As the months gradually passed, the monotony of his self-imposed exile cast him into despair.  Devoid of the disciplined routine that sustained him those many years, he began to believe the joys and sorrows of life were past him, and imagined an empty future stretching on without mercy.

The surprise and delight when he found her---jogging through a city park, of all places—altered his course.  His sluggish heart beat once more as the infusion of energy awakened old passions.

He could breathe again.

And he had a purpose:

Nikita at all costs…..

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

Wilbur Adams’ voice was too high pitched for a terrorist.  “Do you have the money?” he squeaked, five year old pipes in a middle aged body.

Nikita patted the hard shell case handcuffed to her left arm, and flashed him a cavalier smile.  “Right here, mate.”

He licked his lips nervously and stole a hurried glance over his shoulder before unlocking the door and ushering her inside.  “Wait here.”  Carefully, Adams retraced his steps, making sure both outer doors were double locked.

Nikita gazed around the dingy garage.  Was the merchandise behind door number one, two or three?  A scratching sound caught her attention and her head turned to the right, toward the source of the noise.  She squinted, barely able to make out the wire rectangular shape in the dim light.  What was that movement inside?  She stepped closer and froze, barely suppressing her shudder at the sight.

A dark image from her past. 

A harbinger of her future.

Her nightmare returned.

Like a ghost…..

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

She opened her eyes to dark forms in a blurry haze above her.

“How do you feel?”

She was disoriented.  “What happened?”

“That’s a good question.  Why don’t you tell us?”

Nikita’s head pounded and her tongue felt like an old sponge.  “I remember meeting the target and being taken to the rendezvous and then I woke uphere,” she whispered thickly.

“We lost contact with you for a period of 12 minutes,” Madeleine informed her. “When your team arrived, they found Adams, his wife and two children, all shot to death.”

“WHAT?”  Nikita bolted straight up, yanking her IV line violently. 

“With your gun,” spat Operations.

“WHAT? NO!”

“You were the only one there,” Madeleine said, unruffled.

“NO! It’s a LIE!”

Operations’ watched her coldly, arms crossed.  Madeleine circled the bed, her hands snug behind her back, solemn as a prioress.  “Is it?  You were found standing over the bodies, covered in blood.  There were no indications of anyone else on the scene”

Nikita’s cheeks flushed angrily,  “I don’t understand--I didn’t do anything!  I made the contact and that was it!  I didn’t kill anyone!  I didn’t kill any children!”

Mascara’d lashes blinked.  “Whether you did or not is of less concern to us than the mission, which has now been compromised.  Of course, there’ll be an investigation.  We’ll be back later for a formal debriefing.” 

She left, trim alligator pumps clicking across the hard floor. Operations shot Nikita look of disgust and followed Madeleine out of the room.  Nikita threw herself back against the pillow, heart thundering through her chest, restless legs flailing at the covers.  Christ--what was going on?

She opened her eyes.  Michael lurked beside her bed, a tall, silent sentinel.  Relief flooded through her, “Michael,” she whispered. He studied her face but made no move to comfort her.  Her stomach tightened uneasily.  “You think I did it, don’t you?” she whispered.

“It doesn’t matter what I think, Nikita.  Did you compromise the mission?”

She turned her head away, unable to keep back tears of frustration.  “I can’t remember.”

He watched her silently, then glided away.

“How is she?” Birkhoff asked later.

Michael glanced at the darkened observation deck.  “She says she doesn’t remember anything.  Is it possible someone else was there?”

Birkhoff shook his head.  “Adams was an extremely paranoid man.  He locked both outer doors after Nikita arrived.  There was no sign of a forced entry, no sign of a struggle.”

“What about the black out?  Do we know why we lost her commlink for those 12 minutes?”

“No.  By all indications, it just malfunctioned.”

Michael’s jaw tightened.  “Keep working on it.” 

Foxy’s Live Nude Girls! performed what passed for dancing in a low building framed by rusted metal and concrete along old US Route 1.   The midday sun was still high when a motorcycle pulled up near the blacked out side door. A dark-haired female swung herself off the back of the bike and strode arrogantly into the club.  She was a diminutive woman in her late twenties, hair in a crewcut, with ugly death’s head tattoos rippling up her muscular arms.  Her companion, a tall, militant blonde man in leather chaps, lingered by the bike, waiting.

Inside, the woman paused by the door and surveyed the assemble personages.  Foxy’s reminded her of an aging streetwalker whose paint and spangles had long since lost the ability to deceive.  Inside, the same three tired “dancers” wiggled dispiritedly in front of the same five patrons slumping at cheap Formica tables in front of the stage.

She sighted two WASPy young twenty-somethings, male and female, slouching in revolutionary ennui at one of the scarred booths against the outer wall.  They were dressed in the casually expensive fashion of wealthy college students-turned radical leftists.  She headed toward them, slid into the booth next to the female student, stuck a Newport in her mouth and fished in the pocket of her jacket, her eye on the male student across from her.  “Got a light?”

“Sure.”  He flicked an ornate silver Zippo, holding it out to her.  She leaned over the table and grabbed onto his proffered hand, letting the cigarette roll across her slightly parted lips as she sucked in on the filter, her eyes locking with his in a deliberate come-on.

She exhaled slowly in a long, blue swirl, “So, Baby, what’s the deal?”

“First, we want some guarantees,” It was a prissy, high-pitched whine.

The woman blinked and turned toward the female voice, leaning against the girl, uncomfortably close.  “Who do you think we are Princess--Midas Muffler?  You pay us the money, we deliver the goods.  That’s your f*&#ing guarantee.” Under the table, her hand found the girl’s thigh and gave an exploratory squeeze.  The girl stiffened, her nostrils flaring into a frozen mask, while the woman looked back across the table to the boy and winked saucily.  His return smile was stiff, uncertain.  The students sat in silence, eyeing her uneasily.

Finally, the woman stubbed out her cigarette impatiently.  These two were obviously lightweights---BORING.  “It’s been swell---Really---but I’ve gotta fly.” She rose, brushed against the male student salaciously, and gave the girl a final goodbye caress before she sauntered to the exit.

Outside, in the afternoon sun, her partner waited with the bike.  The woman hopped up on the seat behind him and they headed south toward the highway.  There was a snap on her commlink.  Birkhoff’s voice was pleased. “Ok, we’ve got them on the trackers.  Come on in.”  Then he snickered, “What did you do, Toril?  The girl is having kittens!” 

Toril laughed, feeling a mixture of relief and amusement.  In front of her, the blonde biker growled, “F#cking dilettantes!”  Then, to her, “Good job.”

She squeezed her arms tighter around his waist, acknowledging the rare compliment.

Mission accomplished.

