“Back already, Mr. Woodward?”

Trent Woodward nodded, extending a hand to obtain the hefty-sized folder offered and adding it to the growing pile beside his computer.

Absently his fingers stroked the keyboard’s edge as his eyes scanned the screen in front of him.

“Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother taking vacations.” Trent offered with a half-baked smile that suggested the energy required to do so had not been worth the effort.

“Yes sir.” Came the reply echoed with the soft closing of the door.

‘Agent Trent R. Woodward’ the desktop placard offered blandly to all who would enter. Trent’s eyes traveled ‘round the office, taking in the medals of commendation, the various pictures of women come and gone, and the radio that received only the Spanish station.

Trent didn’t speak Spanish or any other foreign language for that matter, but the ballad playing seemed a love song. A mellow, male voice crooned softly accompanied by a string guitar and rhythm drum.

Opening the desk drawer, he took out the plain gold band, resting forlorn with other forgotten items - paper clips, thumb tacks, and pens that like his marriage didn’t work.

Fingering the gold band, he immersed himself in the memories that were trapped inside its circlular path. As an afterthought, he placed it on his ring finger, finding it too snug.

Fitting he thought. Diane had been too snug, too confined for their marriage, and now the ring that had symbolized their love was also overly restrictive.

Agent Woodward’s six foot plus frame jolted at the sound of his door being pushed open. Breathless with excitement, his secretary stumbled to his desk.

“Level five compromised agent incoming.” She breathed out in spurts.

He watched as her trembling hands struggled pushing loosened strands of grayish hair to their former place in the delicate braid. Her glasses were askew, lips white and drawn.

“Give it to Brady, Anne.” Came Trent’s reply. Under the hidden desktop, he was trying desperately to remove the wedding band, but was failing miserably. His tone remained flat, and he made it a point to keep his eyes on the screen.

A second later, his screen saver popped on. A picture of the American flag waved continuously. Glorious in it brilliant display of color it taunted him.

“Brady is sick. Mr. Woodward.” Anne replied, adjusting the glasses, and absently stacking the folders, and dusting the desktop with her wrinkled handkerchief.

“Grossman?” He questioned, acknowledging her briefly.

The ring still refused to budge. Soon he thought the national anthem would accompany the rolling flag, and then his jig would be up.

“Vacation.” She spit back at him. “Mr. Woodward, We have an ETA of twenty minutes...”

Funny he thought how she could make Mr. Woodward sound so disrespectful. With a sigh of a martyr, Trent nodded. “Set up the appropriate personnel, the cubicle, the plaque.”

“It’ll be ready.” Anne replied, now the paragon of control. Her sharp nose was a pointer finger that wagged at him with disdain. Sometimes that nervous tick of hers drove him crazy, and now was no exception.

The national anthem was now screaming, the radio announcer was shouting something in Spanish, and his phone was ringing decidedly too loud.

Anne had turned to go, and Trent took some satisfaction in demanding a cafe mocha. The steam inside that colored Anne's face red was worth the mild amusement that he had achieved from it.

Once she cleared the doorway, he tapped a few keys, and lunged to shut off the radio. Receiver in hand, Trent listened intently, while searching for a less rattling screen saver.

In his ear a sixteen digit computerized access code sounded to which Woodward answered with his Agency identification number. After a five minute period of static, Trent was rewarded with a human-like voice. It could well have been a kid, for all the maturity is heralded.

There was no formality in the ensuing dialogue. Sharp orders were rescinded, and Woodward was informed that a dossier would appear on his screen - then a dial tone.

Anne arrived with coffee which was appropriately cold and weak. A scowl from him rewarded her earnest effort. And in turn she reminded him “ten minutes.”

For a full useless minute, Trent Woodward took time to feel sorry for himself. His was a thankless job. Thirty-five years old with two doctorates and a genius level IQ, and here he sat in a dusty old office becoming a ridiculous relic that jumped whenever “Papa” said jump.

