Michael sat in his darkened office staring at his computer screen. Green symbols reflected off his pale skin. Rows and rows of cryptic code danced before him, but all he saw was a shock of blonde hair and blazing blue eyes.

He took comfort that she had come out of her funk, but she was clearly furious with him. Nikita refused to speak with him unless it was absolutely necessary, and then only about mission details. She offered nothing, asked no questions. It was like talking to a wall.

She performed brilliantly on missions, executing her assignments to the letter. There had been times when innocent lives had been endangered, but somehow, she always managed to compensate for those innocents within her control. The results were impressive; she hadn't lost one in a month since she returned to her vibrant self.

Michael noticed that she had taken to spending extra hours in the comm center studying profiles relentlessly. He watched her from behind the partially closed blinds of his office. It was there that she made her adjustments . . . sometimes she would stay long hours into the night, reviewing, calculating, assessing the profile. She reminded him of himself . . . always planning for every contingency.

But he knew her motive . . . it wasn't to get the job done with 'whatever it took.' It was to make sure she could save as many lives as possible within her direct control. Saving the innocents that were caught in the crossfire had become her passion, her main focus. It occurred to him that this was how the Section should be run . . . but that philosophy had been abandoned long ago by the current regime, including himself.

She talked to everyone, smiled and laughed. He could feel her when she entered the Section, feel her essence. When he heard her husky laugh, it simultaneously warmed his heart and gripped it with pain -- he knew that laugh was not meant for him.

He watched her flirt and tease with Walter, cavort and play with Birkoff. She avoided him at every turn. She treated him as if he were non-existent. It was killing him slowly.

He missed her. He needed her smile, wanted to breathe in the fragrant scent of her perfume, feel her soft touch on his arm, bask in the warmth of her light.

He was lonely for her. And he didn't know why she had rejected him so completely.

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

Michael hesitated outside of Madeline's office resting his hand in mid-air just above the control panel. It was always troubling to engage in discussions with Madeline. So often, she took information and emotions then molded them to fit Section's needs with no regard to human feelings.

Michael had become accustomed to this; had lived with it for years. But he was at a loss with nowhere else to turn. Nikita refused to talk to him and he was unable to glean information from his other sources, namely Walter and Birkoff. She had effectively seized control of those sources -- they were securely in her corner. Neither would betray her confidence.

Michael had become increasingly alarmed at Nikita's behavior. He had never seen her like this before. Always before, he had been able to penetrate her anger, or was it that she thought it pointless to hold a grudge against him and eventually came around, finding himself, sometimes surprisingly, back in her good graces.

His worry for himself had kicked into overdrive. Had he lost her? And why? It was the desperately needed answers to these questions that caused him to be standing before Madeline's door, hoping she could shed some light on Nikita's anger toward him.

The door opened swiftly and Michael entered. He stood silently, hands clasped loosely in front of him as he patiently waited for Madeline to acknowledge him.

"Hello, Michael."

"Madeline."

The beautiful, serene woman looked at him carefully, trying to measure his demeanor. It, of course, was of no use. He was as blank as ever -- there was no hint of expression.

"What is it?"

Michael paused as he worked hard to hold his mask in place.

"Nikita seems . . . different. I wondered if you knew why." He was calm and collected, expertly concealing the jumble of nerves just below the surface.

Madeline purposely pressed for more of an explanation, "In what way?"

Michael took in a quick breath, blinked, and considered leaving, but held on. He had to know. He took two inaudible breaths before continuing. This was dangerous territory. They both knew it.

After a moment, he spoke softly . . . "She refuses to speak to me."

Madeline stared at him for a few moments, assessing him. She knew what it cost him to say those words and it revealed plenty about his current state of mind. She concluded that he had to be near panic to broach this subject with her.

"Yes, Michael. I know why."

Michael stood silently holding her intense stare. It took all his control to keep from reaching out, grabbing her by the shoulders and violently shaking the information from her.

"She knows about the marriage, Michael."

Fear crashed over him. His stomach sank to his feet. Out of sheer will, he locked his knees -- otherwise this was a blow that could have knocked him against the wall. He felt his body tremble and his mind spin. Emotions threatened to scream out. He grasped his hands tightly, desperate to get a grip on control.

"How?" he finally croaked out.

"She followed you several weeks ago."

"You spoke to her then?"

"Yes."

Michael stared at her, silently requesting that she provide more details.

"She was devastated Michael. She grieved for several weeks. But now, she has recovered nicely. She has decided to remove you from her life. The child was the final blow." Michael was at once stunned and nauseated by Madeline's matter-of-fact, cold and callous clinical explanation.

"It's better this way, Michael. You and Nikita were becoming each other's weakness. It cannot be tolerated in Section. You know this."

There was nothing more to say or hear. Michael nodded and softly whispered, "Thank you." He turned and walked away.

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

Slowly, Nikita got a grip over her emotions after that night when Madeline came to speak to her. Every day she felt stronger, better able to face the difficult and troubling life that was Section.

Still, she struggled every moment of every day knowing she would encounter Michael at Section. The pain of his betrayal had cut to the very core of her being. And yet, she could not completely hate him nor did she want to expend the energy it took to do so. Nikita decided that her life was too short to be angry over something she could not change. And she knew she could never change Michael or the way he worked.

'Life was too short.' That old cliché was the Section's silent motto. It was a miracle that she was still alive after four years. She knew why -- Michael. He had protected her and saved her from countless deaths. All the while, he had trained and taught her valuable skills that allowed her to stay alive. She was grateful for this, but on the other hand, she had learned that it may have been in his best interest to do so.

In the weeks following the discovery of Michael's marriage, Madeline told Nikita something she should have never known. In Madeline's feeble attempt to pull Nikita out of her depression with words that proved Michael's love for Nikita, Madeline made a strategic error. She told Nikita that Operations had ordered her cancellation more than once.

Before her two-year training period was up, Operations ordered her death. Michael argued that she would make a good operative. Operations had threatened him then, "She fails, you fail."

After all that had happened, she wondered, I fail, he fails. All the protection -- had it been to save himself? If he had not protected her, would it have meant his life too? Had he been keeping her alive to keep himself alive?

All of this raced around in her mind, causing turmoil and sadness of untold proportions. She had always hoped against hope that it was because he cared for her that he protected her. It was very confusing and complicated. Did he care? Was it only self-serving? Maybe some of both?

Finally, Nikita decided that it was best left alone and to not rehash those ugly thoughts over and over. In the final analysis, she realized that she loved Michael, even now, but she could never trust him again. And so, it was best to stay away from him and let him go she decided.

Nikita sat at the briefing table looking luminous in a simple taupe silk dress that flowed gently about her knees. Her hair fell loosely around her beautiful, serene face. From the corner of her eye, she could see him staring at her, as he always did.

Briefly, she glanced his way and when he caught her eye, she saw what seemed like a question, maybe a request. Often, they had been able to communicate on a mental level, but it had been some time since she was tuned into him. Still, it was there, as if he was pleading for a few minutes alone with her.

Her mind began to wander as Operations' voice disappeared into the background. She thought about how she felt about this plea for conversation. Although her anger at him had dissipated some, she was not prepared to discuss the hurt and torment he had caused her. She was learning to cope with the pain, turning her disappointment and suffering into something positive that she could control.

Being near him, seeing him, or talking to him was out of the question, she knew. She did not have the strength to face him yet, to express herself and stand by her decision to withdraw from him. His pull was still too strong, and she knew it would take every ounce of control for her to stay away from him.

But she had to stay away. For herself, and for him. Nikita finally realized that she could no longer go on wondering where Michael stood. Did he love her? Everyone seemed to think so, but she needed more confirmation. She needed to hear the words, needed to feel some affection. Nor was it fair to insist that he demonstrate feelings he simply could not, or would not, express.

After Nikita saw him with his wife, she knew she could not stand being the other woman, being thrown a few crumbs now and then, hoping that he would show affection toward her or say something that might stir up hope that they had a future together.

Even knowing the wife was just a job wasn't a comfort -- that woman had some years of thinking Michael loved her, feeling him sleep next to her, being comforted by his embrace, tasting his kisses on her lips, carrying, then giving birth to his child. No matter how it ended for that woman, she'd have more time in Michael's arms and more memories than Nikita would ever have with him. It was an undeniable fact.