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

Although Nikita’s debriefing was short, it seemed to drag on without mercy.  Photos of bloody bodies, fair-haired children reduced her to hysterical sobs.  To every question she could only reply, “I don’t remember.”  Later, Operations and Madeleine watched her restless form thrashing about on the surveillance camera. 

“You wanted to see me?”  Michael said quietly.

“What the hell’s going on with Nikita?” demanded Operations.

Michael weighed his reply.  “Her vital signs are normal.  She show no signs—“

“She goddamn shot four people to death, ruined a mission and she SHOWS NO SIGNS?” Operations roared.

“Losing your temper is non-productive,” Madeleine said mildly.

Michael’s face was stony.  “We have secondary intel regarding Adams’s latest buy.  It could be a way in to salvage this.”

“Then deal with it,” Operations snapped.

“What about Nikita?”

Both men looked to Madeleine.  “Medlab is ready to release her, but I want her apartment back on surveillance.”

Michael nodded.  “I’ll take care of it.”

He decided Nikita was even more perfect than he remembered. 

He was a man with simple needs, who divided his life into two parts.

Before and After

Before, he worked with the passion of a religious convert, his whole purpose devoted to a single ideal.  Unlike subjugated Section drones, he was a free agent, an autonomous individual; though his will moved with the direction of the group, and it’s designs were his own.

Then, his life was thrown into disarray.

The force of her bullet threw him backward, his life saved only by a thin layer of Kevlar lining his garment.  When he came to, he was alone.  His colleagues: dead.  For the first time in years, he acted on instinct rather than duty. He simply rose, and walked out of the building.  He wasn’t there when Section charges detonated and achieved total annihilation.  His enemy thought him dead, his people though him dead and oddly, he felt no compulsion to set either of them straight. 

He was free. 

After, he soon discovered, was not the sweet life of retirement.  He had always worked hard, took pride in the craft.  So many people today forgot the art of a job well done.  He was used to the chain of command, the predictability of his role.

The disorder of his new existence disturbed him.

He soon discovered that without Red Cell, he had no place. 

He was nothing.

And She had cost him everything.

Then, by chance, he saw Her and his obsession began to form, a small grain within his mind, turning, growing, gaining shape, and becoming a shining, white jewel.

His pearl of great price. 

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

Toril checked their weapons, and with her trainer’s permission was dismissed to shower and change.  Feeling tired, she entered the women’s empty dressing area, and even a knock at the door didn’t stop her from pulling off her shirt and standing in only a bra and camouflage pants.  As she suspected, it was Jackson who entered, his broad shouldered frame back in his usual military olive drab.  She said nothing and he sat on a bench a few feet away from her, watching as she stood in front of the mirror, casting a critical eye on the skull “tattoos” that covered her arms and chest. 

“Your left shoulder is all messed up,” he told her.

She craned her neck around, trying to see the spot he referred to.  “S’Ok- Madeleine says I can scrub them off.”

“Need help?”

She snorted, “Sure--if you’re name’s Mel Gibson.”

After a year and a half together, their relationship teetered between strict military formality and joking camaraderie, but in the beginning, well…

Toril was a cocky recruit.  Jackson was an immovable brick wall and she stubbornly charged into him head-first, getting every last vestige of femininity knocked out of her in the process.  He kept her tightly leashed, and wherever he went, she followed.  Within a month she no longer thought of herself as a woman or even a Section recruit.  She was his shadow.  He drove her relentlessly; she hated him, she tried to emulate him, but most of all, she worshiped him. She spent hours lifting weights, doing sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups--obsessed with physical perfection.  She was determined to earn his respect and strove to be as strong, as fast, as tough as any male recruit. 

To her chagrin, it was more difficult than she thought.  For the first time in her life, things didn’t come easy.  He wasn’t impressed with her marksmanship talents, her jokes didn’t win him over.  “Your tae kwon do skills are pathetic—you need to work harder,” he said bluntly.  “And anyway, you’re too small to realistically take a trained agent down with your bare hands.  In combat I want you to shoot, not try to be Bruce Lee.”

“I already can shoot—better than some of the agents here,” she retorted arrogantly.

“I don’t give a sh$t about the other agents,” he thundered.  “From now on, you’re at the range an extra two hours a day—and you’re good enough when I say you are!”

She had never worked so hard in her life.

It went without saying that Jackson was completely indifferent to her adulation.  True, he had been slow to warm to her.  He had never trained a woman befre, and with a perverse nod to political correctness, made it his mission to ensure her PT was a nightmare.  To his surprise, she thrived under his constant attention and gradually, the cocky prankster was transformed into a little martinet. 

Toril became a loner who had no confidantes and kept no company.  Her pumped up physique and lack of social life prompted whispers about her sexual orientation.  Just fine with her—she didn’t need any distractions.  It seemed to be working.  So far, Madeleine had not even bothered to give her the “your greatest weapon is your femininity” speech. 

Jackson watched her progress with satisfaction.  As a Navy man, he recognized the power of bureaucracy, and Section One was just another goddamn government agency, albeit more lethal.  Toril needed to be able to kiss ass and finesse the top brass if she was gonna get anywhere, and dammit if she hadn’t learned well.  After eighteen months with him, she performed like a trained monkey in front of Operations and Madeleine.  Good marks, properly deferential, efficient, and effective at her job.

At the end of her review, two things were apparent to him.  First, they had done a hell of a job whipping her into shape.  Madeleine even favored Jackson with one of her creepy smiles.  Second, instead of wanting to pass her off and return to his old pre-training assignment, he found himself devising excuses for her to stay under his tutelage. 

Best not to delve too deeply for the reasons why. 

Jackson watched Toril pull off her boots and pants and turned his back when she was ready to slough off her skivvies and hop in the shower.  Yes, he’d been tough on her, tougher than necessary.  But Section One would eat you alive and she was too promising to let go to waste. 

He sat quietly, reviewing progress reports while she showered and dressed.

“OK.”

He turned around.  She was dressed in clean fatigues, shiny spikes of hair, impossibly apple-cheeked. 

“Hungry?”

“Yeah.”

They ended up across town, at a chic bar and grill that served the best burgers in the city.  Toril made a face as the waitress brought Jackson a tall, cold glass of whole milk. 

“How in God’s name can you drink that stuff?” she asked for the hundredth time.  He tossed it back and set down the empty glass, grinning.  Toril surveyed his tanned face.  “Disgusting!  Look--now you’ve got a mustache.”  He ran the back of his hand over his upper lip and leaned back from the table while the waitress served their food.  Toril frowned, mentally calculating how long she’d have to exercise to burn the calories in the onion rings he pushed in front of her plate.  He saw her look.

“Stop it,” he growled.  “You’re not FAT for Chrissakes!”

She was ready with a tart reply when the door opened and Michael and Nikita entered--together.

