![](http://www.thesplitpersonality.net/graphics/spacer3.gif"){kind=spacer}
ATTENTION: Stories marked with an * may contain material which would be better appreciated by those over 18. Parental Discretion is advised. This is your responsibility, not ours.
Michael had run through three sequences of the laser simulator. Once at level eight to warm up, then twice at level ten. The second time he had beaten his own scores. At the moment he was engaged in level eleven.
From the observatory window, a lone figure watched. Petrosian. He wore a smile on his lips as he watched Michael take a hit, which he knew hurt like hell, yet the young man didn't even react to it. He simply continued shooting. Michael was very good. The best that Section had to offer. But Petrosian wondered just how good he was. When the sequence was finished, he stepped over to the microphone. "Nicely done, Michael," Petrosian drawled, then he chuckled to himself as he watched the young man's head snap up to face him. There was fire flashing in the silver-green eyes. It pleased Petrosian. "What's the highest level you've ever done?" he asked.
"Eleven," Michael replied, his voice flat and his face expressionless. He ignored the aching pain that rippled through him from the hits he had taken. Pain could be ignored, Petrosian couldn't. Michael wondered what the man was doing here. And why he was asking about levels. Michael had attempted level eleven several times, and always completed the sequence, but he was never happy with his scores.
"Feeling...adventuresome?" Petrosian questioned.
Michael blinked. "What do you mean?" he countered, suspicion nagging at him. But he shrugged it off, reminding himself that he had no real reason not to trust Petrosian.
The older man grinned. "Why not try level thirteen, Michael? It's never been done, but I've been watching you. I think you could do it."
"Why?" Michael countered. And that was all. A simple, but meaningful, question.
"We should all test our limits," Petrosian drawled, his pale eyes glittering. "Don't you think?"
Michael was silent for a moment, contemplating. Instinct told him this was a test. But a part of him couldn't resist accepting the challenge. "All right," he agreed.
Petrosian was pleased. "Good. I'll call for Operations. Take a few minutes to prepare yourself." With that he turned away.
Operations was with Madeline and Walter when he got the call. He listened for a moment, then hung up. He wore a thoughtful expression as he faced his companions. "Michael wants to try level thirteen on the laser simulator," Operations announced.
Walter leaped to his feet, his eyes flashing. "Is he out of his mind?" he shouted, shaking his head. "That's crazy! Insane! Doesn't he know that no one...human...has completed level thirteen. Hell, even the test dummies shut down." Walter's eyes were shadowed as he faced Operations. "Level thirteen can kill him. You can't let him do it."
"Why not?" Operations countered, his gaze going to Madeline. She said nothing, but her eyes were dark, her expression shuttered. "Michael is high scorer on the simulator. He has an incredible tolerance for pain."
"The juice level that will pump into him is too highly concentrated," Walter protested. "No one can complete level thirteen. In a way it was designed as a reminder. That there's always someone better than you. Michael will die if you let him do this." It was the simple truth and Walter waited, his heart in his throat, for Operations to respond.
The Section leader simply smiled and held out a hand to Madeline. "Let's go and watch, shall we?"
Madeline rose to her feet and led the way out. "Coming Walter?" she called over her shoulder.
Grumbling to himself, Walter tagged behind them.
Operations and Madeline were with Petrosian in the observation booth, while Walter stood with Michael on the game level. "Why are you doing this?" he demanded of the younger man. "You can't win, Michael. No one can. You'll die!"
Michael heard Walter's words, and believed them, but he didn't change his mind. A part of him questioned why he was going through with it. Was it to prove something to himself? Or to Petrosian? Michael tried to convince himself that he was interested only in testing his own reflexes, but he knew it was a lie. Petrosian had challenged him and Michael had felt the need to accept. "I'll be fine," he told Walter, even as he adjusted the sensor pad on his chest.
"Dammit...!" Walter hissed in frustration. He wished that Nikita was here. She would be the only one who might have some success talking Michael out of this madness. The only one he...might...listen to. But she was in Athens on a mission and wouldn't be back for a few days. Walter made one last attempt to reason with Michael. "You're the best at this game, Michael. No one else can complete the sequence past level eight. You're up to level eleven. That's remarkable. The best anyone can hope for. Let it go."
"Are you ready, Michael?" Petrosian's voice interjected, before the operative could respond to Walter.
Michael nodded. He gestured for Walter to step out of harms way, then he moved to the center of the floor. Looking up at the control booth, he ordered, "Go live."
From that moment on, the arena was filled with laser flashes. It was almost like the Fourth of July. Three dimensional shooters appeared, fired and disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Walter bit his lip as he watched Michael move with fluid grace and precision strength, ducking, kneeling and rolling across the floor. He hit several of the shooters, but took more hits in return. The sequence was too fast paced for human reflexes. But through it all, hit after hit, Michael never made a sound. All too soon, Walter knew, he wouldn't be able to. His heart would shut down from the electricity jolting through him. Walter watched as Michael took a half dozen hits at once and fell to the floor. He was just about to run in and drag Michael out when he heard the order,
"Abort!"
To Walter's surprise, it came from Michael. The moment the sequence was shut down, Walter ran to the fallen operative. Michael was pale, sweaty and shaky. Tremors running through him as aftermath of the shocks he had received. But, to Walter's amazement, Michael rolled over to his knees and made an attempt to stand. He grabbed the younger man's arm to steady him on his feet.