With a disgusted sigh Trent jacketed his well-built frame, tucking the holster securely in place and straightening his tie. Tucking his newly ringed finger into his jacket, he allowed a brief two second glance in the mirror. Brushing furiously at the black curls that dangled over his forehead, he passed Anne’s desk and ordered her to schedule him a barber's appointment.

As expected her terse response retained its underlying acidic tone. Their relationship to the outsider would appear strained, but really they both respected the other - theirs was more a angry mother and rebellious son.

The cubicle for the incoming agent seemed immaculately overdone. Calendars, folders, and a computer screen with a Tom Cruise screen saver made the area look satisfactorily inhabited.

Yet the nail file and nail polish garnered a second glance on his part. At first he had missed the obvious underlying feminity.

“Pretty in Pink” He read off the bottle’s top. Just who the hell was coming here today. A few seconds later “Tom” whispered “Let’s relax.”

“Sorry, I’m late.” A husky voice sounded behind him.

Trent straightened immediately, whirling to meet the speaker.

There stood the kind of woman that made men suck in their stomachs.

Her simple black dress, sleeveless, seemed perfect for the office, but somehow it failed to do her justice. She exuded a breath of fresh air deserving of colors like pink, purple - blue he decided. And her fabric should be velvet or silk not cotton.

“I was late myself.” Trent recovered quickly. His hands took to that nervous fiddling - a habit that had hoisted him out of the Academy. Never one that could lie with a straight face, Agent Woodward's penchant for truth-telling had always landed him in hot water. That and the fact that he couldn’t shoot straight to save his life.

“So what’s on the agenda?” Two lips moved to reveal a tiny sliver of opalesque teeth.

More than anything, Trent realized, he wanted her to smile, eat, talk, anything to show off those teeth.

“Well, there’s quite a bit to be done. Why don’t you come into my office, and we can talk about it.” He extended his arm to lead the way, but then realized she would have no idea where his office was. Necessity deemed that place a hand in the small of her back, ushering her into the office.

He tried to be oblivious to the stolen glances this agent was subpoenaing. Frank staring would not have been proper, but more than one male, even female agents had found a way to stare the young woman up an down.

He passed Anne’s desk and held his breath. Anne looked up with frank disinterest.

The young woman stopped abruptly, reaching into her purse and revealing a delicate miniature crystal rose. “For you, Anne.” The woman smiled, blowing a kiss.

There was something to be said for name tags Trent realized. He watched in barely concealed amazement at the softening features Anne evidenced.

He realized then that he couldn’t remember the last time Anne had smiled. Anne's lips, unused to the position wavered unsure, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that penetrated the thick glasses covering them. Amazingly, she looked twenty years younger, perhaps even beautiful.

Trent moved to join the mysterious wonder now sitting inside his office. Closing the door, he took his time in crossing to his desk. “This office is secure....”

Nodding, she answered his trailing comment with her name while her eyes discreetly canvassed the room.

Trent nodded too, unsure why he did so. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, he moved to safer venue of conversation. “What happened?”

“I’ve been compromised.” Nikita answered, simply with a slight shrug.

“Yes, I know.” He sat back, studying this anomaly. Sheltering covert Ops in the past had never included a women. He didn’t know quite how to handle the situation.

Compromised agents rarely survived. The greater good had nearly always demanded their sacrifice. So if she was here at all, it was because she was good, probably invaluable - but for what purpose he could only guess.

“Any idea who?” Woodward asked, taking time to scribble meaningless jargon on a piece of scratch paper.

She didn’t reply, and Woodward realized that he would be forced to look at her again. Raising his head, he judged the picture before him.

Seemingly un-surfaced tears lurked in those downcast eyes, and for some reason, he wondered how someone like her could be in such a place as this.

“Nikita. I can help you, but I need your help as well.” He prodded, walking to the front of the desk.

A soft knock interrupted the conversation, and Anne with a humble - yes humble - smile entered with two hot cups of coffee. His surprise continued as Anne winked at Nikita and patted her shoulder gently.