She and Jackson exchanged glances.  The tortured nature of that infamous relationship needed no comment.  Toril watched, entranced, as they glided through the bar, never failing to be struck by their exotic beauty. 

Dark and light, sun and moon; they were like two stars spinning together in their own orbit. 

She sighed and watched Jackson arrange the fries on his plate in an efficient, military manner.  Thank God her own life was so much simpler. 

Work, work and work---

And none of that mushy stuff to make life miserable.

The hostess indicated a table tucked away in a private corner and gave a haughty nod.

Distracted, Nikita sat down automatically, opened the menu and gazed at it with large, unseeing eyes.  Michael quietly ordered a bottle of wine and waited for her to unleash on him.  To his surprise, she remained silent.  It was not like her to keep her thoughts internalized, inevitably she confided in him.  But, he realized with a pang, Nikita was changing, getting better about sealing herself off from others in Section, even him. 

“Nikita” he said gently.

What could have happened?  She retraced every step over and over in her mind.  From the van to the café to the bus stop to the garage.  She met Grooms first then Adams.  Where were the wife and kids?  Why were they in a back room? 

What the hell was Adams doing bringing his wife and kids to a—

“Nikita!”

She blinked, startled, and rubbed her forehead nervously.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“Don’t be sorry—tell me what happened.”

She hung her head in her hands, sighing unhappily. “I told you already--I don’t remember.”  Her head snapped up,  “Wait, Michael-- they took my blood at the scene!  That will prove me innocent!  I must have been setup--someone must have drugged me or something—”

He looked away, hating to tell her.  “The tests came back positive--“

“I knew it!” she breathed.

“---for cocaine.”

“WHAT?”

His face was expressionless.  “Obviously a tainted result.  You were in view of your entire team for an hour before and no one saw you ingest cocaine.”

“Well I should think NOT!” she snapped indignantly.

He continued as if he had not heard her, “The residue tests were inconclusive, and we still don’t know what caused the 12 minute blackout.  The forensic report should be ready soon.” 

Michael didn’t have to give voice to what they both knew: until she was cleared by Forensics, Nikita was only a hop and a skip away from abeyance.

Nikita pushed the menu away unhappily, too upset to even think of eating. “I can’t do this, Michael.  Please take me home.”

Michael glanced around, sighing inwardly.  He was hoping for some sort of nugget, anything that would give him a clue as to the events of the previous night.  If he took her home, every move they made would be under the unblinking lenses of the surveillance cameras.  He slid the glass of wine toward her. “Just one drink.”

She sipped reluctantly, looking around the room—anywhere than toward his searching eyes.  Murmuring an apology, she headed for the sanctuary of the ladies room.  Once inside, she stood in front of the mirror and wetted a paper towel, applying the coolness to her throbbing forehead. 

“Nikita!”  She opened her eyes as Toril entered the room.  They had not seen or spoken to each other in some months, and the other woman knew nothing of Nikita’s predicament, but she noticed the reddened eyes and strained expression.

“What’s up?” she asked.

Nikita shrugged, “Dunno, how about you?”

Toril was nonplussed by her friend’s obvious distress.  “Well, I finally got the thumbs up.  I became Official last week.” 

Nikita met Toril’s eyes and smiled faintly, “That’s great news—I hadn’t heard.”

“Yeah well, we’ve been in Denver for the past few months.”  She paused, “Jesus, Nikita--you look like you could blow off some steam!  Come to the range with me—Jackson bet Dieter $100.00 I’d kick his @ss at action pistol—and there’s no way I’m gonna let that redneck beat me.” 

Nikita shook her head. “I’m not really in the mood.”

“Aw c’mon,” Toril wheedled, “Live ammo!  What could be more fun?”

“Thanks, but I’m really tired, I’m just going to go home and get somesleep.”

“Sure, well…I hope you feel better.”

Nikita left hurriedly; Toril washed her hands and chewed her lip in frustration.  It wasn’t like Nikita to be so distant, so down.  It was worrying.  Nikita was one of the only friends she had made in Section, and had helped her back on track in the early days when Toril was headed toward cancellation.  She trod slowly down the front steps and waited while Jackson brought the car around.  She got in beside him fastened her seatbelt.

“What’s going on with Nikita?”

His eyes stayed on the road.  “None of your business.” 

“Is she in trouble?”

“Also none of your business.”

Toril sighed and stared out the window, watching the city lights glide by like glowing party streamers.  Whatever was going on, she wouldn’t get it out of Jackson.  She ran her hands lovingly over the case that held her Section-issued Glock.  She had to find out---someone had to know. 

It was time to visit Birkhoff.

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

He chose carefully, annoying the harried shopkeeper with his fastidious attention to detail.  Forty minutes later, he glided into the humid summer night, his mind filled with future plans.  It had been ridiculously simple following Her, watching Her move through life in the city where She lived. 

He found that his old skills and instincts served him well, even after these months of inactivity.  He flexed his muscles slowly at first, like a colossus roused from slumber, his confidence increasing exponentially with each success.  Soon, he had no fear of discovery or capture.  After all—hadn’t he been bombing airports when many of these young Section agents were just a gleam in their father’s eyes? 

No, he had no worries.

Invincibility was fast upon him. 

He could feel it as he gained strength, using and discarding those who came into his path with the indifference of a child squashing beetles under his sandal.  Meeting his old friend Adams had been truly fortuitous.  Such an accommodating man!  It was shame about the children, but these things happened.

After all, a job worth doing, was worth doing well.

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

Five days had passed, and the chilly silence that greeted Nikita as she moved through Section’s hallways spoke volumes. 

And how bitter was the taste of betrayal in the mouth of the righteous.

Forbidden from her regular duties, she was confined to her desk, grilled in “therapy” with Madeleine, or isolated in an office while others observed and interpreted every minutia of her body language.  The murder and insubordination charges leveled at her were grave, but worse were the labels she wore like scarlet letters:

Unreliable

Psychotic

Snapped Under Pressure

And the worst of all….

Child Killer

Word of her offenses spread quickly; and suddenly Nikita was alone, a wretch without caste in the ordered society of Section One. 

Child Killer

Even among the hard hearted Cold Ops, the deliberate torture or murder of children was anathema.  Stung by her colleagues’ disaffection, Nikita couldn’t believe how quickly they believed the worst, especially those who had been the beneficiaries of her trademark compassion in the past.  A verse she remembered from somewhere echoed in her ears, mocking her:

“Cast not your pearls before swine, lest they trample them underfoot and turn again and rend you..”

A few friends defended her, some like Walter and Birkoff, had their seniority shielding them from ridicule.  Greener agents like Toril were not so lucky, and anyway, it seemed to her that even They watched her tentatively, the question unspoken on their lips, “Did you do it?”