In the observation booth, Petrosian was smiling. He looked at Opertations and Madeline and said, "I am pleased."
Madeline took the bait. "Why is that?" But as she asked the question, her eyes were staring down at Michael. She was relieved that he had called off the sequence. Another minute or two and he would have died.
"It is the mark of good operative to know when to quit," Petrosian replied, in answer to Madeline's question. "Michael is not afraid of being challenged....or of dying. But I needed to know if he was filled with pride." Petrosian also glanced down at the first level, watching as Michael left the arena, with Walter trailing behind him. That Michael would be in pain was a given, Petrosian knew, but he did not let the pain get the best of him. "Michael has pride," Petrosian said, softly. "But it is comforting to know that it is not foolish pride."
"He's also willing to learn," Operations commented. He had remained silent up to this point, accepting the need of such a test for Michael.
Petrosian nodded. "Indeed. And he has much to learn," he acknowledged, a smile curving his thin lips.
Madeline was intrigued by the expression on her friend's face. He had a look of eager anticipation. "And will you be the one to teach him?" she inquired.
"Only time will tell," Petrosian replied. He reached for Madeline's hand and tucked it into the curve of one arm. "So...shall we go to dinner?" he queried, his eyes flickering from Operations to Madeline. "I am starving."
"My treat," Operations invited, as he followed the twosome out. He felt a flicker of concern for Michael's well being, but knew that Walter would look out for him. There was a midnight briefing, and Operations needed Michael to be ready for anything.
Walter was sitting in the chair across from the desk when Michael entered his office. He had left Section after the laser simulator, against Walter's advice, to get some fresh air, then run home for a shower and a change of clothes. "What is it, Walter?" he questioned, as he unbuttoned his jacket and moved to sit behind his desk. He had a briefing in less than two hours and there were two reports Michael wanted to finish.
"How do feel?" Walter asked, his eyes reflecting his concern. It was obvious that Michael was in pain, given his pale complexion and glassy eyes.
"I'm fine," Michael replied, hiding his irritation at Walter's presence. "Is that all?"
Walter heaved an exasperated sigh. "Michael, you need to go to Medlab. Let them check you out," he entreatied. "It won't take long. I'll go with you."
Michael took a deep breath to calm himself before responding. "I appreciate your concern, Walter," he said softly. And he meant it. Walter had always watched over him, from the moment Michael had first arrived at Section. But he didn't need mothering. "I have work to do," he said bluntly, reaching out to switch his computer on. It was a blantant dismissal.
"Fine," Walter drawled, rising from the chair and heading for the door. "Sorry I bothered you." It was an attempt to make Michael feel guilty, but one look at the young man's closed expression and Walter knew he had failed. After Simone's death, Michael had perfected the blank stare and cold mask. He revealed nothing. Except to Nikita. But she was gone, so Walter gave up. Shaking his head, he left the office.
As he walked by the window, he saw that Michael was already bent over his work. It saddened Walter to know that the young man was a pawn to Section's every whim and whimsy. Not that he had a choice. None of them did. But Walter remembered the way Michael had once been. A smile curved his lips at the memory. Maybe someday Walter would share a few of those memories with Nikita, and the beautiful blond would come to realize that Michael was not her enemy. In fact, they had alot in common. More so than she could ever imagine. Much more than Michael would ever admit to. But that was for another time, another place. For now, it was time to go back to work.
Michael sat in a chair at the end of the conference table. He had been surprised to learn that only he, Madeline, Operations and Petrosian would be in on the briefing. Seeing Petrosian made him a little nervous, as well as suspicious. Nothing was mentioned about the laser simulator, beyond Madeline inquiring as to his health. He had assured her that he was fine.
Operations began by bringing up the three-dimensional vid-screen. The face of a man in his mid fifties appeared. "This is Hammond Cordero. He's very wealthy and very powerful. He has put a contract out on a drug lord. Whether or not the drug lord dies is not our concern. Getting evidence against Cordero for his sins of the past present is."
"I don't understand," Michael confessed, frowning.
"The CIA is desperate to shut Cordero down," Madeline replied, picking up the explanation. "You can read up on his history after the briefing. For now all you need to know as that we've been asked to help nail Cordero's hide to the wall."
Michael nodded. It wasn't unusual for Section to help out other government agencies. "How are we going to do that?" he inquired, his eyes shifting over to Petrosian, who was pacing about the room. A smile curved the other man's lips, and it was obvious to Michael that Petrosian was pleased about something.
Madeline swung around in her chair, so that she was facing Michael. "We have as our guests, a man by the name of Reed Ulrich, and his son, Michel. Ulrich and Cordero were once...friends. Ulrich was an assassin until he was forced into retirement. His son now fills his shoes. But, Cordero has requested that Ulrich come out of retirement to take care of the hit for him. Ulrich has agreed. The meet is set to take place in thirty-six hours." Madeline paused to smile at Michael. "You will play the part of Michel Ulrich, who just happens to prefer the americanized version of his name. Michael."
"Who will play the part of my father?" Michael asked, even though he was certain that he already knew the answer.
"I will," Petrosian replied, moving to stand beside Michael. His clipped, Russian accent had disappeared, becoming americanized. He reached out to place one hand on Michael's shoulder, as a smile lit up his pale eyes. "And I'm looking forward to it.....son," Petrosian drawled.