A comfortable silence ensued. Trent watched as Nikita sipped the coffee, blowing the billowing steam with pursed lips. He convinced himself that the warmness of the beverage had elevated his blood to boiling, but inside he knew that it wasn't quite so easily explained.

“So what’s the ‘R’ stand for?” She nodded towards the placard.

“Reagan.” He answered, shifting to find a comfortable spot on the desktop. “My mother was a big fan of his movies.”

Her head bobbed a response, and her teeth caught part of her bottom lip. With a deep inward breath, she ventured, “Why am I still alive?”

What a segue Trent thought - his surprise causing him to slurp the steaming beverage and scald his tongue in the process “You’re here for protection.” He supplied.

Trent took a breath over the singed taste buds and plunged into the details. If his oozing charm and sweat-stained shirt couldn’t woo, her maybe the cold hard facts could.

Many years ago an establishment for retiring operatives or operatives who no longer could serve was needed. To the outside world, we are enviromaniacs, intent on protecting Mother Nature, if you will. In actuality our services include housing compromised operatives, providing believable cover stories, and establishing funding for covert activities.

There were many questions - some which he could not answer, some which he preferred not to answer. In the end Trent felt that neither of them of them were at ease with the situation.

She continued to surprise him. No histrionics, simple acceptance that is until he informed her that all contact with Section One should be terminated.

Her brilliant mouth had popped open ever so slightly before firmly shutting. Lips wrapped inward, and her whole body seemed to quake with the revelation.

He told her that she should go home, that there would be surveillance, and that they would do their best. He told her...nothing.

Long after she had left, Trent recalled her parting words - To the Section I was a ghost, and now I’m dead to them as well. I wonder just to whom am I alive?

His response, well, he recalled blinking several times, clearing his throat. In the end she had thanked him. Collecting her things, she exited.

Her coffee sat steaming on his desk. In a daze he reached for the mug, turning it to swipe the traces of lipstick from its surface. Then once again his attention turned to ridding his presently throbbing finger from the restriction of that band.

On his screen her file surfaced, but for some reason he deleted it unread. He knew everything needed about Nikita Samuelle, Codename Josephine.

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

The empty chair at the briefing table looked decidedly forlorn and appropriately black with distress. Michael’s calm demeanor belayed the raging thoughts ricocheting inside his mind. A slight turn of his wrist and his watch confirmed that Nikita's tardiness was more than excessive.

For a moment, he entertained the idea that Operations, Madeline or both had overridden his choice of team members, perhaps reassigned Nikita elsewhere.

Oblivious, the other operatives decorating the oblong table simply waited for the briefing. An occasional yawn, sigh, cough filtered the silence, but all in all the room lacked the boisterous quality inherent with Nikita's presence.

Swiveling slightly in his chair, Michael focused on Walter’s station. Envisioning the wild flirtations in which the old man and Nikita might be engaged, instead he found a lonesome old man tinkering not with a woman but with some mission-type gadget.

Above him in the nest of good and evil, the moving shadows and minute changes in light provided the only clues to the powers residing there.

Michael sat transfixed, lips tightening, and palms gripping the table. Consciously slowing his breathing, Michael entered a meditative state.

The other team members became restless, kicking each other’s chairs, snorting and chuckling at cracked jokes, and basically acting like school-age children in an un-monitored study hall. At long last, the absences and nothingness demanded action.

Michael stood, buttoning his jacket with one hand - the process which had always served to calm him. A simple ‘I’ll be back’ sufficed to quiet the restless troops.

Stopping just outside the doorway of his superior's office, Michael observed the hushed conversation between Madeline and Operations.

Stepping inside their line of vision, he stood quietly, hands clasped loosely in front.

Madeline exchanged a look with Operations. “You have something you wish to discuss before the briefing, Michael?” She greeted him with an immediate set of parameters - meant to make him uncomfortable pursuing any other topic.

“My team is one member short.” Michael stated.

