while he continued the scan the area.
"There's no place to run Samuelle. No way to escape. Look around you. Do you imagine for a moment that your son is safe?"
Michael closed his eyes and nearly wept aloud.
"Adam's done nothing. If you want revenge, I'll give myself up to you. My son isn't responsible for my actions. Let him go. I won't resist." He spoke softly, carefully, aware that both his enemy and his son were listening. He couldn't afford to show panic to either of them.
"You've had all the mercy we intend to show you. I lost good friends-I lost a brother to Section One-to you, Samuelle! Say goodbye to your son! Then say goodbye to your lover and Section One! You've finally lost the war."
Just as the words were spoken, Michael saw a man standing about twenty meters away, speaking into a cell phone and staring in his direction, so close, and yet so far. Michael didn't dare leave his son's side to go after him.
"Don't worry. I intend that you live a long, long life." The man taunted, with a wave of his hand. "That's the beauty of this plan-you get to live with your mistakes."
Michael folded the phone and shoved it inside his pocket. He didn't want to hear anymore. He turned, knelt, and gathered Adam into his arms, shielding him with his body.
"What's going to happen, Daddy?" Adam asked hugging his father tightly.
Michael looked over his shoulder at the man still standing there.
"We're going to get out of here," Michael replied under his breath.
He took out his cell phone again and pressed the auto-dial function. It was because of Section One that they were in danger; so Section One should get them out of it. * * *
Nikita frowned in her sleep and opened her eyes. Her cell phone was ringing. Odd. Here in Section quarters, contact was through the intercom system.
"Lights."
The light came on and she reached for the phone.
"Yes?"
"Nikita?"
Nikita's heart began to race. She smiled.
"Michael?"
"I've been compromised. This is an unsecure line. Need satellite tracking, my position. Have unidentified hostile, and innocent in tow."
Nikita shoved back the blankets and was dressing and talking at the same time.
"Your location?"
Michael gave her the name of the city and state.
"I'm in Bradbury Park, south-east corner, near a brick building. Hostile is approximately 20 meters, north of my position."
"Are you armed?"
"Negative."
"Stand fast. Help's on its way!"
Barefoot, Nikita ran out of her quarters and caught Jason just as he was being relieved.
"Stay put! I need a satellite fix!" She gave him the coordinates.
"What are we looking for?" Jason asked as he worked.
"Michael Samuelle."
"Really?" Jason asked, with some surprise.
"Find him!"
Jason nodded, and manipulated a military satellite; in seconds he had the city, then the park, then the building.
"There he is," Jason said, pointing to the screen.
"You're on screen Michael."
"Pan north. Male, Caucasian, white coat, jeans, brown hair."
"Got him-the one walking east?"
"Yes. Paint him and track to destination." Michael ordered.
Jason hesitated. Nikita noticed and ordered, "Do it!"
She sat down at another terminal and typed in a call for help.
"Michael-I just sent an alarm into Section Six. They can have someone from NSA pick you up in fifteen minutes and transport you."
Michael closed his eyes briefly. Fifteen minutes was a lifetime, but at least help was on its way.
"Who is it, Michael?"
"Someone who knows who you are. I think he's with the Collective." There was a long pause, and then Michael continued. "I want to be brought back in."
"In Section?" Nikita asked with amazement.
"Yes." Michael replied.
"What about Adam?"
"I can't protect him out here." Michael said. "They've threatened to kill him."
"I'll find a way," Nikita whispered with determination.
"Thank you." He whispered back.
* * *
Feehan strolled back to his car with a smile. The look of fear on Samuelle's face was a pleasant thing to see. Nadir was right. Letting Samuelle live with the fear of losing his son made much more sense than killing either of them outright. It reminded him of a bullfight where banderillos impaled the bull with banderillas, to torment it and test its courage.
"Ole Samuelle. The dance is just begun." Feehan smiled. "Go where you please. Protect your son all you want. In the end, it won't matter." He looked at the small detonator in his hand and the small red button that would mean a child's death. His thumb hovered over it, and then faintly caressed it without pressing it. 'But not yet.' Feehan told himself, reluctantly pocketing the detonator. 'Not until Section One is ready to fall.'
* * *
Nikita paced her office. Bringing Michael back in wasn't something that was going to be easy to sell. Her hold on her position as Operations was tenuous at best. She had some support at the Agency from friends of her father's, but she had no illusions they supported her from any real belief in her abilities; they were simply loyal to her father. Bringing Michael back was in direct violation of the rules and she knew it.
"You have two choices, Nikita. Bring him back in and tell the Agency, or bring him back in, and don't tell the Agency." She told herself aloud. "And if you don't tell them ... someone else will." Quinn came to mind in an instant.
She would have to convince the Agency somehow-but how? Sitting at her desk, Nikita held her head in her hands. NSA had Michael and his son on their way. She didn't have a lot of time. In nine hours, if she couldn't think of a way, then Michael was returning to his death.
She could remind the Agency of Michael's record-no, she had condemned him to an abeyance mission for his shortcomings. They would no doubt throw that back into her face.
She got up again and paced some more. The Agency had allowed Nikita to return to Section, and she had had plenty of shortcomings herself. But then, her father had been alive and watching out for her.
She remembered the conversation she had with her father about his decision to bring her in. He had mentioned a computer and a program that had predicted the need for someone like herself. She remembered thinking how silly it was that the Agency put so much stock in a computer program. But the fact was, the Agency had accepted the computer's recommendation-she was the head of Section One!
An idea formulated in her brain and she almost smiled at its simplicity. Two could play this game...
Nikita punched a button on her desk console.
"Jason?"
"Yeah?"
"I need to see you in my office, stat."