Michael didn't blink, but it took all his self control not to slap Petrosian's hand off his shoulder. He simply met and held the other man's gaze, knowing that there was more to be told. But a part of Michael could almost believe he had truly stumbled in to hell. ************ The fact that he and Petrosian would be playing Father and son brought some questions to Michael's mind. But he held off on asking them until he knew more. He looked at Operations expectantly.
Operations smiled and continued with the briefing. "As previously mentioned, Ulrich was an assassin up until eleven years ago. He was called the Phantom because he glided in and out unseen. He never failed in a job. He was the best. Eleven years ago he was in an automobile accident that should have killed him. As it was, it left him permanently lame and with nerve damage in his right arm. Also, a weak left eye." Operations paused to glance over at Madeline. He nodded and she took up the story.
"Nine years ago, Reed Ulrich was reunited with his son, who had been living in Paris with his mother, till she died." Madeline's eyes were locked on Michael as she spoke. "Ulrich contacted his son, and brought him to America. He taught him English, and the family business. For the past three years, Ulrich has been planning hits while his son carries them out. They're very close. Michel is Ulrich's one weakness. He loves his son."
"All well and good," Michael allowed, understanding the scenario that Madeline had created. But he had an important question. "But you mentioned that Ulrich and Cordero were friends. Won't Cordero know that Petrosian is not Ulrich?"
Petrosian was still standing beside Michael, his hand still resting on the young man's shoulder. He smiled now, knowing that the question was an attempt to find a way out of working with him. He patted Michael's shoulder, then answered the question. "When Ulrich suffered the car wreck, his face was shattered. He had to have reconstructive surgery. Cordero hasn't seen him since before the accident. He wouldn't recognize him today."
Madeline picked up the explanation. "Petrosian is the same body type as Ulrich, and has the same hair and eye color. It's a perfect match." She smiled at Michael's expression of defeat. A flicker of emotion that was quickly hidden. "Cordero and Ulrich had once been business partners, of a sort. They admired and respected each other. One more tidbit you should know is that Cordero has a daughter. Her name is Jillian. She was nine the last time Ulrich saw her. Luckily for us, he's been very cooperative so we have a good of history to work with."
Operations held out a tactical disk to Michael. "Study this, learn it well, then spend a little time with Michel before the plane leaves."
"How much time do I have?" Michael inquired.
"Sixteen hours," Madeline replied. She rose from her chair and headed for the door. Operations was close behind her. Madeline felt that Michael needed some down time with Petrosian.
Michael knew what Madeline was doing and he resented it, but none of what he was feeling showed on his face as he rose from his own chair. He tucked the CD in his jacket pocket, then moved towards the door. Only to find his way blocked by Petrosian. Carefully keeping his expression blank, Michael asked, "What is it?"
Petrosian's eyes narrowed. Regardless of the oppurtunity this mission afforded him in testing Michael, it was also business. Very important business. There was no margin for failure on this one and Petrosian was intent on pounding that factor into the young man's head. "We have to be careful, Michael," he drawled, his eyes cold and glittering. "You don't like me." It was a statement, not a question.
"Is that a requirement?" Michael countered, softly. He locked eyes with the other man, but let nothing show in his.
"No," Petrosian allowed. "But understand this. Ulrich and his son have a very close, very loving relationship. We have to be faithful to it, or we risk blowing our cover. Do you understand me?"
Michael understood perfectly well. He had no doubt Petrosian would use this mission as an oppurtunity to test him. To attermpt to find fault with Michael's competence as an operative, the way he had before. But Michael wasn't about to give him the chance to do so now. "I'll do my job," he drawled. So saying, Michael side-stepped around Petrosian and strode from the room.
Petrosian watched the young man go, a smile on his face.
They arrived in Palm Beach on a commercial flight. All in keeping a low profile. Petrosian was dressed in a lightweight gray suit, with a white shirt and silk tie. He wore leather loafers and carried a carved, ivory cane. He glanced over at Michael who was tracking the area, his eyes hidden behind Ray Bans. Michael was dressed in champagne colored, double-pleated, linen trousers and a sage-green, silk shirt with a folded over collar. The Ulrich's had expensive tastes. They might have traveled on a commercial flight, but it was first class all the way.
"What are we looking for?" Michael asked, as he made a slow circle so as to peruse the crowds of people milling about the airport.
"A limo," Petrosian replied, a smile lighting up his face. Ulrich had told them to expect a car and driver to pick them up. Cordero might have been poor low class, but he lived the good life now and spared no expense. Since they had a bit of time to kill, Petrosian decided to practice his cover. He stepped over to Michael and removed the Ray Bans, then with a tender, fatherly, gesture, he smoothed down an errant curl. Michael was not wearing his hair combed back behind his ears as was his preferrence. To play the part of Michel Ulrich, he was wearing it soft and loose about his face.
Michael knew what Petrosian was doing. Testing his patience. He had done that on the entire flight over. But Michael kept his cool, as he had on the plane. He simply smiled at Petrosian. "Merci, Pere," he said softly. It was more comfortable for him than calling the other man father in English. Although Michel Ulrich had been a quick study at learning all things American, including the language. He had a heavy accent, so Michael was careful to thicken his own. It irritated him a bit to have to do so, since he always tried so hard to clear the accent from his own speech.