“We’re aware of that.” Operations snapped dryly, all but rolling his eyes.

Trying to ignore the game of hopscotch his stomach and heart were engaging, Michael proceeded, “I would like to address any team member problems prior to the mission.”

Madeline handed him a PDA, leveling her gaze at him while revealing nothing. “This contains the new mission profile.” She paused, eyes twinkling with perhaps a hint of haughtiness. “It contains all that you need.”

The smile serviced at the conclusion of her statement signaled dismissal, but Michael refused to budge.

Sensing Michael’s unvoiced refusal, Operations cleared his throat and responded. “Vincent will replace Nikita; the details are in your PDA.”

Be it reward for his candor or warning not to interfere, the PDA gave him two things - something he needed and something he dreaded.

A nightmare that Michael had failed to consider unfolded line by bloody line. Three letters effectively halted time and space, rapturing Nikita away. COS - a label standing for Compromised Operative Standing - now identified Nikita.

In similar scenarios such a label generally predicted abeyance or worse cancellation. Yet her file had not been erased, which signified one of two things. Section One had a plan for reconciliation - meaning relocation to a different substation, or they planned to use Nikita to lure the compromising party into the open.

Stroking his jaw, he re-played this morning’s call. In retrospect, she had sounded shaken. But he dismissed the hesitancy, chalking it up to usual pre-mission jitters. Vividly, he recalled her last ‘Michael.’ It was as if she wanted to impart something, but then decided against it.

As though his subconscious had directed him, Michael stood observing outside Systems. Birkoff appeared to be in mid-mission mode, relaying commands, and typing furiously to crack some security system.

The young genius barely raised his head to acknowledge Michael’s entrance. But at first sight, Birkoff immediately immersed himself in a flurry of activity.

Sensing the avoidance, Michael came to a plausible presumption “You know something.” He stated, maneuvering his downward descent.

“About what?” Birkoff nervously eyeballed Michael’s controlled entrance, before propelling himself to a far away desk. Michael tracked the motion, taking two steps to close the distance.

“Who’s the contact for COSes?” Michael questioned, peering at the flustered young man beneath him.

“Michael.” Birkoff answered in hushed tones as he nervously peered about. “You know that communication with COSes or their contacts is forbidden.”

“I know that.” Michael clipped, surveying the room in one sweeping glance before pinning Birkoff with his steely gaze.

Birkoff pondered the straight lipped, hollow form of Michael for a moment, and he shook his head slightly signaling his dissenting reply. “Nikita wouldn’t want it, Michael.” Birkoff straightened somewhat, sure of his words and their meaning. He continued, “Not if it meant risking your cancellation.”

Michael’s iron-clad expression weakened with the cracking of his mouth and the trembling lower lip. "The contact." He pushed softly.

Nodding with resignation, Birkoff piped up, “I put that profile you wanted in your revised team jacket.” A small slow blink of thanks was Birkoff's reward.

The “profile” in the jacket provided more than team information. For three days Section had been aware of the stalker tailing Nikita. Half way through the first day, she noticed and took action to avoid, confront, and dispose.

Reports indicated that her actions worked. No threats, no physical contact, the man, white male early thirties, virtually disappeared.

Yet this morning Nikita had found three of the four routes to the Section blockaded in one fashion or another. It seemed the target now hinged more around Nikita’s affiliation with Section One rather than personal attraction or obsession.

A taped conversation cued. Nikita’s voice on a background of traffic and static sounded, asking for an alternative route and back-up.

Back-up was denied, and that's when she asked to speak Michael. Operations’ reply interrupted her request, giving the command to proceed to COS level of operations and severe communications until further advised.

Leaning intently over his computer, Michael replayed the scenario again and again, searching for clues not yet discovered. With a sigh, he leaned backward in the chair, tapping the delete key and destroying the evidence of Birkoff’s gift.

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

Attempting to loosen the dreadful vice from his ring finger with the greasiest of lotions, Trent scarcely noticed Nikita until she spoke.