Nikita knew in her heart she was innocent--why didn’t Section?

Unfortunately for her, the Forensic report was not good.  Her gun fired the fatal shots--at point blank range.  High velocity back spatter blood patterns were consistent; the victims were not moved or disturbed after death.  The angles of the shots fired were consistent with Nikita’s nearly six-foot height.  The blood on her clothing belonged to the victims.  Tests on her hands showed no residue from the gun, but that was not unusual.  The only puzzle from the crime scene was one missing piece of evidence—a spent shell casing from beside Adam’s body.  Housekeeping combed the area, but it was nowhere to be found. 

In addition, they had yet to explain the missing twelve minutes and her lack of memory.  The report didn’t clear her, but the fact that it didn’t exclude her was damning in itself.

So Nikita continued to report to Section each morning, her head held high, back straight, watched from above by the unwavering eyes of Operations and Madeleine, who had yet to determine her fate.  At the end of each day when her duty shift ended, she fled to her apartment.  The indignity of being back on surveillance notwithstanding, it was her only refuge.

She tossed in bed, unable to sleep, her mind turning to one who had remained silent these five days…Michael.

After that night at the bar, he maintained a deliberate distance.  He didn’t call, didn’t stop by, didn’t seek her out.  But he also didn’t discourage her, either.  Once, after a round of particularly brutal remarks, she sought solace in his office, sensing his shoulders strong enough to bear her humiliation.  He hadn’t asked why she suddenly appeared like a ghost in front of his desk; he simply fixed his beautiful eyes on her, something like sympathy reflecting back from their depths.  The link between them was palpable in the silence of the darkened room.  She sensed his support, felt it in his glance like a comforting embrace, but understood he, too, had his boundaries.

Michael would help her if he could, but she was no neophyte--she needed to take charge of her own defense.

A knock at the door startled her.  The clock showed midnight, and her fingers slipped under the pillow to what was hidden there.  Gun in hand, she padded through the darkness to the door and turned the knob cautiously.  There was no one outside.  She unhooked the chain and opened the door wider, leaning out to look up and down the hall.  Nothing.  Then she saw it; in front of the door a bouquet of flowers wrapped in a filmy crepe paper, a card stapled to the top.  She smiled.

Michael. 

She stepped into the hallway and plucked off the card, desiring privacy from the intrusive camera.  The small white envelope had the words “Open Me Second” written in an artistic, old-fashioned hand.  She crouched over the vase and tore off the paper.  It was an elegant bouquet of white flowers: roses, iris, lilies.  Her eye was immediately drawn to an indentation in the center.  She parted the flowers, curious. 

A dead rat stared back at her with glassy eyes.  Stunned, she straightened up and tore at the envelope.  It said simply:

“Add this to your file.”

With a rush of dawning horror, she looked at the rat.  Stuffed in its mouth was an empty shell casing. 

Nikita stumbled into the kitchen and reached for her cell phone. 

She was waiting in front of her building when he pulled up, her lithe figure detaching from the shadows on the front steps and settling into the seat beside him.  Her face was dazed, disbelieving.

“What happened?”  His voice was calm, the mask, as always, in place.

“I’ve been compromised.”  She wore a look tinged with fear and incredulity.

“Tell me.”

A wave of nightmares hit her like a cold spray of briny water, the weight of painful memories towing her under.  With a flash of anguish, she remembered the pain of her torture, the agony of watching Michael brutalized, the feel of the rats as they chewed her flesh, the hollowness in her soul when she killed her tormentor.  Now, it seemed he was back from the dead, attacking with the stealth of a Great White in shallow water. 

Well, she’d be damned if she’d drown in fear and self-pity. 

Revenge would be her life raft.

She took a deep breath, savoring her new resolve, seeing the surprise in Michael’s face at the calculation spreading across her features.

She smiled slowly, drawing strength for her next move with each steady inhalation.

“Michael, he’s alive.”

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

Toril was having a bad day. 

First, her attempts at cajoling information out of Birkhoff were a complete failure.  She briefly considered beating it out of him, but the little sh&t would undoubtedly get her back for it later.  Next, the underwater demolition project she spent two months designing and working on—the one she refused to consult Jackson about because she wanted to do it Herself---failed to detonate, to her complete mortification.  Thank God it was only an experiment and not a mission.  On top of that, she was getting slammed for her defense of Nikita, who was incommunicado and wouldn’t talk to her anyway.  Not that Toril couldn’t take the heat—it was no skin off her @ss, but it pissed her off to see the other Operatives turning on Nikita like dogs. 

Although, she supposed, if you lie down with dogs, you’re bound to get up with fleas.

Wonderful.

Then, the icing on the cake happened only hours ago--Jackson kicked her in the head while sparring.  It was Toril’s own fault—she wasn’t paying attention—and then, WHAP!  Now she had a drooly fat lip and looked (and felt) like a complete idiot.  So, it wasn’t a bad day—it was more like a bad week.  Still, no matter how bad things were, if she were Nikita, it would be worse.  There was a curious tinge in the air, like everyone was waiting for something to happen. 

Toril dreaded what that something was going to be.

She could only imagine how Nikita felt.

He watched Nikita leave her apartment and take one of her twelve rotated routes to Section.  He thought she looked in his direction once, but he couldn’t be sure.  There was no indication of any retaliation for his breach; no security, no extra detail.

So, she hadn’t gone crying to Section. 

Just as he expected.

He hadn’t gotten to be Red Cell’s Chief Inquisitor without understanding his subjects.  No, Nikita would fight this out herself. 

For pride. 

For preservation.

For revenge.

Well, he couldn’t dawdle.  The game was afoot, the clock was now ticking, and he had some chemical cocktails to prepare, in particular a special recipe he was eager to try.  The last one had worked so well; he was certain those dolts at Section hadn’t detected its traces in Her blood.  He lowered the field glasses, allowing himself a small moment of anticipatory glee. 

He’d update her file all right.

He could hardly wait.

When Nikita didn’t report in for work, an operative was sent to look for her and made a troubling discovery: Nikita was unconscious in the alleyway near the entrance to Section One.  An object found taped to her forehead was and ferried immediately to Madeleine.  The victim was taken to Medlab and released within an hour, denying any knowledge of her attacker.

The next day, as she was leaving for work, Nikita received a large, gaudy bouquet of flowers.  She carried them into the kitchen, opened the card, and silently read the following message:

“You will die for your sins”

Although she was stoic for the camera, her frozen smile alerted the monitors that something was amiss.  A report was generated for Madeleine, who ordered the flowers and card retrieved from Nikita’s dustbin.

Later, Michael was summoned to Madeleine’s office.

“Yes?”