Petrosian laughed softly and nodded. "Touche, Michael," he conceded. His own English was flawless and without a trace of his natural accent. He turned away from Michael to scan the crowds himself. It was then that he spotted a young woman walking towards them. He leaned in to the other man. "My guess is that would be Jillian," he whispered.
"Yes," Michael acknowleged. They had retrieved artwork on the young woman, Cordero's daughter, who was twenty-six now. She was quite beautiful with dark, auburn hair falling to her shoulders. She was smiling as she approached them. Michael smiled back.
"Hello," Jillian Cordero offered in greeting, as she reached the two men. She didn't recognize either one of them, but had been searching for someone well dressed, with white-blond hair, and a younger man, about her age, with dark hair. The older man stood out with his pale hair, eyes and skin. But it was the young man who had captured Jillian's attention. He was beautiful. Her eyes locked with his now as she held out her hand. "You must be Michel," she said softly.
Michael nodded as he curled his fingers about her and gently squeezed them. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Jillian," he replied. "But, please, call me Michael."
She nearly sighed with pleasure at the sound of his voice. Whisper soft and smooth as silk, his French accent like a beautiful melody. "Michael it is," she countered, then she forced her attention to focus on the Father. "And you are Reed. I vaguely remember you," Jillian allowed.
"And I you," Petrosian replied, his hand shaking her briefly. "Is your father with you?" he inquired, glancing over Jillian's shoulder.
"No," she said softly, her eyes shifting back to Michael. "He's waiting for us with cold drinks by the pool." Jillian reached for Michael's hand. "Come," she invited. "Let's go home."
Shooting a glance over at Petrosian, who smile was more like a smirk, Michael allowed himself to be led off. He didn't see the self-satisfied expression on the other man's face. Which was probably a good thing. For had he been able to read Petrosian's mind, Michael would have been hard put not to cancel him on the spot.
************
The meeting with Cordero went well. It was apparent, within the first few minutes, that Petrosian played his part well and Hammond Cordero was convinced that he was his old...friend...Reed Ulrich. The two, older, men drifted off inside the house, while Michael and Jillian remained by the pool.
She was glad to have some time to spend alone with Michael. He fascinated her. Not just because he was beautiful and sexy, but because he was a killer. It was hard to believe that the cultured, educated young man standing before her was a cold-blooded assassin. He seemed to be all warm, sensuality to her. Very French. Jillian had never been shy, so she asked the question that was on her mind. "Do like it?"
"Like what?" Michael countered, turning away from his contemplation of the pool to smile at her. She was sitting on one of the lounge chairs, a drink in one hand a cigarette in the other.
"Killing people," Jillian clarified, bluntly. "What's it like?"
Michael shrugged. "It's..a job. I don't think about it much."
Jillian took a drag on her cigarette, then crushed it out beneath her heel. "I understand that you're very good at it." She rose to her feet and went to Michael. After draining her glass, she tossed it in the pool, then put her hands to better use. Jillian's fingers slid into Michael's soft, thick hair and she pulled his head down to steal a kiss. Against his lips she whispered, "I'll bet your good at alot of things."
"Perhaps," Michael allowed, as he accepted Jillian's kisses. Madeline had warned him in advance that Jillian would likely come on to him. Also that she was a heavy drinker and often smoked pot, along with her cigarettes. Basically she was a spoiled, rich girl, who liked to indulge in hedonistic pleasures. Part of Michael's job was to see what he could learn from her...by whatever means were neccessary. So he pulled Jillian hard against him and kissed her back.
"Mmmmmmmm..." She murmmured softly, after Michael had given her a lesson in how to French kiss. Now she wanted more. Her fingers danced over his shirt, popping buttons. "Let's go for swim," she invited, pushing the sage-green silk off his shoulders so that it fluttered to the ground. Jillian then let her eyes feast on Michael's broad, muscular chest and strong arms, before dipping her head to lick patterns over his collar bone.
Michael played along, reaching out to draw Jillian's crop top over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra, so her breasts were bared to his gaze. She was beautiful, but Michael found himself thinking of Nikita. Of how she felt in his arm. The scent and the sight of her. Jillian smelled and tasted of cigarettes and wine. Nikita always reminded Michael of wild flowers and honey. But this was just a job, he told himself. Just a job.
From the window in Cordero's office, Petrosian watched the scene going on between Michael and Jillian at the pool. He laughed softly as he gestured for Cordero to join him. "Our children seem to like each other," he joked.
Cordero chuckled. He was used to Jillian's ways and was happy to indulge her. She was his only child and the light of his life. Everything he did, he convinced himself he did for her. The money and power notwithstanding. "They make a beautiful couple," he observed.
"They do," Petrosian agreed. Then he turned away from the window to pour himself a scotch from the corner bar. "So, my old friend," he drawled. "What is it you need from me?"
"Someone is trying to invade my territory," Cordero replied, as he moved to sit behind his desk. It was oval shaped and made of cherry wood. "I want you to kill him."
Petrosian nodded. "Of course, you know that I don't do my own shooting anymore. I leave that part of the business up to Michael."
Cordero grinned. "I understand that he's even better than you were?"