With a welcoming smile, Trent stood, wiping his hands on his pants (thank God they were black) and motioning her inward.

Nikita traced small patterns in the thick dust snowing his desk. Lips wrinkled this way and that, unsure which position they preferred - up or down. Never sitting down, anxiousness titillated her presence like a sweet-smelling perfume.

She wanted to help. Of course, she wanted to help. But the best method of helping insisted solely on maintaining normalcy.

He had never fancied her a satirist until she leaned inches from his face, asking with such seriousness if killing people were something that he would consider ‘normal.’. What could he possibly reply to such a question?

Her penchant for exiting while his tongue twisted between heart and mind was beginning to become tiresome.

More tiresome the gloomy sets of untouched files. Plunging headlong into his work, by four a.m. Woodward retired exhausted and pratically cross-eyed from staring at a scrolling screen for twelve hours straight.

The increased volume of the Spanish news the only sound in the office, he realized that he had better call it a day. Grabbing his untouched burger, he chomped deliberately on the chewy meat and cheese combination.. And with a sated sigh of a much work accomplished, he deserted the empty office.

Inside the parking garage silence sugar-coated semi-darkness with sinister promises, and Woodward felt it like sticky cotton candy. The scent of danger - or the scent of his disgusting burger twisted his stomach in not-so funny knots.

His beat-up, blue Cougar seemed desperately far away as though a million steps would fail to bridge the gap. The flickering florescence fluttered his world between light and darkness. His shadow, distorted, painted his head a bloated balloon and his legs mere pencil- thin sticks.

He cleared his throat, and the sound echoed. Creaks and groans of old pipes settling erected the hairs on the back of his neck. The video cams buzzing rotation provided only moderate comfort.

The only other sound was that of his Rockports striking the concrete, and even that quickened an beat.

And now he found himself half-way there. There should be a huge sign - ‘point of no return,’ He thought to himself. Because now moving forward or back could made no difference. Retreat might prove more difficult than advancement.

He tightened his grip of his briefcase, switching hands, and in the process becoming aware of his holstered gun beneath his left arm. The gun might have proved more comforting save the knowledge of its uselessness to him.

False re-assurance, Trent Woodward was all too familiar with its sinking realization.

With a sudden hiss and zap of blue electricity all light extinguished. Darkness wrapped two hands around his throat and the air seemed too thick to breathe. Invisible pressure in the form of panic pushed against him. He stopped, suddenly unsure of how to proceed.

Palms grew sweaty and he felt and acted on the need to demand, “Who’s there!” Silly question he realized. As if any intruder would venture forth an answer.

“Drop the briefcase.” A command issued from the darkness.

His eyes strained to make out the figure in the darkness. Armed? Dangerous? Both? A mere silhouette of shadow addressed him.

“Who are you?” Trent demanded, crouching slowly to the coolness of the concrete and removing his shoes. His mind raced thinking of what secrets his suitcase might contain. Valuable enough to risk life and limb, he wondered to himself.

Now a mismatched pair - one fuzzy blue and one cotton black- socked feet slid over the concrete smoothness. He inched along the floor, scarcely making a sound until he reached the safety of a wall.

“I have a gun!” Trent declared boldly to the cold, unfeeling blackness.

A whistling sound bit the wall to his left, and showered him with sharp fragments.

“The suitcase.”

Realizing options were scarce, Woodward settled the briefcase quietly to the ground.

“Leave.” The voice instructed.

Leaving - now that proved a difficult task in the maze of utter darkness. He wandered for quite some time before reaching a door.

A shaking hand turned knob applying careful pressure. Opening it slowly, he slid inside the stairwell, breathing heavily and sweating so as to soak his shirt.

Finally the terror of the incident registered. The fact that a shot had been fired, the fact that he had been robbed. Descending four flights of stairs with a burst of adrenaline, Trent emerged on a busy street.