“I’ve noticed you have had almost no contact with Nikita since the Adams incident,” she said.

His voice, when he answered, was slightly defensive. “I’ve been busy.”

Her eyes narrowed.  “I believe Nikita may know more than she’s telling us. I’d like you to find out.” 

He feigned surprise, and left her office, cautiously optimistic. 

That was almost easy.

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

Madeleine was sitting at her desk, sipping tea when Michael reappeared before her.  “Yes, Michael?”

He stood stiffly, handsome face grave.  “Your suspicions are correct.”

“Meaning?”

“Adams used an indigent man named Vincent as a courier from time to time. He was mentally ill, but seemingly harmless.  Nikita felt sorry for him--he reminded her of a person she knew when she lived on the street.”

Madeleine set the delicate cup back into its saucer, cradling them both in her hand.  “I don’t remember seeing anything in the file about this.”

Michael continued, “Before he became homeless, Vincent was a doctor--until his schizophrenia left him unable to practice.  About a month before the murders, he started to become delusional, psychotic.  The last time Nikita saw him--about a week before the incident--Vincent threatened her.  She didn’t take him seriously.”

“Why wasn’t this brought to our attention sooner?”

“As I said, Nikita did not take his threats seriously.”

Madeleine’s reply was frosty.  “That’s not her decision to make.”  She held up a clear plastic evidence bag for his inspection, an empty casing inside. “As you know, Nikita was attacked this morning.  This was found taped to her forehead, along with a note that read, “You’re next”--it’s the shell missing from the Adams crime scene.”

She watched Michael’s eyes flicker as the implications became clear.

“It would appear this doctor was somehow involved with the murders.  Why hasn’t Nikita mentioned him?”

He stared straight ahead, careful to keep his features neutral. “She probably feels guilty for ignoring Vincent’s threats.  No doubt she believes she could have prevented what happened.”

Madeline studied the porcelain cup thoughtfully.  Nikita’s compassion was incredibly short-sighted.  And tedious.  It was obvious that her friendship with this homeless man had blinded her to his lethal nature.  She needed to be taught a lesson.

Madeleine made her decision.  “He will need to be eliminated—immediately.”

“I’m certain we can find him.  I’ll take care of it.”

“No--I want Nikita to do it---personally.”

Michael looked away,  “I’m not sure she’s ready”. 

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”  She smiled faintly.

With tightening jaw, Michael turned on his heel and left, affording Madeline a small flicker of amusement at his display of temper.  She leaned over her desk and pressed a button.  “Dr. Schons? I’d like another analysis of blood sample 2135B.  I’m sending you a list--check for traces of the substances I’ve indicated.”

She was relieved at, but not surprised by the turn of events.  Nikita had always been easy to read.  If everything went as she suspected, cancellation would not be required.  Her mind was already turning in other directions as she gracefully replenished her cup.

Michael headed toward Nikita’s office to give her the “bad news”.  He was surprised at the ease of his success and grateful for the opportunity to carry out this small deception, knowing, without a trace of conceit, that he was being groomed to assume Madeleine’s job.  Rarely did he have the chance to practice manipulating her. 

Was she getting slow or was he getting better?

No matter.

His objective was accomplished.

They met again, this time in the park. 

He handed her a briefcase.  “I’ve bought you some time.  No one knows he is alive, not even his own people.  Madeleine accepted the cover story and no one will interfere.  I was not given a time frame, but I suggest you take no more than 72 hours.  For your own good, you need to be back on the job and up to speed by the time Operations returns.” 

Nikita nodded.

“Be careful.”  Their eyes locked. 

“You know I will.”  She flipped her shades down, picked up the briefcase, and turned to go.

“Nikita—“

“Yes?”

“Make sure you get rid of the body.”

Her smile chilled him.  “Don’t worry, Michael—I’m already thinking about how.”

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

Nikita returned to her apartment and opened the briefcase, mulling over her strategy.  Inside, she found the covert weapons she requested from Michael.  She began laying out her clothing, preparing herself mentally for what was to come. 

If her theory was correct, he would be working alone and would use an innocent person to lure her out.  She was not naďve enough to expect to out-think him.  She had no idea why he was pursuing her, but she reasoned it was a purely personal fixation.  Michael hadn’t wanted to cooperate with her deception but, as she pointed out, it would be very bad for both of them if this man was found alive. 

Now, she had a chance to rectify that inconvenient fact.

She threaded a wire across the shoulder of her jacket and wondered about him, this man who had tortured so easily and set her up for the murders of an entire family.  She no longer had any doubts about her innocence---the moment she saw the surprise in the bouquet she remembered what it was she saw that night in the shadows—a wire cage full of rats.  He must have drugged her, disabled her comm and used her gun to kill Adams and his wife and children.  Adams was a weapons dealer with connections to Red Cell—no doubt they had been acquainted.  He must have already been there, waiting for her.

Nikita’s skin crawled at the thought.  What kind of man did these horrible things? 

Who did she think she was taking him on? 

Well, she was a woman with no family and few friends.  She had no hope of future happiness in a relationship, no hope of the white picket fence and 2.5 children.  If she escaped, she would be hunted down or killed, and her retirement was likely to be a bullet to the back of the head.

For all this, she was told she existed only to serve the greater good; that the innocent were to be protected and the guilty punished—unless it was expedient to sacrifice the innocent to protect the guilty—for the greater good, of course.

This torturer, this monster, had committed crimes against a person she loved.  She understood that it was not for her to avenge these acts.  She understood that her need for revenge, for justice, counted for naught in the vast, wide world of the greater picture.

She understood.

And she didn’t care.

She didn’t care, because she no longer inhabited a world where honor, goodness, friendship, or even love, mattered. 

Her new life was ruthless, cruel.  She was Alice in a hellish Wonderland where the guilty were allowed to thrive and the innocent withered away.  In the face of those harsh truths, she was willing to take a chance.  It would be one small bid---her mark in the ledgerbook on the side of the innocent. 

A payback for every Bauer she had been forced to save.

And she knew in her heart, despite her words to Michael; if Section knew this man lived, they would probably not send anyone to kill him.  They would send agents to retrieve him. 

To absorb him.  To turn him. 

Her own self-interest notwithstanding, Nikita had every reason make sure he was dead.

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

"Jackson--" a woman's voice insisted, "Wake up!"

A body pushed up against his sleeping form and poked its head over his shoulder.

He recognized the feel of her and groaned, "I got in at 05:30--what d'ya want?"

She looked at her watch with sadistic glee.  It was 07:00—He’d had PLENTY of rest.

"You were out last night with Michael, right?"

He sighed.  She was as relentless as a bulldog when she put her mind to something.  He jabbed his elbow back gently, prodding her to sit up and wait for him to stir from his narrow Section bed.  He had crashed there, too exhausted to drive back to his own place after the team returned.  He was due back on duty at 0900.