"He is," Petrosian acknowleged, and his words had a double meaning. Michel Ulrich was a better marksman than his father but, at the same time, a part of Petrosian was confessing that Michael was a better operative than he had been at his age, and he had the capabilities to become the best that Section had ever seen. Petrosian had every intention of nuturing Michael's skills and talents. But now was not the time for such thoughts. He needed to gather intel from Cordero. Such as were his files were kept. The files that the CIA needed to bring the man down. Normally, Cordero would have fallen under FBI jurisdiction, but the man had secrets that the CIA couldn't afford to let get out. "What is the name of our target?" he inquired of Cordero. "And when is the hit?"
He calls himself Jolie Bates," Cordero replied, offering Petrosian a cigar. He accepted the other man's refusal, then lit his up. After a puff or two he continued. "He's out of town for a few days. I want you and Michael to take him out when he returns. In the mean time, you and I can catch up on old times. And our children can get to know each other better."
Strolling back over to the window, and glancing out, Petrosian saw that Michael and Jillian were now in the pool. Their clothing lay in piles beside it. He smiled to himself. Michael was very good indeed. Raising his glass in a mock salute, Petrosian drawled, "I think that the next few days will be...a pleasure."
Between kissing, caressing and practically drowning, Michael was able to get Jillian to imbibe in a few more glasses of wine. So, before things could get too intense between them, she collapsed in his arms, in a drunken stupor. Michael heaved a sigh of relief and he carried her out of the pool and laid her out on one of the lounges. He covered her with a robe then toweled himself off and dressed. After which he lifted Jillian into his arms and carried her into the house.
Petrosian and Cordero met Michael in the livingroom. Cordero shook his head as he glanced down at his daughter. "She needs to learn how to hold her liquor better," he said, with a sigh. But he wasn't really upset about it. "Her room is upstairs, take a left. It's the last door on the right. Your room is across from hers," Cordero said. "Put her to bed for me, Michael," he requested. "There's a good boy."
"Of course," Michael replied, his eyes glancing over at Petrosian for a brief moment, before he turned and headed for the stairs. It didn't take him long to settle Jillian in her room, then Michael took the oppurtunity to go to his room and jump in the shower. When he came out, dressed in black jeans and a blue, silk t-shirt, it was to find Petrosian lounging in a chair by the balcony windows. "What do you want?" Michael questioned, as he towel-dried his hair.
"You and Jillian seemed to be getting along quite well," Petrosian drawled. He had a cigarette in one hand and took a drag as he watched Michael toss the towel on the bed then finger comb his hair. The damp strands formed soft curls around his face. "Did she tell you anything of interest?" Petrosian questioned, as he exhaled a puff of smoke.
Michael shook his head. "Not really," he replied, cautiously. Petrosian was, no doubt, leading up to something, and Michael doubted he would like what it was.
Petrosian smiled, sensing Michael's cautiousness towards him. It was commendable. "Jillian works closely with her father, Michael. She will inherit the business from him some day. She knows his secrets." He paused for another drag, then locked eyes with the young operative. "She likes you, Michael," he said softly.
"Your point being?" Michael countered, moving to open the balcony doors and let the night breeze brush his face.
"Sleep with her," Petrosian said, bluntly. "Lovers are known to blurt out secrets in the aftermath of passion. Especially if they're drunk...or high." His eyes suddenly glinting like shards of ice, Petrosian rose to his feet to confront Michael. "Do whatever it takes to get the information we need," he hissed.
Michael knew that it was an order, not a request. He also could guess why Petrosian was making this an issue. Nikita. The other man knew that there was a connection between Michael and the beautiful blond. "I'll do my job," Michael whispered, refusing to face his superior.
Petrosian could almost read Michael's mind. They both knew he was testing him. Petrosian knew that Nikita had strong feelings for Michael, but he was curious as to the young man's feelings for the blond operative. Would he compromise the mission, or would he do what was expected of him and bed Jillian Cordero? Despite Michael's vow to do the job...Petrosian had his doubts. He did, however, hope he was wrong. Michael showed great promise and Petrosian wasn't about to let a woman ruin the future head of Section One.
"Is that all?" Michael inquired. His tone was neutral, but he was certain that Petrosian got the message he was silently sending. To get the hell out.
"For now," Petrosian allowed. He crushed out the butt of his cigarette in a crystal ashtray, then glided towards the door. "Goodnight...son," he drawled, a smile curving his thin lips. "Sweet dreams." Without waiting for a response, Petrosian opened the door and let himself out.
Michael felt his fingers clench into fists at his sides and it took a concentrated effort for him to release the tension that twisted his muscles into knots. But, no matter what it took, Michael was determined to beat Petrosian at his own game. As he stared up at the stars in the black velvet sky, a smile spread across Michael's face. Petrosian had issued the challenge, and he would live to regret it. Michael was going to see to it, with pleasure.
************
Two days had passed. Petrosian and Cordero were on the terrace, enjoying a leisurely breakfast. Cordero couldn't keep a smile off his face. He took a last bite of his eggs, wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, then shared what had made him so happy. "My people tell me that Jolie Bates will be back in Palm Beach tomorrow afternoon. I want him dead by tomorrow night."
Petrosian reached for a glass of orange juice, took a few swallows, then said, "I'll make the arrangements, my friend. Leave it to me."
"I'll do that," Cordero allowed, and he was happy to do so. But then he leaned forward, hands clasped together on the table top. "It occurred to me, Reed, that we haven't discussed your fee," he said, his smile still intact.