Such was his momentum, that he nearly spilled over the curb. Angry horns shouted their dissension, and he avoided the frank stares that he was receiving from passerby’s. The bank tower clock flashed 6:50 a.m., and Trent realized he had wandered for nearly three hours.

He plodded sock footed to the nearest phone. He considered the contents of the briefcase, meaningless files save the surveillance disks concerning Nikita.

The disks, hidden and encrypted, compiled possible vendettas. No names, no real security risks unless of course one of those names had been the person stalking him tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The air still smelled of fear, and the ruminations of the pathetic agent's wandering backgrounded the intruder's activity.

Night goggles removed, flashlight illuminated, Woodward’s briefcase was spotlighted. Gloved hands sifted through the nonsense files, scattering papers like play jacks across the floor. Pressure along the lining found the secret compartment. With a slit of a knife ten small silver disks reflected wildly with the glow of the directed beam.

Such was the scene the morning staff witnessed. A frost covering of manila folders and white paper. Bullet hole decortaing the wall. Two of Woodward’s shoes vacated. Frantic co-workers called old haunts, old girlfriends, and relatives; searched hospitals, jails, and morgues.

Some relief resided as Woodward emerged three hours later. Shoeless he arrived, looking like he bullied and lost a fight with an accordion by his clothing’s deep wrinkles.

Questions hurled from every side. People with whom he had never had reason to talk, emerged from the woodwork, selling their consolation. His back grew sore from the host of reassuring hands places their.

Anne, thank heavens, forwent her usual snide salutations, instead bringing him a very stale doughnut and a beverage that qualified as coffee only because the cup declared so in bright green letters.

He thanked her, and she shook her head saying it was nothing and saying that she wished things were better for him. He pushed the intercom, and Nikita’s voice returned his herald.

In the corner of his office, back to the door he stared for the first time at the features of a coward. Thick black stubble burned against the rubbing of his thumb and forefinger, and without the help of hair spray the frolicking black locks twirled curiously around his face.

Nikita entered quietly. He observed her in the mirror, the way her eyes took every detail of him to task. Yes, he was wearing exactly what he had worn yesterday. Her eyes dropped, confirming that he was indeed shoeless and that he wore socks of a different color.

“Sit down.” He snapped, motioning with his head to the chair. Truth be told, Trent Woodward’s insides felt soft as the cream-filled doughnut lying untouched on his desk.

He did his best to straighten the outer man. The inner man could wait, and most likely would have to. He glanced over his shoulder to her calm scrutinizing.

“They only took your surveillance files.” He confessed.

“What does that mean?” She asked, sitting quietly.

He marveled at her serenity, and her objectivity could not be rivaled.

He let out a pent-up breath, settling with some uneasiness into the chair beside hers. Four hours of wandering the streets barefoot could do a lot for one’s insight.

So he found himself asking, “If anyone from the Section would attempt contact with you, who would it be?”

Blond eyebrows drew together, and blue eyes closed tightly as Nikita shook her head fiercely. Bright red lips opened as if to rebuke him, but then firmly shut. She might well have zippered and locked it for the tightly clamped line he observed.

He inched his way forward, directing her chin towards him. “If Section One were aware that one of its operatives had stolen COS information, deciphering the culprit would not likely prove difficult. So, I really don’t need a name, Nikita.”

If evil could reside in beauty, then evil resided in the narrow-slitted eyes that glared at him. “So tell them. I’m sure they’ll be happy to know that I’ve been so well protected.” ‘Protected’ spewed, dripping sarcasm.

Woodward felt a surge of defensiveness overwhelm him, but then he couldn’t blame her. She had merely put to words what he had been agonizing the last few hours.

Trent released her chin, and resignedly mumbled. “Someone obviously thinks they can do a better job than we can.”

She snickered slightly, raising her eyebrows to suggest that hers was in agreement with theirs.

“Is that all?” She asked demurely; why she practically purred. It both angered him and made him acutely jealous. That her confidence could be placed so entirely in another.

“No.” He answered. “I want answers ... names.” He did his best to look stern, but knew that his demeanor wasn't backing the tone his voice had taken.