He stared up at the ceiling and rubbed his face, blonde hair sticking up everywhere in a frightful case of bedhead.  "Yeah, our team raided a Black Dawn training camp in Montana."

"Did Michael say anything about Nikita?  I haven't seen her in two days!"

He scowled.  Is that what this was about?  "I told you Toril-get over it already!"

Her voice rose an octave, "But Jackson-she's my friend! I owe her my LIFE!"  A slight exaggeration, but she was not above hyperbole.

He sighed, rolling onto his stomach and pushing himself up on one elbow. "The only thing I know is that she hasn't been cancelled, and she's not going to be, from what I hear."

"Oh thank God!"  She leaned over and gave him a loud, smacking air-kiss in the vicinity of his forehead.  His arm came down to swat at her like a pesky mosquito.

"Now leave me alone!" he grumbled.

She danced out of his range, "See ya later!" and practically skipped down the hallway, her spirits lifted for the first time in a week.  Things were looking up--her friend was ok, she had the next 48 hours off, AND she had fixed her project.  What a great day!

Hey!  Why not drop in and pay Nikita a visit?

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

She awoke to the feel of a heavy boot kicking at her calf.  She had no idea where she was or why someone was jamming a gun into the small of her back.  One minute she had been in the lobby of Nikita’s building, the next she had a gun in her kidney. 

Maybe this wasn't such a swell morning after all.

“Get up.”  The voice had a clipped, English accent.

She obeyed, rising stiffly, wiggling her arms and legs, reassuring herself she was in one piece.

“Turn around---slowly.”

Toril was surprised to see a lone man standing there.  Tall and elegant, he looked like a slightly graying soap opera lead, until you saw the assault rifle in his hand.  He lowered the gun.  She opened her mouth to speak.  His blow sent her spinning around, her head exploding like a cartoon character seeing stars. Jesus Christ, that hurt.  She crashed against the wall and stayed there, shaking her head to steady herself, to shake off the pain.  He backed away, giving her a chance to recover.  She didn’t know who he was or what he wanted, but she knew she was in a mess of trouble.

“Sh!t,” she drawled, spitting a wad of blood onto the floor, “My own Daddy hits me harder than that when I mess with his remote.  Is that the best you can do, Grandpa?”

If she thought her insult would upset him, she was gravely mistaken. 

He smiled at her.

He was just warming up.

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

His cell phone rang. “Yes?”

“Michael--” 

He could hear the trouble in her voice and then, a man’s tony British accent reverberated over the line.  “Ah, Michael! ­Lovely to speak with you again.  Nikita and I have been getting re-acquainted.  I’m so happy to see she hasn’t changed a bit.” 

Michael ignored his gleeful tone. “What do you want?”

The older man’s voice affected injury, “Now, really—why does everyone have to WANT something?  Maybe I miss Nikita’s company.  We did have quite the time together, didn’t we?”

“What do you want?” Michael repeated, his mind jumping two steps ahead while he listened to the other man’s demands, his green eyes coldly serene. 

He considered his options and made a decision,  “I’ll be there.”

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

An unbiased observer would call the St. James River Bridge a perfect setting for a romantic rendezvous.  Long unused and scheduled for demolition, the access road was closed to all but construction vehicles, and only deep pine forest lined the empty blacktop leading to it’s doomed facade.

It was along this road that a man moved stealthily, the unrelieved black of his garments swallowing him in the velvet darkness.  The summer night was clear and warm, full moon slipping occasionally behind a passing high cloud.

He moved purposefully, having left his vehicle behind, walking the last half-mile alone, under the winking stars. 

He made his way toward his past…and his future. 

He was too well trained to admit any personal desire for revenge.  If pressed, his reason would contain three syllables:  Nikita.

When he saw the body lying in the road ahead, like trash flung from a moving car, his heart stopped for a moment, till he realized it was not her---too small.  He reached the crumpled form and turned it over. 

It was Toril, Jackson’s material, the one he called “Little Sure Shot.” She had been savagely beaten.  At first he thought she was dead; then, her eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at him, her lips moving.  He leaned over to hear her.

“Got a cigarette?” she muttered shakily.

“No.”

Her eyes closed and she swallowed, “Ok, how about a joint?  I could use one about now—OW, sh!t.”  She reached up to touch the technicolor lumps swelling on her face.

“How about some water?”  He lifted her head gently and gave her a few sips from a small flask.  Fishing in his pocket he located a capsule and pushed it into her mouth.  “Here,” he said, “Drink some more to wash it down.”

She winced at the bitter taste of the pill, “Thanks.”

“Can you walk?” 

“I’m ok”, she clutched at his arm, her grip surprisingly strong, “Don’t worry about me----you’ve got to find Nikita.”  He nodded and helped her sit.

“Take this,” he said, handing her his cell phone.  “Call Jackson.”

“Thanks --and Michael,“ she whispered, “Don’t let him get near you.  He’s got some kind of syringe…..” 

Michael nodded in acknowledgement, and continued on his way.

To Nikita.

His past….his future.

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

On the job site at the St. James River Bridge, all was quiet.  The bridge was to be blown up within the week, and the contractor was prepping before the dynamite was laid for the final big bang.

In the middle of the bridge, the 140 ton Link-Belt crane sat idle, its hundred-foot boom raised up for the night.  The contractor had removed the three-ton wrecking ball used to punch holes in the bridge deck, and attached a thousand pound welder that was strung up seventy feet in the air.  It wasn’t an OSHA approved setup, but it kept the expensive welder high and dry at night, away from marauding teenagers or thieving locals who might be tempted to carry it off. 

One hundred feet in front of the crane was the newly stripped bridgedeck.  A concrete saw had made a strategic cut across the bridge and then the wrecking ball pounded the concrete away, leaving exposed girders bolted together with smaller steel connectors.  After the concrete was stripped, the workers would walk along the foot-wide steel beams, cutting and unbolting the crossbracing, careful not to fall through the large gaps.  The rocky gorge below was sixty feet down—people with vertigo needed not apply.

Back on the shore sat the office trailer, a shabby prefab building like thousands of others at job sites everywhere: no running water, no toilet, a beat-up computer on a yellow metal desk inside, the perpetual coating of dust covering everything.  From the trailer, the project manager had a clear line of site to the crane on the bridge.  Scattered near the mouth of the bridge were various heavy construction vehicles lying idle until the union worker’s day started the next morning. They were silent, shadowy giants in the speckled moonlight.

It was among these ghostly monoliths that four individuals began to assemble, and despite their expectations and experience, none of them would guess the final outcome of their encounter.

One lurked in the shadows, waiting for his opportunity.

One lay on the bridge, inches away from the abyss below.