"You're a friend," Petrosian replied as he lit up a cigarette and exhaled a cloud of silver smoke. "I'll do it for a discount. Half my usual fee. Five hundred thousand dollars."
Cordero nodded. "Fair enough. And worth every penny." He leaned back in his chair now that business was concluded, then his eyes fell on the empty space between them. "Where's Michael? He's usually an early riser."
Petrosian chuckled, softly. "Michael had a late night," he drawled. "He's sleeping...in...this morning." Petrosian knew that Michael hadn't slept in his own bed, which meant that he was obeying orders by sleeping with Jillian Cordero. Petrosian was pleased. Time was running out.
"My daughter has bad habits," Cordero replied, knowing at once what Petrosian was alluding to. He was used to his daughters *lovers*, and he liked Michael. "Don't expect to see them before noon," Cordero joked. But he was only half kidding. "Perhaps you and Michael would like to stay on after the job?" he invited, knowing that Jillian would not be happy to see Michael go.
"Perhaps," Petrosian allowed. He paused for another drag on his cigarette then said, "Let's wait and see what tomorrow brings."
Michael fired at the target fifty yards away and allowed a smile to curve his lips when the bullet ripped into it, dead center. But the smile faded when he sensed he was no longer alone. Turning, Michael saw Petrosian leaning against a tree, watching him. "What?" he asked, careful to keep his expression, and tone of voice, neutral.
Petrosian took a deep drag on the butt of his cigarette, then crushed it out beneath his heel. After exhaling the smoke into the air, he smiled. "What have you learned from Jillian?" he inquired.
"Not much," Michael confessed, as he focused his attention on reloading the rifle. "Only that her father keeps all his files on computer CD's. He doesn't believe in hard copy."
"He's a smart man," Petrosian acknowledged, his eyes intent upon Michael. The young man was cool beneath his perusal, but Petrosian sensed the fire beneath the ice and he wanted to tap in to it. If only to see if he could. "No doubt the files will be encrypted." Petrosian paused for a moment, wanting to chose his words carefully. "We have a little over 24 hours till the deadline. We need the password. Do whatever it takes to get it."
Michael knew what Petrosian meant. Another bedroom romp with Jillian. But Michael intended to do this his own way. For now, however, he simply smiled at the other man, then turned back to fire another round at the target. It was easy for Michael to superimpose Petrosian's face at the center of it. The bullet hit dead center, right between Petrosian's eyes. "I'll get the information," Michael said, softly.
Petrosian didn't doubt it. Michael was an obedient operative. Section had trained him well. Still, he wasn't beyond the need to be tested. None of them were. Allowing a sincere smile to curve his lips, Petrosian said, softly, "I'm not the enemy, Michael."
Instead of responding to the statement, Michael fired another round into the target. Once again, dead center.
"Do you hear me?" Petrosian demanded, allowing his irritation at being ignored color his voice.
"I heard you," Michael replied, with a sudden sense of De JaVu. He remembered Operations saying those same words to him about a year ago, in regards to Nikita. His response had been the same then as it was now. Michael racked another bullet into the chamber and prepared to fire another round.
Petrosian stepped forward and grabbed the barrell of the gun, forcing Michael's attention to focus on him. His eyes flashed like chips of pale blue ice. "Believe it or not, I'm trying to help you!" he hissed.
Michael found that statement to be quite humorous, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "Why?" he countered, his eyes locked on Petrosian's face.
"I have my reasons," Petrosian shot back, as he yanked the rifle out of Michael's unresisting grasp. "Listen to me," he said, stepping into the younger mans face, invading his *space* as it were. "You believe that Section used you to free me." He was referring to the *rescue* attempt and watched Michael closely for a reaction. There was none. The young man's silver-green eyes remained blank. Petrosian gave him brownie points for his reserve, then he continued, shaking salt over what he firmly believed was an open wound. "You resent me for what happened, Michael. You believe that your life is of little importance to Section."
"I know my worth in regards to Section," MIchael countered, his voice whisper-soft. "I'm no different from any other operative. Just another number." His words were without malice. Michael was simply stating the facts.
Petrosian shook his head. "You would be surprised, Michael. You have earned your place in Section. We consider you to be a valuable investment." Petrosian paused as he saw a flicker of reaction in the silver-green eyes. But he couldn't identify what it was. Continuing, his expression intense, Petrosian cautioned, "Don't make any foolish mistakes."
Michael was surprised by the warning, and confused. As for the comment about being a valuable investment, he allowed it to pass. Michael knew that he was considered *material*. It was the latter statement that interested him. "Mistakes?" he repeated, with a sense of curiosity.
"Nikita," Petrosian replied. He waited, but Michael didn't respond. Smiling, Petrosian made his point. "She shows promise as an operative, Michael. But she lacks discipline. It would be better were she to lack a conscience." Petrosian saw that particular remark strike a nerve in Michael. The young man flinched, but didn't turn away from him. Petrosian pressed his advantage. "It won't be long before Nikita self destructs," he drawled. "Don't let her take you down with her, Michael. You have to much to lose."
"I won't discuss this with you," Michael hissed, barely able to keep his fury under control. But he did it, if only because he was too close to winning the game. He offered a cold smile then he turned and walked away, feeling Petrosian's gaze burning into his retreating back. But Michael's step never once faltered.