Her eyes rolled upward, and lips pressed together to maintain their secrecy. “I want answers too.” She turned to him, eyes flitting to the swollen ring finger slightly bluer than the rest from the decreased circulation. “But I also want to help.” She stressed.

“Go home, Nikita .” Trent instructed, firmly.

Nothing more could be said at this point. They were both reasonably angry and stressed. Quite honestly, he couldn’t decide whether hugging her or slapping her would make him feel better.

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

Woodward thought long and hard about what had happened in the garage. It angered him, the loss of control.

For some reason since Nikita had bumbled her way into the agency - life for him had become a living hell. Intent on one thing, that no harm would befall her, Nikita's protection took precedence.

And yet, Trent never wanted it to be over. Because after all was said and done, Nikita would be dead - literally or figuratively - she ’d be dead to him.

By mid - afternoon, he realized that he had not accomplished anything. Anne’s overly attentive ministrations had ultimately become a source of irritation, and the voice in the garage kept re-playing itself inside his head.

Trent realized that he would have no peace until he had answers.

Granted, the stalker could have maimed or murdered him, but the tactics of the hold-up seemed professional and well thought out.

Speed and expediency had been key, and for a stalker who had obviously been keen on the virtue of patience - that profile did not compute.

His thoughts drifted towards Nikita, thinking of what she might be doing. Reaching a conclusion, he grabbed his wallet. Cab fare would be cheaper, more expedient than the psychotherapy it would require for him to enter that parking garage again.

Alone in her apartment, Nikita found the assurance of conspicuously posted guards and constant surveillance less than reassuring. She paced the small confines of her kitchen, rubbing her eyes and twisting the remains of a tissue.

“Damn allergies.” She mentioned aloud for the benefit of anyone watching.

Bait she thought I’m a big fat worm just wiggling and waiting to be devoured. She re-arranged the bouquet of fresh flowers for the third time, finally dumping them in the trash can. Curling into a ball on the couch, she forced herself to appear interested in a novel.

The sound at the door jumbled her muscles into tightly wound springs. Unfurling from the couch, she tiptoed to the door, finding the defeated form of Agent Woodward.

Showered and polished, still the black rings of defeat hung heavy under his eyes. The evening started with ‘I’m sorry to bother you at home’ and ‘It’s no bother.’

But it quickly became an impromptu feeding fest. Woodward had counted on an objection to his presence, so the extended dinner invitation surprised him.

So surprised, he found himself insisting that he buy everything. While he was gone her apartment underwent some major changes.

In the darkness that had settled the young operative had eschewed lights, favoring instead a myriad of candles. It gave the place an air of mystery, and like a secret meeting ground it forced a whisper

Somehow the mood also made his impulse purchase of wine appropriate. The small table overflowed with an incredible spread of pizzas, wings, and a deli-made layer cake.

The candlelight, wine, and yes even the grease-laden pizza seemed to have a surrealistic quality to them. God himself, Trent decided, could not have created a more perfect woman.

Her naturalness attracted him most. The way she ate more pizza than he did, and the way she welcomed him graciously into her home. It had taken less than one minute’s time to feel at home here.

Weeds in a flower field, the unwanted questions rose occasionally. But, Trent avoided the subtle plays, changing the topic as comfort demanded.

Obviously resigned to the fact that no more information would be offered, Nikita enabled the conversation to flow with surprising ease. And now - to soon - the feast of eyes, ears, and mouths seemed to be nearing an end.

Yes, he felt utterly at home here, maybe too at home. The buzzing and numbness from wine settled a wasp nest in his mind. He watched her spreading smile and innocuous move to top off his fourth glass of wine.

Trent shot her a disparaging look, and powered by wine-fed courage, retorted. “I wouldn’t have to be drunk for you to seduce answers from me.”

“You think I’m trying to seduce you?” She responded. A combination of perhaps anger and embarrassment flushed her cheeks crimson, reminding him again how great she would look in pink.