One moved forward, intent on saving her.

One came along behind him, thirsty for revenge.

“Nikita!”

Michael’s urgent whisper intruded into the haze shrouding her half-conscious mind.  She struggled to rouse herself, but was so tired--every instinct insisting she return to the peaceful realm of slumber.

“Nikita!”

He was closer now, only a few feet away from where she lay, inches from the edge of the demolished deck.  Her body had not yet rolled to an empty spot that would alert her she was in danger of falling over the edge.  She pushed her hand away, stretching it straight out from her shoulder along the concrete and froze, her eyes popped open in surprise.  Her extended hand floated over nothingness—one of the holes punched in the deck in preparation for demolition.  In the darkness, she could neither see the rocks below nor hear water.

The hair stood up on the back of her neck at the thought of the sheer drop down.

“Michael?” she gasped, confused.

Far back on the shore, Toril caught the flash of moonlit pale hair in the distance and guessed it was Nikita.  Weak with relief, she began to stumble toward the bridge, just barely able to make out Michael, his hand reaching out to help Nikita. 

And then, as Toril watched, a shadow detached itself from the periphery.

Like their collective nightmare, the tall, familiar form rose up, silhouetted against the darkness.  Without warning, he raised his gun and the sharp crack of the rifle slammed shell after shell into Michael’s back, throwing him forward, toward Nikita’s prostrate figure.

One bullet after another hit Michael’s frame; spinning him around, his strong body unable to withstand the impact.  Nikita struggled frantically, throwing herself toward him, desperate to grab hold—but he was already plunging off the bridge, falling straight down, silent in death as in life. 

Nikita’s screams of anguish keened through the stillness, her heart gone in an instant. 

Shocked, Toril stumbled, falling to her knees at the sight, her horrified wail lost in the maelstrom. 

Nikita crouched on the bridge, unable to control the sobbing torrent of sorrow and shock streaming down her ashen face. 

He slung the rifle over his shoulder and walked slowly toward her, smug satisfaction emanating from him like a rotting odor.

“You can’t run, Nikita.  There’s no place for you to go.”

Her whole body shook, her grieving mind in stunned disbelief; beyond duty, beyond revenge.  His frame advanced, filling her line of sight.  Closer. Closer.  The front of her jacket was soaked with tears, her face bleeding from a cut on her cheek.

The hunter watched his prey, wondering if she what a magnificent creature she was.  From the moment he saw her, he knew she was extraordinary.  All those many months ago, refusing to break under torture, Michael her only weakness.  Now, he had cut the weakness away like a tumor.  She had no more encumbrances, no more distractions.

“Nikita,” he said urgently.  “Don’t you realize what I’ve done for you?”

She stared at him, unable to comprehend, unable to speak.

He frowned.  Why didn’t she didn’t understand?

“Nikita---you are free.” 

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

While He advanced toward Nikita’s position in the center of the bridge, Toril crept behind the counterweight and hauled herself up the tread into the cab of the crane.  Her heart was pounding, her eyes straining to make out the shapes on the floor, barely visible in the darkness.  She knew the load was held by one pedal, but which one?  Cranes didn’t use keys, you simply pressed the ON switch and they ran, and she was careful not to touch any buttons.  She didn’t want to start the crane and alert him to her presence. 

She just wanted to give that c$cksucker a nice big wet kiss from Section.

On the bridge, Nikita rose slowly, her body shaking, face wild with grief. Behind her lay the gaping holes of the stripped deck, before her extended the safety of the untouched concrete.

She looked over her shoulder.  She stood on the edge of a dark chasm, the black a warm softness cradling her, the rocks below obscured by the night.  She turned around and watched Him advance toward her, seeing in sharp relief the predatory gaze, the utter lack of humanity. 

Michael was dead and Nikita could not bring him back. 

She would either let this man kill her as well or live out her days in Section.

Alone.

Without Michael.

She closed her eyes and made her choice.

It was so easy.

She straightened up, tossing her hair back, wiping off the rivulet of blood that had begun to run into her mouth.  He smiled, admiring her phoenix-like ability to recover from adversity.  Her expression was enigmatic, at first he thought it was her attempt at seduction.  Then he realized she was backing away from him ever so slowly.

“Nikita,” he warned.  Fool, he thought, you’ve spooked her.  “Nikita,” he said again, a forced smile on his face.  “Let me help you.”

And then, time stopped. 

Her heart slowed its beat, she ceased to hear, she couldn’t speak.

For the first time in so long, she understood.  There was a swelling in her chest.  It washed over her like a gentle surf, and in it, Michael waited.  She could almost hear his voice whispering her name.  There was no doubt, no fear, only joyful anticipation.  She would see him again, and this time, they would never be separated.

Her foot found the edge and she paused only an instant, all threats and screams blocked from her senses.

Then, in a rush of air, she was gone.

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

On the bridge, He howled in rage and frustration.

In the big crane, Toril rose out of her seat in disbelief, roaring like an animal.  Bellowing at the top of her lungs, she slammed her size 6 shoe against the middle floor pedal.

Like Thor's giant hammer, the load came down.

With a sickening crunch of bone, Red Cell's former Chief Inquisitor was crushed where he stood, a flattened hash of flesh under the smashing power of the thousand pound welder.

Toril sat, stunned, heart booming against her breastbone, waves of hysteria beginning to roll over her. She pushed open the heavy door and half fell, half threw herself out of the cab.  She knelt down and clutched her head in her hands, her body trembling.

"Nikita..Michael..Ohmygod..Ohmygod..Ohmygod."

She had failed Nikita, failed Michael, failed Section.

What was she going to tell Operations and Madeleine?

How could she face Jackson?

It was too much. She stumbled behind the crane and retched, desperate to rid herself of the horror rising in her throat. Finally, her gagging subsided and she leaned trembling against the crane, sobbing in frustration for the first time since she came to Section.

"Hey!  What's the matter with you?"

Jackson's voice boomed through the stillness.  Toril stiffened, blotting her face with the bottom of her t-shirt, wiping away the evidence of her weakness. She sniffed and turned around, staring at him with huge, round eyes.

"Jackson," she quavered brokenly.

He saw her battered face. "Jesus, Toril- what happened?"  Toril clenched her fists, fighting the urge to begin bawling all over him.

It was useless.

To Jackson's surprise, his stoic little partner crumpled into a noisy, sniffling..girl!  Part horrified, part amused, he listened while she babbled about Nikita and Michael and the man and people falling over the side of the bridge and the man being crushed with the big thing on the crane and-and-and---.  She was crying, laughing, trembling, unable to stop.  When her agitation reached fever pitch, he considered slapping her, but couldn't bring himself to strike her bruised face.