And what about Michael? Was she fair to him? she wondered. She was a flat-out distraction to him. A constant problem. Always, she presented obstacles in his tacticals, in his strategic planning, and mostly, in his life. It had become too burdensome for her to think she was completely railroading his way of thinking.

It was time for a permanent separation. They had to break apart, she knew. As much as she wanted him, she could no longer bear the burden of his need for her. It hurt too much. It was better to let it go and move on. It was better this way -- for both of them.

Nikita pulled out of her reverie as Operations clicked off the hologram and dismissed the attendants. Without glancing his way, Nikita rose from her chair and swiftly left the briefing area for her quarters. She did not plan to leave there until called to depart for the mission.

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

The mission was a complete success and had been wrapped up in less time than originally planned. The team disembarked from the van and quietly dispersed to debrief. Michael waited until Nikita finally emerged from the tunnel and walked with her down the corridor.

"Good work today," he said softly.

"Thanks." Nikita steeled herself against the warmth of his body and the electricity she felt whenever he was within ten feet of her.

They walked a few more steps in silence until he stopped and tugged on her arm, stopping her, and gently pulling her around to face him. "What are you going to do now?"

"Debrief and go home," she replied without elaboration, trying desperately to hold onto her strength and resolve.

"Would you like to get something to eat later?" His heart stopped and he held his breath bracing himself for her anticipated rejection.

Nikita looked into the depths of his green eyes and saw loneliness and desperation there. Her heart broke. She wanted to leap into his arms, hold him, and kiss him. She wanted to forget what had happened, to pretend things were different, or at the very least, that they were the same as before. She summoned every ounce of control she had to fight his magnetic pull and braced for the deep ache she knew was to come.

"No . . . no thank you." She dared not speak his name for fear that the simple, sacred sound of his name would be her undoing. But, Nikita took a moment to silently convey to him her deep hurt, pain and confusion as she held his sad eyes. Then she turned and walked away, leaving him standing in the hall. She could feel his eyes burning on her back, and picked up her cadence. She had to get away.

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

The next day, Nikita stood quietly for several minutes before Madeline's door. She had requested a special meeting with the older woman.

Nikita had spent the night going over it again and again. She was unable to shake the vision from her mind. There he was, holding his son, swinging him in the air, walking to his house, kissing his wife hello.

As much as she tried to suppress these visions, they would not leave her. Nor could Nikita shake the memories of other times she'd spent with Michael. She could not forget their first 'date.' His first betrayal; giving her a gift -- a gun, then orders to do a job. She couldn't forget the cages during the war, hearing his loving words, then learning he had set her up. She remembered their erotic dance in her apartment, only to find that he had manipulated her, knowing all along about Eric and her plans to escape. She remembered making love to him on the boat, then when he brought her back, only to push her away. She recalled Jurgen, and that entire fiasco, which drove a permanent wedge between them.

One by one, she reviewed them all . . . betrayal after betrayal. Hurt and rejection.

Yet she couldn't find it in her heart to despise him. He had made his own choices and he had done many of these things as his way of protecting her within the confines of Section's watchful eyes. But, his way of caring was so twisted . . . such a foreign way of showing love . . . too foreign for her. It was too barren, too isolated. She needed touch -- human touch . . . his touch. She knew he would never be able to express himself to her this way. Why did she keep on insisting that he be someone he was not?

He was Section. Completely immersed. She recognized this. And, it wasn't that she didn't see his point of view. He believed in what Section was doing. Actually, she did too, in theory.

It was the method and approach she vehemently opposed. She supposed that there was a need for a covert agency that made its own rules, because the world was full of terrorists that made up rules of their own. Michael was a man that could survive making up his own rules, without concern for every innocent person he encountered -- he could cope with those conditions. She could not. It was that simple.

Nikita had to believe that somewhere on the planet, there existed a Section that was more closely matched to her approach to saving the world.

Although she knew she could never escape Section One, she wanted away from it . . . time to think, and mostly, time to get over him. She knew there could never be anything between them now. She couldn't banish the knowledge that he had married and had a child with a woman he did not love to do Section's bidding. And that was the monumental obstacle for her: She could not shake the sight of that little boy . . . soon to be abandoned, or killed, or constantly in danger his whole life because of who his father was.

And so she was requesting a favor -- she wanted a transfer to another Section.

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

The door swished open and Nikita hesitated for a moment before plunging into a place from which there would be no return.

"Hello, Nikita, please sit down."

"Hello, Madeline. Thank you for seeing me."

"What can I do for you?"

Nikita hesitated and held the older woman's gaze for several moments before continuing. "I would like a transfer to another Section."

Madeline sat quietly, her hands neatly folded on her lap, pondering the young operative's request as she studied her face.

"Why?"

"Madeline . . ." she began, shaking her head, looking down at her lap. "I've heard that Section Four in Northern Europe needs cold ops. I . . . I just think . . . I think a change of location might do everyone some good," she finished weakly.

"You mean, it would do you and Michael good to be separated?"

Nikita sighed. She didn't want to answer directly but knew she was trapped. "Yes."

"You can't run away, Nikita," Madeline replied sincerely, raising one eyebrow.

"It's not running. It's . . . needing space. I need to regroup. Get over it. Focus on the job. Try to survive." Nikita could hardly believe she was giving this much away, but she felt she had to make a case or the transfer would not be granted.

"How long do you need to . . . regroup?"

"Six months . . . a year . . . maybe you'll find that my services are best suited there indefinitely." Nikita reeled at the thought of the words spilling from her mouth. Indefinitely. Away from Michael indefinitely. Was this really what she wanted? she wondered.

"Very well. We'll try it for six months. After that, we shall review your file and make a decision as to your placement. You can leave immediately. I'll make the necessary arrangements."

Nikita sighed and let out a small smile. "Thank you, Madeline."

Too easy, Nikita thought. Apparently Madeline thought a separation was a good idea too, Nikita thought. She certainly didn't hesitate. No doubt Operations would be giddy at the thought of getting rid of her. Perhaps Madeline had tired of running interference as well.

"That will be all."

Nikita rose and headed for the door then stopped as Madeline called to her. "Nikita?"

The blonde turned slowly, "Yes?"

"I'll tell Michael."

Nikita nodded, turned, and quickly left the sterile office. She let out a deep breath as she walked briskly down the gray corridor toward Section's exit. It was the last time she would have to engage in the dangerous mind-games that Madeline held so dear for a long time to come. What a relief, Nikita thought, that she would not have to wonder what each word of each cryptic sentence meant. Or, how it would affect her. She had tired of it -- all of it.

Yes, things were definitely looking up.

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

A day later, Nikita was packing up all her belongings and marking them for storage. Walter had agreed to take care of the storage details and would be by to take her to the airport.

The substation Section Four, Northern Europe, was located in Stockholm, Sweden. Madeline had arranged for a commercial flight for Nikita. In less than 12 hours, she would be winging her way to a new home. A new life.

As she finished packing up her bedroom, she looked around and her eyes stopped at her bed. Hands on her hips, she moved slowly over to it and sat down on the edge. Smoothing a hand gently across the cool sheets, she remembered when he laid there, like an angel, serene and beautiful, young and innocent.

He had not remembered who he was then . . . but his true essence had been clearly revealed to her in those three days. He was loving, tender, vulnerable. She fell in love with him over and over again then. It was the Michael she longed for, the man she knew lived deep inside the cold, distant Michael.

She shook her head and a lone tear slipped from beneath her closed eyes. She had protected him then, just as he had her so many times . . . protected him from Operations and Madeline . . . protected him from death.

How crazy all that had been . . . why couldn't the truth be told? she wondered. Wouldn't they have tried to find a solution to his memory loss? Why was it that she and Walter had to secretly conspire to find an antidote? Why did they not want to help the people who put their lives on the line every day, particularly when injuries were a result of their service?

She sighed. This was just what she hoped she could get away from. All the lies and betrayals. And although she was not foolish enough to think that there was a Section that did not trade in lies and betrayals, there had to be one that didn't blatantly promote this attitude. Wasn't there a place that just wanted to fight terrorism, the old fashioned way?

Before she met with Madeline, she confided in Walter that she needed a change. It was he that suggested Section Four.

He knew that the agency in Northern Europe was under the direction of a woman that was much like Nikita.

Celia Rolfe was a beautiful blonde woman who had served Section for fifteen years. She had been trained by Jurgen and had been transferred within four years to the Stockholm station out of desperate need for competent cold ops.