That night, Cordero turned dinner into a celebration. In less than twenty-four hours, Jolie Bates would be dead, and Cordero could continue with business as usual. He broke out two hundred dollar bottles of champagne and toasted his guests. "To good friends and successful, as well as profitable, relationships," he declared.
Everyone raised their glasses, then drank. Pushing back his chair, Cordero led the others into the livingroom. He gestured for them to relax, urging his friend, Ulrich, to sit and rest his leg.
Petrosian, keeping in character, obliged him. He dropped into a straightbacked, Victorian piece and rested his cane beside it. He was just about to reach into his jacket pocket for a cigarette when he heard a familiar click, then felt cold metal pressing against the back of his back. He knew that it was Michael standing behind him, holding a gun. "What's going on here?" Petrosian questioned, even as his hands, instictively, lifted.
"I'm afraid that the party is over for you, my friend," Cordero drawled, as he accepted a glass of bourbon from his daughter.
"I don't understand," Petrosian shot back, and it was the simple truth. This was not the mission profile. Petrosian realized that all control of the situation had slipped out of his hands, and he didn't like it.
Cordero toasted the other man with his glass. "Michael has made a full confession, my friend," he announced as he watched Jillian bind Petrosian's wrists and ankles to the chair with lenghts of thin cord.
Petrosian knew better than to resist. Michael's hand, holding the gun, never wavered. In that moment, Petrosian believed that the young operative would kill him. He could feel hatred emanating from Michael, like waves from the ocean washing over him. But Petrosian didn't lose his calm. Smiling, he questioned, "And what did he confess?"
Jillian was the one to explain. For it was to her that Michael had confessed all, last night, after their lovemaking. She, in turn, had taken the information to her father earlier today. "Michael told me that you made a deal with the CIA. That you came here to set my father up to take a fall." Jillian stepped into Petrosian's face, then spit at him. "You came here to betray him!" she spat, contemptuously.
"Why would I do that?" Petrosian countered, pervasively. He laughed softly. "I have no reason to betray you."
"More lies," Michael whispered, bending so that he spoke in Petrosian's ear. "Do you want to know why I have betrayed you, Father?" he queried.
Petrosian heard the sarcasm in Michael's voice, and he knew that the young man was enjoying himself. His only, consoling, thought was that Michael would pay for this act of willful disobedience, with his life. Petrosian only wished that he would live to see it, but he sensed that his life was to be forfeit here. Michael would kill him. But Petrosian had faced death many times, and he did not fear it. "Tell me," he conceded, in response to Michael's question. "Why would you betray me?" Petrosian knew that this was personal between them now.
Michael played his part, brillintly. "Jillian and I are in love," he announced, then he laughed as he watched Petrosian react with a start. "That's right," he drawled. "We're in love and I asked to marry me. Now...I couldn't let you destroy her father. Could I? I had to protect them, so I told them everything."
Cordero smiled at Michael with a sense of paternal pride, then he moved to confront Petrosian. "Michael has been very helpful, my friend. Thanks to his warning, there will be nothing for the CIA to find, should they decide to pay me a visit."
"What do you mean?" Petrosian demanded, even as a cold chill rippled through him. His stomach twisted into knots as his eyes locked with Cordero's.
"Michael has destroyed my files," Cordero replied. He paused ot down a measure of bourbon, then said, "All the evidence that the CIA would have tried to use against me is gone. Poof. Like magic."
Petrosian closed his eyes for a moment. He found it hard to accept that he had been so wrong about Michael. But the proof was before him. The mission was sabotaged, but Section would clean up the mess that Michael was leaving behind. And that was Petrosian's only consolation. "So...what happens now?" he queried, his eyes locked on Cordero's face.
The other man grinned, his eyes flickering over to Michael. "You die," he whispered, then he nodded.
"Au Revoir, pere," Michael whispered. Then he pulled the trigger.
But to Petrosian's surprise, the lights didn't go out. Instead he watched as Hammond Cordero fell at his feet. A moment later there was a second thud, and Petrosian glanced to his right to see Jillian on the floor. "What the hell is going on?" he shouted, even as he felt Michael releasing him from his bonds. The moment his hands were free, Petrosian yanked the bindings off his ankles. He stood up then strode over to Michael, who was staring down at Cordero's inert body. Petrosian grasped handfuls of Michael's shirt then slammed the young man up against the nearest wall. "What have you done?" he snarled, his eyes flashing ice-blue sparks.
Michael didn't react to Petrosian's rage. He simply held the other man's gaze and replied, "My job."
"Killing Cordero and his daughter weren't part of the mission profile!" Petrosian hissed.
"They're not dead," Michael whispered. "I used a tranq gun." He revelled in the fact that Petrosian was unraveling before his eyes, and he let his satisfaction show.
Petrosian realized that he had lost his grip on himself, so he released Michael and stepped back, fighting to regain control of his emotions. He attempted to divert his rage by focusing his concentration elsewhere. Moving to Cordero's body, Petrosian fell to one knee and pressed to fingers to the other man's neck. There was a strong pulse. Taking a few, deep, breaths, Petrosian stood up and turned to face Michael once again. "Why did you subvert the mission profile?" he questioned, softly.