Instead, he did something odd-- he held out his big arms and drew her to his chest, patting her back gently until her shivering body began to relax from its rolling adrenaline rush, until she was quiet again.  He looked down at the top of her head. "Sounds like you've had quite a night," he said, with uncharacteristic sympathy.

"What are we going to do?" she whispered, defeated.

"Well, you said Michael and Nikita went over the bridge, right?"

Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks at the memory.  She threw her arms around his waist, and nestled her head back against him, a shaky nod of her head her only reply.

"THIS bridge-the one that's being stripped right now?"

"Uh-huh," she sniffled, confused annoyance creeping into her voice.

"Just checking."

She stopped mid-sob, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.  Her head popped up.

"What are you saying?" she muttered, teeth beginning to clench.

“Well, it's simple--if Michael and Nikita went over the bridge, then you'll probably find them about twenty feet down in the safety net."

WHAT?

Toril jerked away with a blood-curling scream, her right hand connecting with the side of his head in a loud slap. "You @SSHOLE!!!  You let me sit here blubbering like an idiot and you didn't even tell me about the f*cking SAFETY NET???? 

She was completely mortified.

Jackson's laughter rang in her ears as she pushed him away and raced to the edge of the concrete bridgedeck.

SAFETY NET? Jesus Christ!

She threw her body flat and peered into the inky darkness below.

"NIKITA!" she screamed. "MICHAEL!"

Twenty feet below, cradled in the nylon net, Nikita lay quietly in Michael’s encircling arms. 

No words had been necessary between them.  Even in his dazed state, a vest full of hot metal, two bullets penetrating to become flesh wounds, he had realized the magnitude of Nikita’s decision. 

She had chosen suicide rather than join a man who offered her freedom from Section. 

She had chosen death rather than life in Section without him. 

Her self-sacrifice in the face of his past betrayals thrust daggers of regret and shame into his heart’s carefully constructed defenses.  He moved across the nylon net, catching her weeping form, covering her cry of surprise with a gentle hand, his own tears mingling with hers as he wound his large frame around her slender body and covered her tearstained face with tender kisses. 

They nestled, with the stillness of lovers, in an oasis of peace.  How long they mained there together, Michael didn’t know. 

He simply accepted the gift of that priceless moment, a gift that felt dearer to him than their few physical couplings; the flesh, as they say, passes away. But for a brief moment in time, he and Nikita existed alone together in their own world, in a place no one else could touch.  

The sound of Toril’s discordant wailing finally intruded.  He pressed his lips against Nikita’s soft mouth, closing his eyes, inhaling the scent of her skin, wishing he could stop time and stay with her forever…

But that was impossible.

Duty called.

She answered the door at the second knock.  “Hi.”

“Hey Slugger—how’s the eyes?”

He grabbed her chin and tilted her head from side to side to see how her shiners were healing.  Grimacing, she pulled her face away.

“Awww, they’re ok.  Whatd’ya got?”

He grinned.  “Your favorite--Cherry Garcia, and for me--Chunky Monkey, and…..”, he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively as he held up a plainly jacketed video.

Her face lit up.  “Das Boot?  You rented Das Boot?”

“The Director’s Cut.”

“YES!”

They flopped down on her new couch, the one he had just helped her pick out.  It was not a chic leather, an elegant neutral, or a trendy chintz; but a generous, oversize deep green velveteen sectional that was plush and comfy, with plenty of room for stretching out.

He reached for the remote as she sat cross-legged beside him and opened the ice cream.

“How was Venezuela?”

He snorted.  “A goatf%ck.  I wish you’d been with me.  Taylor is clumsy as sh!t and you’re a much better shot.  Hey—guess what?  I told Operations my idea about the mobile sniping teams and he authorized it.  It’s just a test case for now, but I can pick anyone in Section to work with me as my partner.”

“Oh…that’s great,” she replied slowly,  “Congratulations---you’ve been working on that idea for a long time.”

He unlaced his boots, not looking at her.  “It will involve a lot of travelling.  The team won’t have a home base like we do now.”

“Oh, no?” she asked, suddenly interested in studying the cherries and chocolate bits in her ice cream.

“No, in fact I’m already making up a plan for the most efficient mobilization from each city.  I probably won’t be back here until next year.”

“Oh.”  She tried to keep back the lump swelling in her throat, “So, when do you leave?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether the person I picked agrees to go.  See, I only have one person I really want to work with.“  He turned to her.  “So, how about it?”  Their eyes met.  Her face flushed scarlet with happiness, her heart swelling with pride, she nodded vigorously. 

Content with the direction of their universe, they settled back to watch the movie.

“Say, Jackson,” she said, a little while later.

“Yeah?”

“How long have we known each other?

He shrugged, “I dunno—hey, gimme that—want this?”

She complied and traded pints with him, waving her spoon thoughtfully.

“Can I ask you a question?”  Her voice became suddenly quiet.

Uh-oh.  Jackson was too tired for deep, existential conversations about life and death.  He turned to her warily, “What?”

She pursed her lips, “Uh……..is— “

“Yeah?”

“Well, I was wondering----”

“Yes?”

“Is---”

“For Chrissakes—SPIT IT OUT!”

“Alright!” she snapped, “I just wanted to know---is Jackson your First or LAST name?”

He stared at her, then gave a great, barking shout of laughter. 

“GUESS!”

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

By this time they were both laughing uncontrollably.

“STOP IT!…Last?---Is it LAST?-----HEY!—Stop Laughing RIGHT NOW!”

Then……

“Quit hogging the remote!”

Then……

“I’m NOT putting that in my mouth!”

And finally…….

“Wow, Chunky Monkey IS good mixed with Doritos and butterscotch

sauce!”

She laughed so hard she was crying. 

It was a good feeling.

Michael had cheated death many times, each incident reaffirming the sharp pang of disappointment at the pain of rebirth, re-integration into a life he had almost succeeded in ending, but never quite could. 

He had told her once, when she asked him why she shouldn’t pull the trigger, why she shouldn’t kill his body the way he had killed her soul, that he couldn’t think of a single reason for her to spare his life.

But somehow she had, somehow they had moved around each other like magnets attracting and repelling the same and different properties shifting about in each of them. 

And it was bearable for him.  The knowledge of her closeness, the hint of her feelings, nicely checked by the cold authority of Section; never allowed to burn too brightly, never allowed to disrupt his ordered existence.

And then, it changed.

Things were different.

Starting with that moment, when he saw her, soaring like a bird, hanging in the stillness above him, falling into his arms like a gift from heaven---

And he knew.

There was no longer a question-----

They would be together. 

If not in this short life, if not in Section One, then……Someday.

He would figure out how; he would figure out when.

He didn’t have to tell her. 

It was enough that he knew it inside himself.

He knew.

He knew…..

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