She rose quickly through the ranks in that small sub-station and within ten years after recruitment was one of few Level Five operatives world-wide. Two years ago, the head of Section Four died suddenly and the Agency promoted Celia into the position of running the small station.

She had done well, although she often rankled Operations with her unorthodox methods. But since her station was looked upon as a back-up, auxiliary post, the Agency chose to ignore her, which irked Operations all the more. However, she was the least of his problems and the fewer encounters with her, the better -- for them both.

Celia always got the job done. She was a fierce strategist, and brilliant tactician, and could give Michael a run for his money. They got along well enough in the early years, but Michael found her too irritating and unrealistic in her humanitarian approach when it came to profiling missions.

As the years progressed and Celia moved to Northern Europe, she and Michael rarely encountered one another. Walter thought this probably suited both Michael and Celia just fine, although they had always regarded one another with mutual respect.

Nikita fondly remembered Walter telling her of this woman and thought that perhaps, under Celia’s management, she might serve the world in the way she was destined -- helping protect innocent lives.

A soft knock at her door pulled her from her reverie.

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

Nikita opened the door slowly and with great trepidation. She did not need this now. His influence and powers of persuasion were intimidating. It took all the control she had to face him.

Softly, in a broken whisper he asked, "Can I come in?"

She stood looking at him for a moment, a war raging in her mind. She could see that he watched a myriad of emotions race across her face.

"I'm . . ." she looked down at her shoes and then back to his eyes . . . "I guess so . . . for just a minute . . . I'm kind of busy."

Silently, he entered the apartment and stepped in amongst the packed boxes. She could hear him let out a tired sigh. She watched as he looked at all the cartons while he slowly removed his leather gloves.

"So . . . you're going to Section Four."

"Yes."

He turned and looked at her, his eyes clearly displaying his hurt and sadness. "Why?"

"Why what, Michael?" she stated softly, stalling.

"Why do you want to leave?"

Nikita looked away and shook her head, walking behind the counter, purposely placing a barricade between them. "It's better if I go."

"For who?"

Nikita looked at him quizzically and tilted her head. For who? What was the matter with him? For who? For me, she thought.

"Michael, you . . . are . . . married. M-a-r-r-i-e-d. It might not mean anything to you, but it means a lot to me."

"It's a mission, Nikita, one that will be over soon."

"Yeah . . . I know Michael. A mission. One that includes an innocent woman and a very small innocent child . . . your child." Nikita could not hide the sarcasm at the sheer arrogance of his words -- as if it being a job was any more comforting to her and made it less real.

"Nikita, we have no choice. I do what I have to do."

Her anger flared, "STOP . . . STOP . . . do not give me that 'I do what I have to do' crap. DO NOT DO IT! We can make choices, Michael. I've seen you do it dozens of times with me. You did not have to protect me over and over, but you did. I did not have to protect you when you encountered Rene Dian, when you had amnesia, or during the Adrian mess, but I did. I know what it is to live in Section, and I do not believe that you had to do this. You are too brilliant of a strategist. You could have come up with a better plan. A child Michael . . . he's just a child."

"Nikita . . . at the time I was assigned the mission, I did not know you. Things have changed -- I have changed. I would have done it differently."

"Changed? Done it differently? How Michael? You mean you wouldn't have lied to me, or you wouldn't have married her? You wouldn't have had a child with her? What would you have done differently, Michael?"

Nikita walked to the middle of the room, pacing as the emotions spilled out unabated. "What is that woman going to do Michael, once the mission is over? What about your son? Are you going to abandon them, leave them to fend for themselves? Or, are they 'acceptable collateral'? Are they expendable, hmmm?"

Nikita was on fire with rage at the sheer arrogance of his lame explanation. She was certain that given the assignment again, he would have done Section's bidding -- to the letter. Especially since he still thought of it as a 'mission.' It -- that small child, an innocent woman, they were relegated to an 'it.'

"At the very least Michael, you should have told me. You should have never met me on the boat in Lyons, and never brought me back here. How could you string me along like we had some kind of future together? Then once I was back, you pulled away time and time again. Now I know why. If you cared for me, you should have, at least, done this part differently."

He looked at her blazing eyes and realized it was useless. She had decided. It was over between them. No amount of explanation would satisfy her. He had lost her. It was pointless to argue.

Michael dropped his head feeling the full weight of his despair. They had betrayed one another too many times, he more than her, but still they were equal in the pain of it all. What life was possible for them? He shook his head, lifted it and walked slowly toward her.

"Nikita . . . I'm sorry."

"Michael, you're always sorry," she said shaking her head, tears beginning to well in her eyes.

"Yes . . . I am always sorry, more than you can possibly imagine. I hope you will believe that someday."

He came toward her and stopped inches from her. Reaching for her hand, he stroked it lightly, gazing into her blue, tearing eyes. Slowly, he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss on her fingers. Closing his eyes, he turned her palm to his lips and kissed her there, then placed it open to his cheek, rubbing against her velvet skin a few moments.

Tenderly, he replaced her hand to her side and looked at her for the last time. The pain was screaming from his tear-laden emerald eyes. "Goodbye, Nikita." Swiftly, he turned and closed the door behind him.

Nikita collapsed to the floor, the pain crashing over her in waves. Again, in the course of two months, she felt overwhelming desperation and sadness. It was as if she were wilting, dying, crushed by the anguish and grief that permeated every cell in her body. She had lost the only love she had ever known. She could not imagine that she would ever love again. The pain was too great.

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

Settling back in her first class seat, she finally began to relax. The past twelve hours had been intensely difficult, first with the horrific encounter with Michael, then saying goodbye to Walter and Birkoff.

Birkoff did not accompany them to the airport, but instead talked to her over her cell phone. He had been so sweet and loving, offering to help her anyway he could, and pleading with her not to lose touch with him.

He had told her that she would hear from him often, that Operations frequently used him to relay tacticals and other intel to Celia. Birkoff mentioned that he liked Celia and thought that she and Celia would get along well.

At the end of the conversation, he had simply wished her well and hoped that she'd come back to them someday. It was enough to bring tears to Nikita's eyes as the full force of her decision was now being felt, leaving the ones she loved behind.

As she continued to bear the burden of her departure, she couldn't help but wonder if she were guilty of abandonment too. She had brutally accused Michael of his intent to abandon his wife and child after the mission was completed, but she had to wonder if, in her way, she had abandoned him, too.

Walter had alluded to this on the way to the airport. In his own unique, sagacious way, he had told her to think carefully while she was away -- to consider all angles. Nikita knew that Walter was fond of Michael and often saw more deeply into that young man than most anyone in Section. He knew that Michael was a man of great honor and heart. And although Michael worked hard at concealing these traits to most, Walter knew they were there.

Walter shared with Nikita that he knew beneath Michael's tough guy exterior, there was a man of emotion, one that felt deeply about those he cared about, and a man that bore painful scars of atrocities that had been personally inflicted upon him. Walter believed that Michael was doing the best he could for Nikita, that he loved her in the only way he knew how.

Walter had long feared that Nikita was too young, too sheltered, and too ideological to understand Michael and how he had learned to survive in Section. And now, it had all come around -- Nikita could not bear the pain of Section's reality and Michael's sacrifices for the Section.

Still, Walter had often given Nikita advice that helped her see more than her own side of the story, and now she was beginning to wonder if Madeline had been accurate when she called Nikita's request for a transfer for what it was -- running away from the challenge that was Michael.

As the jet roared off into the black night sky, the one image that continued to haunt her over and over again slammed back before her mind's eye -- a small boy being swung in the arms of his father. The father kissing and holding the boy's mother. It was an image so raw and so painful that it submerged Nikita into icy, dark depression. All she could see was a man that would soon callously plunge those two trusting, unsuspecting, innocent people in a life of permanent hell.

Nikita knew one thing for certain: She would miss Walter. He had been the only true friend she had ever had. The only one she could talk to and confide in. Now, she was giving him up too.

As he hugged her and kissed her before she boarded the plane, she remembered his final words to her. He handed her a comlink together with a small black object that had a silver button on it. The entire gadget fit in the palm of her hand.

"If you need anything or just want to talk to me, contact me through this private link. Press the button once. I can track you anywhere in the world and can link with you immediately, undetected. Understand?"

"Yes, Walter . . . thank you," as she gave him one of her most beautiful smiles.

"Take care of yourself, Sugar. I hope you find what you're looking for."