Michael was silent for a long moment, before answering. Not to aggravate Petrosian further, but simply because he wanted to chose his words carefully. He wanted to stick to the truth. "We were running out of time," he said, then he paused a moment, willing Petrosian to deny it. But the other man simply nodded. So Michael continued. "An oppurtunity presented itself and I took it. I got the job done." That was the end that justified whatever means, as far as Section was concerned.
"What about the files?" Petrosian shot back. "Cordero said you destoryed them. All of this was for nothing without them."
"The files are already in the hands of the CIA," Michael replied and, hard as he tried, he couldn't keep a satisfied smirk from curving his lips at Petrosian's stunned reaction to his announcement.
Rubbing at the tense muscles in his neck with stiff fingers, Petrosian acknowledged defeat. Michael had not only won the battle, but the war. "I take it that the CIA will be here soon then?" he asked.
Michael nodded. "We should go." And so saying, he stepped over Cordero's body and left the room. Whether or not Petrosian followed him, he could have cared less.
After returning to Section and handing in his report, Michael found himself summoned to Madeline's office. She, Operation's and Petrosian were waiting to speak with him. Michael stood before them, silently. Feet slightly apart, hands clasped before him. He was calm beneath their perusal. Finally, Operations spoke.
"Well done, Michael," he offered, a smile quirking one corner of his wide mouth. "The CIA are extremely grateful.
"Good," Michael replied. That was all.
Petrosian was the next to have his say. He had been perched on the corner of Madeline's desk, but now he moved to stand before Michael. He chose his words carefully. "I have enjoyed working with you, Michael. I hope to do so again, in the near future." Petrosian spoke with sincerity shining from his pale eyes.
Michael's only response was to smile. At the moment, his feelings regarding Petrosian were mixed. He didn't neccessarily doubt the other man's sincerity. He simply didn't trust him. The first lesson that Michael had learned at Section, and had learned well, was never to trust anyone. He only wished he could teach that to Nikita.
"I'd like a moment alone with Michael," Madeline interjected, softly, as she moved to stand beside him and Petrosian. She waited while Operations and the the blond haired man had left her office, then she smiled at the young operative, who calmy returned her gaze. "So....Michael....are you enjoying your....victory?" she inquired.
"Yes," he replied, not even bothering to pretend that he didn't know what she meant. Madeline was a master at game-playing, so she would understand the adversity between him and Petrosian, better than anyone. Michael's only question was...who had she had been rooting for. He decided not to ask, since the answer might have surprised him. "Is that all?" he queried. There was something that he wanted to do.
Madeline nodded. "You can go." A smile still curving her lips, she watched as Michael glided from the room.
Nikita had only been back at Section for a few hours when she tracked Michael down at the laser simulator. Walter had filled her in about his mission with Petrosian, and Nikita was filled with a morbid curiosity. She wanted details from Michael. But, at the moment, he was busy. Nikita was stunned as she realized he was sequencing at level twelve. She winced in sympathy, then turned pale with concern, as she watched Michael take hit after hit, yet keep on firing. The pain had to be intense, of that she was certain. For she had been nearly crippled by it the first time she had attempted level eight. Byt the time the sequence was completed, Nikita's heart was in her throat. Michael was on his feet, but shaking, and she ran over to him, her eyes flashing. Nikita didn't know whether to help him, or hit him. "Are you all right?" she asked, reaching for Michael's arm. She wasn't suprised when he brushed her off.
"I'm fine," he whispered hoarsely. The simple act of speech sent waves of pain rippling through him, but Michael focused his concentration and was able to detach himself from it. Enough to make the pain bearable. With effort, he slowed his breathing and controlled his trembling. "How was your mission?" he questioned, his eyes lifting to Nikita's face then flickering over the rest of her. She was dressed in a black, ankle-length skirt and a white sweater. Michael thought she was more beautiful than an angel.
"The mission was fine," Nikita replied, with a dismissive wave of one hand. "I'm more interested in your mission," she confessed. "Walter told me about Petrosian." A grin spread across Nikita's face. "I understand you let him live," she teased. But she wasn't entirely amused. She had been in the room when Petrosian had taunted Michael. Calling him incompetent. She was rather sorry that Michael had cancelled the bastard.
Michael grimaced. "Let's not talk about Petrosian," he beseeched. He wanted to forget about the man. "Would you like to get a cup of coffee?" he countered, in an attempt to divert Nikita's interest.
She nodded. "Sure. My treat." Nikita watched as Michael suddenly swayed on his feet and she reached for his arm. This time he accepted her support, and that worried her. "Maybe it would be best if I took you to medlab?" she countered, concern shadowing her eyes.
"No!" Michael shot back, more sharply than he had intended. He caught himself and offered a smile. "Sorry," he apologized, as he took Nikita's hand and tangled his fingers with hers. "I'm fine. Really." He could see doubt flickering in her lovely eyes.
"Tell you what," Nikita countered, as she took the laser gun from Michael as tossed it aside. She then began leading him from the room. "We'll go to my place."
Michael hid a grin, for that sounded like a wonderful idea to him. "Do you have coffee?" he questioned, knowing that Nikita had a penchant for flavored teas. He hated tea.
Nikita shrugged, then grinned at him, her eyes sparkling. "Does it matter?" she challenged.
"No," Michael replied, a glitter in his own eyes. "Whatever you have will be fine." Hand and hand, he and Nikita strolled down the corridor of Section One.
THE END
Send suggestions or comments to Shelly