What am I looking for? Good question, she thought as she closed her eyes to find some much needed slumber, and prayed that one day she would be able to go to sleep without thinking of him, then wake without thinking of him, and not spend every conscious moment thinking of him. She desperately wanted him out of her mind.

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

It was early afternoon when she arrived at the airport in Arlanda about 25 miles north of Stockholm. There was a chill in the air, but it felt fresh, clear, clean. The cold air was invigorating, and though she lived in cold weather back home, somehow it felt different. Or maybe, she felt different . . . she felt eager and hopeful that she was stepping into a better life and leaving the one that had violently raped the enthusiasm from her.

Upon retrieving her bags and emerging from the airport terminal, Nikita immediately recognized the black sedan conspicuously parked at the curb. Instinctively, she knew it was Section and wasted no time in approaching, then entering through the back door of the car. The driver nodded and smoothly pulled away from the curb.

Thirty minutes later, they were in an elevator, sinking downward, approaching their destination. As the elevator door opened, a tall, handsome blonde man waited, legs slightly spread in a commanding stance, hands loosely clasped behind his back.

"Nikita?" he asked softly.

"Yes."

"My name is Olin. Please follow me."

Olin turned on his heels and made his way down the corridor with Nikita following quietly behind giving her the opportunity to study him a little more carefully. She had been immediately taken with his handsome, good looks: fair skin but tanned as though he was an athlete, his skin kissed by the sun while skiing perhaps, blue-gray eyes that flared with intensity, short close-cropped, sandy blonde hair, and a strong, square jaw.

He was probably 6'2" or so, she thought. Exceedingly fit with broad shoulders. He walked with grace and confidence, quietly and swiftly with an economy of movement. He reminded her of Michael.

The interior of Section Four looked remarkably like Section One. Located hundreds of feet underground, it was a mini replica -- gray walls, catwalks, cold, steel walls. It was such a complete match, that even the main command center reminded her of her former prison.

Noticing the aerie overlooking the center brought a shiver to her spine as she was reminded of Operations overlooking his domain, scheming, conniving, watching every move his operatives made. What had she expected? she wondered. How foolish she had been in thinking that she would ever escape the severe, cold oppression that was Section.

Suddenly the hope she had felt as she arrived at the airport quickly disappeared. It was replaced with a sickening ache in the pit of her stomach. Disappointment washed over her. It looked the same and it felt the same. She worried that she had traded one miserable life for another.

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

Celia Rolfe, head of Section Four, sat at the desk in her office which was located beyond the windowed aerie. Nikita was startled as Olin escorted her into the large, comfortable, private space -- it was entirely different than the corridors she had just left.

Celia was amused while watching Nikita turn in a small circle while she carefully absorbed her surroundings. The walls were painted soft, pale gray . . . reminding Nikita of clouds. The carpet was a short pile in dark gray, but it was the furnishings that took Nikita by surprise.

Celia's office was adorned with white-washed oak furniture, a large desk and credenza, bookshelves lining one wall. A large, seven-foot live palm tree stood proudly in one corner, softening the room all the more and bringing it to life. Artifacts and pottery were displayed on the shelves of the bookcase, and numerous ivy plants lined the top shelves spilling tendrils of green lacy leaves down here and there. Soft music came from a stereo located on one shelf.

The room was alive with plants and other signs of life. On the corner of Celia's desk was a fish bowl. The bottom was decorated with dark green and blue marbles. A white and orange goldfish, with long delicate fins, swam happily around green seaweed.

There was an overstuffed white sofa in the room decorated with rich tapestry throw pillows. It was nestled behind a coffee table that was filled with an assortment of pale-colored thick candles. Two easy chairs flanked the table to create an inviting sitting area. It looked like a living room rather than an office and it was very appealing.

"You must be Nikita," smiled Celia as she stood and offered her hand to Nikita.

"Yes," Nikita replied with a genuine smile. She instantly felt better. The woman before her was clearly different than the usual Section-issued operative.

"I've heard a lot about you. You come highly recommended."

"Really?" Nikita replied slightly sarcastically. She could just imagine the intel Madeline had provided about her. She sincerely doubted how 'highly' Madeline had recommended her.

"Yes . . . Madeline doesn't usually have very good things to say about transfers. Most of the time, she and Operations are trying to get rid of someone. Is that what happened to you, Nikita?"

"Maybe . . . I asked for the transfer."

"I see." Celia continued to look at a file in front of her, which Nikita presumed to be her profile. "Might I assume the transfer has something to do with Michael?"

"Michael? What do you mean?" Nikita asked innocently, trying to disguise her surprise at the accuracy of the assumption.

"Nikita, please, there is no need to be so guarded here. I know all about you and Michael. Your file is clear that you and he have a very strong connection. Michael is legendary among the Sections. In my estimation, he is probably the best op alive, for that matter, the best that has ever been created by the Section. His methods are well known among the Section heads and my guess is that he hurt you one too many times, resulting in your wish to escape, shall we say, his considerable charms."

Nikita smiled and tilted her head, raising an eyebrow, "Legendary? Well, why am I not surprised?"

"Madeline tells me that his attraction to you has been equally as strong. Interesting. When I knew Michael, he was rarely attracted to anyone, unless, of course it served a purpose. According to Madeline, you are his only weakness. Is that true?"

"Not anymore," Nikita replied curtly, signaling a desire to end this line of interrogation.

Celia had carefully reviewed Nikita's profile before this meeting and knew a great deal about her new operative. Celia knew that Nikita was a maverick, had a problem with authority, and didn't follow profiles as designed, especially when innocent lives would be needlessly lost.

Celia studied the beautiful young operative for several minutes before continuing. She saw pain and sadness in those lovely blue eyes that seemed to cry out for mercy. Celia could see that the years at Section One had taken an enormous toll on this young woman. And Michael had, no doubt, played a very large role in the pain and suffering inflicted upon her.

Celia momentarily thought back on her time at Section One. Michael had been a fierce competitor then, on the rise, brilliant in every area. She and Michael bumped heads a few times, but they respected one another, although there had never been a physical attraction between the two, which was unusual. Almost every woman Michael encountered was hopelessly attracted to him. How interesting that he had become fiercely attracted to and protective of this Nikita, she thought.

Madeline had told Celia that he was in love with Nikita. Celia could see why. Nikita was incredibly beautiful, but she also had a special light about her that even her current state of depression could not extinguish.

Unbeknownst to Nikita, Madeline had shared the reason for Nikita's request for transfer. Madeline had reminded Celia that Michael always calculated the end-game results. Even though Michael was quite the lady's man, able to charm and seduce a woman by a single look, he had always been detached from his feelings versus what it took to get the job done.

How typical of Michael to miss the obvious with the woman he loved and who loved him. Typical that he would not have thought that when Nikita learned that he had married for the sake of mission, it would destroy her and her faith in him. What a shame, Celia thought. They were a powerful team when paired together. It must have been a big loss for him, she thought, professionally and personally.

"Well, Nikita, we are happy to have you here at Section Four. I'm sure you must be exhausted from your trip. You will stay in Section tonight, but we have prepared a loft downtown as your home. Olin will take you there tomorrow. Do you have any questions?" Celia asked with a smile.

"No."

"All right then, you may go. Olin will show you to your quarters. I hope you will like it here."

Nikita nodded then stood to leave. Feeling relieved that the interview was over, she simultaneously felt a shred of hope light up her overwhelming sense of fear. Nikita liked Celia and resolved to make the best of the situation.

"Thank you, Celia." Nikita turned swiftly and left the office.

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

Olin waited at the bottom of the stairs for Nikita. He watched as this lovely blonde beauty descended gracefully down toward him. Her hair was brilliant and it lit up the darkened staircase all on its own. She had a special way about her, he thought, and although she seemed . . . sad, she exuded something else. He didn't know what exactly, but warm rays of sunshine came to mind as he thought more on it.

Nikita stopped directly in front of Olin and gave him a tentative smile. He locked onto her aquamarine eyes and was momentarily at a loss for words. Olin took in a deep breath, released it and stated quietly, "I'll show you to your quarters. This way, please."

Turning simultaneously, Nikita walked in sync with Olin. As they made their way through the command center, Olin pointed out various staff members, their jobs, and tenure. He was thorough in his tour, showed her the gym, firing range, café, Systems, and other important areas that she would immediately need to know.

Before long, they stopped in front of a familiar door, with a familiar key pad. Olin tapped in the code and the door to Nikita's new Section quarters swished open.

Deja vu. It was all the same. Standard issue white. A bunk. A desk. A computer. A bathroom. And somehow, it seemed . . . comforting.

This startling acknowledgment was not lost on Nikita. It was disturbing to think that she got comfort from reminders of hell. She hated her quarters at Section One. And now, as she entered into a room that was exactly like the one she left, she felt . . . safe.

Troubling. What did it mean? That she found Section to be her home? Nikita let out a sigh, and turned to Olin. "Thank you for the tour. If you don't mind, I'd like to rest, then freshen up. Celia tells me that you will be taking me to my new apartment tomorrow?"

"Yes, Nikita. If you will be ready by 8:00 AM, I shall take you there. Celia thought you'd need a day to get settled in before starting work. Will that be sufficient?"

A genuine smile crossed Nikita's face. She could hardly believe her ears. Celia's apparent second in command was asking her if she approved of their plans for her. Nodding her agreement, she drawled, "Yeah . . . that works for me Olin, thank you."

"The café has good food. Shall I ask them to prepare you something to eat?" Olin's gray-blue eyes shone as he spoke to the beauty that stood before him.

"Thank you . . . I'd like that. Anything will be fine."

"Very well, I'll see to it. Good night, Nikita." Olin smiled slightly, paused as if not wanting to take his eyes off her, then turned and glided from the room, quick and quiet, without effort -- the movement was very familiar.

Showered, fed and refreshed, Nikita felt jet lag overtake her. Laying down on the soft bunk, she stared up at the dark ceiling. What was Michael doing now? Was he at his home? Was he playing with his son? Was he talking to his wife? Sleeping with her? Nikita sighed deeply as familiar sadness and pain washed over her. Tears slipped down her face as she wondered, for the thousandth time, if she would ever go to sleep without thinking about him.

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

At 7:55 AM the next morning Nikita left her quarters after having a small breakfast in her room. She walked toward the command center. Slowly, she made her way through a maze of bodies, all of whom were intense and focused. Clearly, a mission was on the pad.

Olin watched from the glass perch as Nikita made her way through the computer banks. He was impressed that she would venture out and make herself known without formal introductions. Already she was smiling and talking with Christina, head of the comm center. Celia walked up to the glass and joined him.

"She's very different, hmmm . . . Olin? I don't know how she managed to stay alive at Section One for nearly five years."

"I do . . . Michael."

"So you've read her file?"

"Yes. Apparently, he has been behaving out of character for some time because of her."

"And . . ."

"I think she did herself a favor coming here."

"What do you mean, Olin?"

"Look at her. She's already made friends with everyone on the floor. She is naturally friendly. If it hadn't been for Michael running interference, Operations would have canceled her before her two years were up. He can't deal with emotions, unless, of course, it's his own. The stories of his feelings toward Madeline are well known."

Celia had to laugh. "Well, how do you think Nikita'll do here?"

"Fine . . . she fits in with our way of doing things."

"And, do you think she'll get over Michael?" Celia wondered.

"Eventually," Olin replied softly.

"Agreed. Take her to her apartment, show her the city, and I'll profile the mission. We have at least 24 hours before we must leave."

"And Nikita? Will she be involved in this mission?

"Might as well get her started, Olin. Thank you."

Nikita stepped up to the communication console and looked around at the overhead monitors. She was startled when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Swinging around, guarded, she looked directly into the brown , legs planted slightly apart in his usual confident stance. He gave each a forceful stare, silently commanding them to return to work.

"Nikita, will you join me please?" Olin stated quietly, his intense stare locked on to her. It was clear he was in command. No one questioned this guy. His quiet, but forceful demeanor demanded respect and compliance from those around him. He reminded her of Michael.

Nikita watched him carefully as she strode over to stand before him. He never took his eyes from her. He was incredibly handsome. Dressed in a black suit, he wore a cobalt t-shirt underneath that turned his usually gray eyes to deep blue. Nikita's lips formed an appreciative smile. "Good morning, Olin."

"Good morning. We've much to do today." He paused, scanning her face from her eyes to her lips, then back to her eyes.

"Then shall we get started?" Nikita asked in a husky voice.

"Yes. This way, please."

Calling back to Christina, he spoke in a concise and clear manner, "Tactical on my desk by 3 PM, please."

***********

It was a crisp day in late winter. The sun shone brightly against the melting snow. Nikita and Olin drove to their first destination: Nikita's new apartment.

"Olin, what is the chain of command in Section Four? I know that Celia is in charge, but it seems obvious that you have a lot of control over the operations. It might be helpful if I knew who I am reporting to."

Olin glanced over at Nikita, then back to the road. "Celia is commander. I am in charge of profiles and operatives. I oversee all team activity. Section Four runs about 8 teams at any given time; very different from Section One where Michael runs about half the teams out of the 20 or 30 or so missions that are on the pad at all times. The workload there is far greater than here and our way of doing things is different also, much to Operations' irritation."

He continued, "Celia is more team-oriented. She does not resort to lies and deceit in order to get her operation to run smoothly. She demands respect and insists on single-line authority, but is willing to listen to other points of view, and respects those that work for her. They, in turn, are willing to comply to the demands of the job. She enjoys great loyalty from her staff."

"Sounds too good to be true," remarked Nikita wistfully.

"It's a different management style. It works for Section Four," replied Olin.

"And my duties?" inquired Nikita.

"For now, you will work with me in mission profiling, designing tacticals, and getting to know our regional problems. Your field experience is impressive and having been trained by Michael, I'm sure you will be leading a team very soon. We'll give it a couple of weeks to see how you fit in with the others and determine who you are most comfortable working with."

"Gotta tell you, I'm not used to being in the loop this much. Feels . . . odd," Nikita remarked smiling slightly.

"Being in the loop saves lives -- ours and innocents. That's what we're here to do. Communication with each other is the key, although there are times we work on a 'need-to-know' basis when it cannot be avoided. Generally, however, we try to let everyone know what is planned and expected."

"Do you have an abeyance pool?" Nikita inquired.

"Yes. There are some recruits that are unable to conform to the requirements of Section Four, just like the other Sections. Don't get me wrong Nikita, Section Four is not a walk in the park, so to speak. It is a military operation and we run it accordingly. The Agency would not tolerate it any other way. There is only one person in charge. Insubordination is not permitted under any circumstances. We run Section Four with a firm hand -- just not an iron grip like you're used to."

"I can live with that."

"Good." Olin slowed the car, "We're here."

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

The apartment was located in the posh City Centre of downtown Stockholm. In the past three decades, Stockholm had undergone sweeping architectural changes in the local cityscape. Much of the downtown had been completely bulldozed and transformed under the guise of modernization, which eventually came under severe public outcry once several of the historical homes and trees were destroyed.

After two decades of demolishing of the city's heritage, the population exploded in an emotional public demonstration, effectively changing the direction of the city plans, forcing city officials to refurbish the old historical landmarks, rather than replace them with modern buildings. The result was that the inner city of Stockholm became one of the most completely refurbished and reconstructed cities in the world.

Once things settled down politically, the old, historical buildings were restored and parks were brought back to their original condition. It was here that Nikita's loft was located --nestled across the street from Karl XII's Square, a magnificent park dotted with hundred-year-old elm trees.

The apartment building was a converted postal warehouse and was made of beautiful red sandstone. The facade was splendid, with ornate carvings of regional coats of arms, and leafy garlands, doves, and medallions. The grand portal invited guests in with warmth and light.

They rode the small elevator to the fourth floor, the top floor. They walked through a wide hallway, the floor covered with lush ornamental carpet. Nikita noticed the lovely grasscloth paper that adorned the walls, where oil paintings were strategically placed for maximum enjoyment.

Throughout the hall, a few small side tables hugged the walls, and upon them sat fresh floral arrangements of tulips, cornflowers and curly willow. It was a wonderful, comforting sight and Nikita instantly knew she would like her new surroundings.

Olin opened the door to the apartment and waited while Nikita entered. It was magnificent and it took her breath away. The converted loft was completely decorated in neutral colors of tan and white, and there were wonderful accessories in a sun, moon and star theme.

"Olin, it is beautiful," breathed Nikita, completely taken aback by such lovely surroundings.

The loft was open to the park, as huge picture windows graced the entire side of the building. Looking out, Nikita saw gigantic elm trees and could spy the fountain in the middle of the square. It was serene, yet breathtaking.

The loft sported a large, white overstuffed couch adorned with huge throw pillows that were decorated with fringe. It had clean, modern lines, but was nevertheless inviting. As a complement to the large pillows, small dark blue throw pillows embellished with gold moons and stars nestled in the corners of the couch. One large easy chair with a matching ottoman completed the living room furniture.

The window treatments reminded her of her old apartment -- gauzy fabric that flowed from the top of the casing and pooled on the light oak wood floor. Bronze tiebacks in a sun shape held the fabric away to maximize the breathtaking view.

The kitchen was small and compact -- perfect for Nikita as she was never one to spend much time there. To the left was a glass dining room table surrounded by tall, off-white and tan striped upholstered chairs. A huge arrangement of fresh wildflowers spilling over a crystal vase adorned the top of the table and the fragrant scent wafted throughout the loft.

Beyond the living room space was the master bedroom -- a very large area with a high four-poster bed, with a metal frame above it from which romantic gossamer fabric flowed, encasing the bed in a private space. Candles and decorative metal objects in moon and star shapes brightened the space, giving it a total and complete look of a dreamy wonderland.

"It is perfect, Olin. So beautiful, thank you."

"Celia decorated it herself. It is a lot like her home," Olin replied wistfully.

Nikita's head snapped toward him. For a quick moment, she could see the sentimental look in his eyes and knew immediately there was more to the relationship between Celia and Olin. They were in love, or at the very least, together -- she sensed it, could hear it in the way Olin spoke Celia's name.

Interesting intel, Nikita thought. She realized then that there would be no flirting with this beautiful man, although the thought had crossed her mind when she first met him. He was taken -- completely -- and this was almost a relief to Nikita. She needed to mend her own broken heart, and did not need complications -- like another man.

"You and Celia are a lot alike, Nikita," Olin commented.

"How do you know?" she responded with curiosity.

"You both have an inner beauty -- kindness. Hard to find in the Sections."

"Yeah . . . that's for sure."

Olin watched Nikita for a moment then asked, "Would you like to see the city?"

"If you don't mind, Olin, I think I would prefer to stay here and get settled."

"Very well." He placed the small satchel on the kitchen counter. "The usual . . . passport, driver's license, credit cards . . . you know the drill. Here is your cell phone . . . your code name remains the same. A mission is being profiled, you should hear from me in several hours. We'll take the city tour another time."

"Thank you, Olin, for everything. Please tell Celia that I love my new apartment," Nikita flashed a huge smile that seemed to light up the entire room.

"Until later then." He left quickly and quietly. The door shut softly. She had seen Michael do the very same thing countless times.

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

Nikita was pleased to see that Walter had efficiently seen to it that her personal things had been delivered. Three large storage boxes had been placed out of the way in a corner of her new bedroom.

Nikita took her time unpacking her favorite things: fragrant bath soaps and oils, candles of every shape and scent, sunglasses and books, all her CDs and favorite teas.

As she opened up the last box, she found an envelope addressed to her on the top. Tears flowed from her eyes as she read the short letter, scrawled in nearly illegible pen:

"Dear Sugar,

You are there by now and I can guarantee you, things are not the same here. I already miss you -- your smile and mostly your beautiful body. Okay, okay . . . had to say it!

Remember, you can talk to me whenever you want. You know how to do it.

I hope things will go better for you there. You deserve better than you got here. But I will miss you every day, and so will Birkoff. So will Michael for that matter. I'm sure he will be miserable to deal with just like before when you were gone. But at least this time, we know you are alive.

Good luck Sugar, I'll miss you.

Walter"

Nikita clutched the note to her heart as tears streamed down her face unrestrained. She missed Walter and Birkoff. They were her family, her trusted friends. And she missed Michael -- she ached for him. She longed to see his beautiful face, his sad, expressive eyes. She yearned to hear him speak her name; it was always so . . . intimate, every syllable spoken reverently, in his softly accented, silky voice.

The sun had set, and night was falling. Nikita turned off most of the lights, and she lit several candles and started a fire in the fireplace. Laying down on the carpet before the fireplace, she watched as shadows danced across the white walls of her new home. Sadness overtook her as she remembered the man that had stolen her heart so many years before.

The love she had for him was all encompassing. It swallowed her up completely. Never before had she felt such deep pain in her heart and soul for her lover now irretrievably lost to her. Even in the most desperate of times, when she was thrown out on the streets by her own flesh and blood, she did not feel such a tremendous pain as having lost Michael.

But he had never really been hers. He had always belonged to the Section. Their love had been mostly one-sided. Oh, she knew he loved her in his peculiar way, but he was incapable of giving himself -- even just a small part of himself -- to her. He did what he could, protected her when it was necessary, but that had been all he could manage. His scars and losses had been so great over the years, that his ability to give himself romantically to anyone was unrecoverable.

It had been made crystal clear this time that his loyalty and devotion was to the Section. He had proved it unequivocally in this last action -- he had married a woman whom he did not love and he had a child with her, so that he could get to the bad guy. The message was abundantly clear -- anything to get the job done. He would even crush those around him to obtain his goal. It was unthinkable for her. She could not accept -- or forgive -- this monstrous, selfish act. All of it under the guise of protecting the masses: sacrificing some for the many.

Yet, she ached for him. Ached for his smoldering looks, the way his eyes caressed her face. She wanted to feel the electricity bolt through her body at the slightest brush of his hand. She wanted to look into his emerald eyes and get lost in their sad depths. She wanted to speak to him silently, like only she could. She missed him. She loved him still. She wondered if it were possible ever to get over him. But, she knew she must move on.

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

Two weeks passed and Nikita was getting along well with her new co-workers. She had met the 'Walter-equivalent' Jonas, and found him to be a lovable guy, a bit younger than Walter, but still a cranky old man who was easy to charm.

And Nikita charmed him -- easily. Soon she was one of his pet operatives and she was enjoying a new found friendship with this kindly man. He was competent too, easily as well-versed on munitions as Walter, but not as innovative. Jonas had been very complimentary toward Walter, recounting the days he had trained under Walter at Section One.

She had completed two very simple missions with Olin and his teams. Celia was pleased with her performance and had taken the time to tell her so. Olin continued to assess her abilities and placed her on a regimented two-week training program that would evaluate her skills.

This had been expected; Madeline told her that anywhere she went, she would be required to demonstrate her skills. Nikita could tell that both Celia and Olin were impressed -- she could see them watching her through the glass, nodding with approval and speaking to each other as they looked at one another then back to Nikita. Nikita knew she had scored high. But then, she had been trained by the best of the best. Before the two weeks were finished, Olin had recommended full status for Nikita.

The weeks passed and Nikita was performing at peak levels. Olin placed her on every important mission, but scheduled several days of rest in between so that his premier operative would be in top condition.

Nikita found her work to be very stimulating. Most of the targets in Northern Europe involved the eradication of crime syndicates that had taken hold during the political and financial upheaval in Sweden and Finland over the past several years. Nikita was impressed that most of the profilers were careful to design contingencies which protected innocents who might be caught in the crossfire.

Celia had insisted on this and Olin meticulously carried out her intentions by training his profilers to consider all the possibilities before they presented a design to him. Nikita could not have been more thrilled. Finally, she was feeling like she was making a difference and that her ideas on how to save the world were the same as others who were powerful enough to make it happen. Nikita found that she actually liked going to work.

Soon, she began to blossom in other areas too. Her co-workers often asked her to join them for dinner or dancing. They would frequent the local pubs and nightclubs. This would entertain them for hours, but it also allowed for intel gathering as the proliferation of night life in downtown Stockholm also brought a wave of crime and corruption with it.

This is where they made their contacts and learned much of what was going on in the streets of Stockholm and other metropolitan areas in Northern Europe.

Nikita found a new hobby as well. Having visited several of the boutiques in the downtown retail sector, she became fascinated with birdhouses. Her collection had become massive: tiled houses, houses made of twigs and other natural materials, bird houses that were hand painted and intricately designed.

Nikita had several birdhouses on her patio and began to read about when she might expect feathered visitors to return from the south, perhaps to her balcony to make a home there. She studied birds common to Northern Europe and searched the library and Internet for information on how to make birdhouses.

Before long, Nikita had converted a corner of her loft into a studio where she would construct and paint birdhouses for her friends at Section Four. Celia had two of them prominently displayed on the bookshelves in her office.

Nikita made one for Christina, painting it the color of her Section-quarters bathroom and adorned it with small finches and lacy ivy, then filled it with potpourri.

For Lars, she made him two small birdhouses using sheets of natural bark and twigs she gathered from the park across the street. He used them for bookends at his station.

Jonas hung his custom birdhouse from the metal beam above his workbench. It was painted in mossy forest greens and dark browns, and had a sloping roofline. Jonas stored special wires inside so that he could reach them easily.

Maria's birdhouse was exquisite, painted in burgundy, accented with blue and green. Nikita had bought a small, feathered bluebird replica from the local craft shop and glued it to the roof. Maria said she placed it on her dining room table and made her centerpieces around it. Her friends had asked where they could get one.

Soon, everyone in Section Four was requesting a Nikita birdhouse. She had 14 orders for them. Olin had been the only one that did not request a coveted Nikita birdhouse. How 'Michael' of him, she thought.

Still, it was an important diversion for her -- a creative outlet that was both rewarding and time-consuming. Time-consuming. She had a lot of time on her hands. Mission frequency was much slower at Section Four. She'd been called about once a week and the mission usually lasted two days at the most.

So, it was helpful to have a diversion. But, as she worked quietly in her loft, painting intricate ivy and delicate flowers on birdhouses, her mind wandered back to him. As it always did. Even after four months, she was no closer to getting over him than the day she discovered his other life.

Nikita had talked to both Walter and Birkoff several times since she left Section One. During those conversations, she asked about Michael in a 'round about way.' She learned that his deep cover mission had been completed, that the mother and child were relocated in a witness protection program, having been told that Michael was killed in the bloody seizure of her drug-dealing, arms-selling father.

Walter revealed that Michael had become very introverted, more than ever before. He spoke to no one unnecessarily, not even Walter. Walter shared with Nikita that Michael seemed very sad and impossibly distant -- more tormented than when he lost Simone, but less than when he had thought Nikita had been killed. He was emotionally detached, yet to Walter's perceptive eyes, he was visibly preoccupied.

At least the wife and child had not been killed or canceled, she thought. But what would become of the rest of their lives? Nikita wondered. How would the mother handle being a single parent? She guessed that the mother and child would be financially cared for, but what about the life they left behind? Her friends and family? What about the little boy? What would he be told about his father?

Nikita wondered if she wouldn't have felt so deeply about this issue if she, herself, had not been abandoned by her parent. It was unfair to subject a child to the loss of a parent at such a young age.

But what kind of father had Michael been anyway?

It appeared to her that he spent most of his time in Section. He was always there. When had he gone home? How much time did he spend there? What did the wife think when he came home with bullet holes and bruises the like of which a person would not get, say, running into a door?

And if he was never there, what kind of relationship did he have with the wife and the child? Had the wife been a single parent all along, even though she was married? And why did she put up with his frequent absences? Sometimes, they were gone for weeks at a time. All this boiled down to how could she believe that her life with Michael was anything but odd, unnatural? Didn't she wonder about this? That their life was so very . . . unconventional?

How could that woman accept the little attention that Michael had given her? Was it the same for her as Nikita felt? Did the wife adore him so much that she, like Nikita, had been willing to accept the crumbs he threw her once in a while?

Pathetic, Nikita snorted, shaking her head in disgust. Why, as women, do we accept such insulting behavior from some men? Because they are sexy and drop dead gorgeous? Pathetic, indeed.

And even more pathetic, Nikita acknowledged to her own disgust, why the hell couldn't she shake him from her life? He had not been good for her. Life with him had been mentally abusive. Nikita shook her head, 'I'm no stronger than Lisa Fanning if I can't let go of this negative relationship. It's downright abusive.'

Her life was so much more livable here. She was . . . content. At least, she wasn't subjected to constant betrayals and deceit from her co-workers.

Oh sure, she had been a party to some underhanded and conniving scenarios during missions, but that was part of the job and it always involved the mark, never the operatives. The upside was that in the four months she had been with Section Four, not one innocent had been killed. All the operatives were informed of the plans, which eliminated the feeling of being duped by your own people.

Things were going smoothly and she could live with herself. But still, her heart ached. For him.

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

Days melted into weeks and before Nikita knew it, six months had passed. Missions were running like clockwork. Celia and Olin had embraced Nikita as their top operative. Nikita had been given several missions to lead, and her performance was exemplary.

Celia knew that Madeline would be contacting her soon, asking for an evaluation of Nikita's progress and a recommendation on her return to Section One. Celia dreaded the conversation. She and Olin had already discussed their desire to keep Nikita in Section Four.

Nikita acclimated well. She was never insubordinate or difficult, which was in sharp contrast to her personnel profile. Madeline had clearly documented that Nikita was stubborn and often changed profile parameters spontaneously, based on Nikita's interpretation of the situation. Olin reported that Nikita had never broken ranks, in fact, offered ideas and contingencies that strengthened the end game. They found that her inventiveness and ability to think on her feet was invaluable. She had become a very worthy asset to Section Four.

Finally, the call did come, but not for the reason Celia expected. Section One had been conducting surveillance on a top ranking, but corrupt, diplomat from Brazil. She was expected to attend an embassy function in Stockholm, where Section One decided to make their move. It was a simple 'bait and grab' scenario that required minimal back-up assistance from the local Section Four.

Madeline explained that a team would be sent in to conduct the tag and then return the mark to Section One. No mention of Nikita's status was made, so Celia chose not to broach the subject of Nikita's return.

Olin prepared the mission profile and gathered the team for briefing. Simple. In and out. Each operative sitting at the table had done it a hundred times. Piece of cake.

Victoria Barron, executive assistant to Brazil's Minister of Finance, was to be quietly apprehended and returned to Madeline for interrogation for her covert drug and money laundering activities. She had become a huge nuisance to the US and Canadian governments, neither of which could touch her for political reasons.

Section had already positioned a valentine op with Ms. Barron. He would be her escort. The profile called for a grab in a public place. The operative was to dance Ms. Barron to the garden balcony, where the Section One team would sedate her and remove her from the premises. Ms. Barron would have made an appearance at the ball, and not be missed for many hours beyond that.

Section Four was back up only, providing location and progress reports. They were not to be involved in the grab, instead they would assure the smooth exit of the Section One operative and the mark, sealing the exit to the balcony thereby eliminating witnesses.

As the team gathered at egress dressed in their finest tuxedos and brightest satin gowns, Celia surprised them as she walked up to meet them.

"Celia, are you going out with us?" asked a pleasantly surprised Nikita. She had not worked directly with Celia, and looked forward to this new experience.

"Yes . . . you all look ravishing. Shall we be on our way?" smiled a glorious Celia, radiant in a black, clingy knit dress, embroidered with small silver flowers around the high neck and around the cuff of the long sleeves, and massive matching flowers at the hem of the ankle length gown. Her blonde hair was elegantly styled in her usual chin length, blunt-cut bob, adorned with a silver headband that sparkled in the light.

Celia looked magnificent all of which was not lost on Olin. Nikita smiled to herself noticing that Olin had not taken his eyes off Celia. He was mesmerized; truly lost in her remarkable beauty.

Nikita was also stunning. Dressed in an aquamarine satin gown, with a low scoop neck that revealed a perfectly shaped bustline, with a matching, but much deeper scoop which showcased the luscious curve of her back, all held up with thin rhinestone spaghetti straps. The gown hugged her every curve. It was simple and elegant; she was an exquisite sight. Her eyes were pools of the bluest blue; a guy could swim in them and drown without warning.

The men on the team worked very hard at keeping their eyes off of these striking women.

Olin, Celia, and Nikita arrived by limousine, while the remainder of the six-man team followed in the van. Lars was running the tactical from inside the van, while Christina monitored from Section. Birkoff was also in contact with both Lars and Christina.

In the limousine, the three operatives sat quietly as they approached the embassy. Olin reviewed the plan on the PDA and tested the team's communication devices.

Celia watched Nikita carefully, as the young woman looked out at the city lights. Celia noted that Nikita looked perfectly calm and collected. She wondered if she should reveal a part of the profile that had not been discussed at the briefing, then decided against it. It would be the first time that Nikita had been deliberately left out of the loop.

Olin had tapped Nikita's knee and signaled two fingers, indicating that she should switch to channel two. Nikita was startled, then revealed a wide smile when she heard Birkoff's voice directed at her.

"Hey babe, how's it goin'?"

"Birkoff? Is that you?"

"Who else has this sexy voice?"

Nikita laughed out loud. It sounded so good to hear his voice.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"At Section. I'm running our team in tandem with Christina and Lars. How have you been, Nikita?"

"Good, Seymour, I've been very well. But I miss you. How's Walter?"

"Good, we are all doing okay. Gotta go. You're about to reach the embassy. See ya', Nikita!"

"Take care, Birkoff. Talk to you soon." Nikita flashed a wide smile at Celia and Olin then turned to look out the window. She did not notice the concern in their eyes as they exchanged glances with one another.

At last the limo arrived at the embassy and the three operatives emerged, prepared to play their roles and back up the first team from Section One.

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

The embassy was the usual boring, gala affair -- lots of beautiful women dressed in their finest gowns, smiling and flirting with ugly, fat old diplomats, who were making deals that would affect the entire planet between numerous gulps of the finest champagne.

Celia and Olin, paired as a couple representing the Swedish government, mingled amongst the prominent politicos looking as if they had been born to that service.

Liam and Henrik worked the crowd as waiters, listening and watching for anomalies, while Peder played the role of the single, rich playboy whose calling in life was to woo the beautiful young women away from the rich and powerful heads of state.

Nikita was stationed at the top of the balcony, opposite the sweeping staircase that led to the grand ballroom. From her position, she would be able to pinpoint the entrance of the mark.

Celia looked up to see if Nikita was in position.

"Nikita, report," she requested softly.

"In position; nothing yet," Nikita replied.

"Keep your eye on the ball, Nikita. Don't even blink," remarked Olin.

Nikita's breath caught. Don't even blink. Where had she heard that before? It was enough to alert her senses, causing her to stiffen, but she was not quick enough. Looking out over the colorful ballroom, she turned her attention to the entrance.

Her knees nearly gave way as she felt her breathing stop. It was Michael. Michael was escorting the mark.

"Nikita!" she heard Olin's firm voice, "Report!"

In a low, unsteady voice, Nikita reluctantly replied to his command. "Mark has arrived."

Celia looked up at her stunned operative. "Nikita . . . get a grip. Do the job!"

"You should have told me, Celia," Nikita hissed as tears formed in her azure eyes.

"Later, Nikita. Shake it off!" whispered a very concerned Olin.

Nikita closed her eyes and took three deep breaths. Quickly regaining her composure, she steeled herself to focus. Underneath, she was trembling; she was shocked. Unprepared. How could they do it to her? They both knew -- knew -- she would be jolted to her bones.

It was another test. More tests. She thought she was finally rid of them six months ago. But the dream world of healing gave way to reality -- this was Section. It was the Section Way. Make the recruits pay, make them live in perpetual hell -- forever.

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

Before her, across the miles of sequins and black tuxedos, he stood with another woman. He was magnificent -- a perfectly-fitted tuxedo with a hint of a richly-embroidered teal vest underneath the jacket. Her heart stopped. Shivers shot through her body. Blood boiled in her veins. He took her breath away with his sensual movements and his striking good looks.

As if called by some special radar tuned into her and her alone, he was suddenly aware that she was there. He knew there was an excellent chance of seeing her -- he had accessed her file. Olin had used her on nearly every mission since her arrival. And Michael knew from previous experience, Nikita filled this role perfectly.

And while this mission was run of the mill, he suspected that Celia and Olin would take the opportunity to test Nikita's loyalty to them. Her six months were just about up. It would soon be time to decide.

Nevertheless, his breath caught when he saw her. There she was. His angel. His innocent Nikita, looking spectacularly beautiful and achingly desirable. His heart reeled at the sight of her. He barely noticed that others stood around him. She commanded his complete attention. She literally took his breath away.

Nikita's eyes never left his. She was lost in pain and longing as she gazed into the depths of his emerald eyes. She could feel her heart pounding and the blood rushing to her ears as she held his smoldering gaze.

They were swept away to another space and time consisting only of them. Everything around them faded out of focus. Sounds disappeared. He saw only her. She saw only him. Time froze.

He spoke to her as if he were shouting, loudly, clearly. She saw raw need and passion, longing, hunger, emotions that he rarely showed, and then only to her.

She felt her eyelids involuntarily droop in uncontrolled passion, signaling her deep desire for him. Her lips parted and she lifted her hand to her collarbone and slowly glided her fingertips across her fevered skin, brushing lightly over the tops of her breasts.

She wanted him. She ached for him. She needed him.

And, he watched her every move . . . he too wanting her, longing for her, desperately needing her.

At that very moment, what was to be a simple in and out mission was in danger of being badly compromised. Two of Section's finest agents were hopelessly stalled. Neither could move. They did not respond to the calls of their teammates.

"Michael . . . Michael?" shouted an increasingly desperate Birkoff. "Michael? What are you doing?"

Michael was suddenly pulled from his trance and shook off the spell that only one woman could cast. He looked over at his date, and found her staring at him, fuming with jealousy.

"Michael, I would appreciate it if you would pay attention," the brunette hissed.

"I'm sorry, my love. I thought I saw someone I once knew," Michael pulled the mark closer to him and brushed her lips in a soothing kiss, all the while feeling Nikita's eyes bore into him.

He guided his date to the ballroom floor, stealing a glance upward to the balcony. Nikita was gone. He let out a deep breath and waltzed his target to the garden doors. His heart sank. His soul cried. He was lost without her. Broken and worthless. And he knew it the moment her saw her again.

The rest of the mission went as planned. Michael successfully danced Ms. Barron out onto the garden terrace where she was promptly sedated and swept off to Section One. His team was called in as Olin and his team maintained their positions.

An hour later, Celia, Olin, and Nikita were safely deposited into the back of the limo as they drove back to Section Four.

Nikita was livid. Celia was not much better. Olin started the extremely tense discussion.

"Nikita, what were you doing? You and Michael nearly jeopardized the entire mission. One, that I might add, is textbook for a first year rookie! Explain yourself," he barked.

"Well, gee, Olin, maybe if I had been told he would be there, I would have been prepared!" Nikita shouted back.

"No matter what frame of mind you are in, you must always be prepared to do the job. Or, didn't Michael teach you that?" Olin hissed sarcastically.

"Michael taught me plenty, Olin, especially the fine art of betrayal and deceit. He's the master at it. But it looks like you play that game pretty well too!" Nikita spat out.

"Okay, okay, okay," Celia broke in raising her hands, signaling that they both should stop talking.

"Nikita, I am disappointed in you. I sincerely thought you would not get so rattled upon seeing him. This was a test to see if you could handle the pressure."

Celia looked into her young operative's eyes, and saw the sting of hurt as Nikita looked back at her confused, shaking her head in disbelief that this so-called 'test' had been perpetrated on her.

"And Celia, I am disappointed in you as well. The past six months, you and Olin have strung me along thinking that Section Four was a better place than Section One. You pretended to be open to different ideas and ways of getting the job done. You purposely misled me to think life would be better with you. That I could actually make a difference and that my existence mattered to someone." Nikita's voice trembled in shock and dismay.

"But in the end, it turned out to be deception of the cruelest kind. Section Four is just like Section One, isn't it, Celia? At least Operations does not pretend to be my friend, or someone willing to see a different point of view. He does not pretend to be anything more than the immoral, uncaring bastard we know he is." Tears welled in Nikita's eyes as she raised her hand to her trembling lips and turned her gaze to the window where all she saw was the sad reflection of her tear-stained face.

Celia and Olin looked at each other, both seeing regret in the eyes of the other. Nikita was right -- they had misled her and let her down. They had been remiss in not preparing her. Celia had badly misjudged Nikita's strong connection to Michael thinking that the months away from him had eased her love for him and healed her pain, and surely all in Section One had seen the affect Nikita had on Michael this night.

The rest of the ride to Section Four was done in silence as Olin and Celia watched their beloved young operative weep in silence.

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

Once the team had checked in and debriefed, Nikita headed for home. She needed to be alone; to think; to get a grip. All she had worked toward the past six months was lost. She had tried to hate him; be repulsed by his actions; but in reality, she was lost to him. He would be forever imprinted into her mind, her body, her soul.

It was a grim and startling revelation. Why on earth would she settle for someone who wanted to give her so little? Someone who was never truthful, always deceptive regardless of the motive? Why did she continue to love him so?

The answers were never found to these troubling questions. But Nikita was forced to admit to herself that she did love him and she did not know how to make that truth go away. The pain of it all was excruciating. She was living a nightmare that never ended. He was always there.