Laughing aloud, she added with some certainty “You’re right about one thing - I wouldn’t need the wine.”

Trent struggled with his emotions, feeling ashamed that he had ruined a beautiful evening, and angry that she thought him such an easy sale.

Trying to formulate a response, he comically stuttered several phrases - failing miserably to make any worthwhile point.

But she settled him, redeeming her charitable nature with a friendly pat to his arm. She apologized, setting the wine out of reach and offering him another wing instead.

“So you thought by getting me drunk you’d get your answers.” Trent quipped, taking the proferred wing and spearing a pepperoni from the pizza with his fork.

He cast her what he wished to be a sour expression, but in actuality it probably appeared more like he was sucking drool. Indeed his tongue now seemed to overflow the boundaries of his mouth.

Her eyes narrowed while her bottom lip pooched out slightly. “Time will tell.” She joked, wetting her finger and wiping some stain from his cheek.

She sat back, all at once something inside her shutting off. Eyes glazed over, wine glass just barely resting in the cradle of her thumb and index finger. She swayed slightly, watching something on an invisible screen before her - appearing totally unreachable.

“You know the world *we* live in?” Trent started with a laugh, continuing until he speckled his words with chuckles and snorts. “It’s a farce.” He confided in a half-whisper.

She studied him over the brim of her goblet before licking the beaded alcohol from her lips. The smirking - now a constant - did nothing to lessen her beauty. If anything it heightened it, Trent decided.

Laughter bubbled from his open mouth, and the beginnings of tears formed in his eyes. Tenderly brushing a stray tendril of hair from her face, he sorrowed, “I’m supposed to protect you, and I can’t even protect myself.”

He continued, insistently, too seriously. “I mean look at me - I carry a gun, and I can’t even shoot straight."

“I’ll teach you.” She promised, raising her eyebrows and moving unbearably closer. He could smell the odd mixture of wine and pizza floating with her hot breath, and something inside him shifted.

Hypnotized he watched as her fingers raised to entangle themselves in the black curls surrounding his face.

“I need to reach someone - a friend.” Her voice registered somewhere in the haze on his senses, but his focus was on her flitting gaze. It traveled the planes of his cheeks, engaged his eyes, then settled on his lips.

He moved forward, intent on capturing those wine-moistened lips. But she stopped him with two fingers across the lips. “Can you help me?”

Help her. Trent thought. I’d sell my soul to the Devil, drain oceans dry, and shower jelly bean raindrops - if only she’d let me taste her.

“Good.” He heard the word and nodded, because indeed everything seemed good, better than good maybe even excellent. Even when his eyelids could no longer support the weight of being open, Trent Woodward felt "good."

Shirt unbuttoned, shoes lifted from his feet, Agent Woodward never entertained the idea that he had been drugged with a potion much stronger than lust or booze.

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

For Trent Woodward the sensation started as a gentle teasing of his eyebrows. Slowly, deliciously a liquid-beaded necklace dropped wine colored pearls - one by one.

Mixing with the salty predisposition of arousal, they wound from his cavernous navel to the tips of his toes. Then harder - her kisses rained until the warm flicking of her tongue turned icy cold. Soft touch promises suddenly circled his wrists like manacles, pinning them with great force to the wall.

Trent Woodward’s eyes widened in astonishment, finding a man not a woman, dancing fields of green fury not passion-glazed circles of aqua.

Fear should have been his first thought, but hang it all, Trent felt only a keen sense of disappointment. He wilted quickly in more ways than one. The grip about his wrists loosened. Once free - Woodward's hands moved to sustain the rocking sensation of his head. Every movement registered itself in the newly opened Motel Pain.

Thrust under his nose - something white and fluffy. Pulled more than assisted, Trent tumbled out of the shower. Bare chested and barefoot with soaking wet pants, Trent glared as best he could at the intrusive black-cloaked figure.

Trent gripped his head as a wave of pain pierced his head. “You know Nikita, or do you just shower guests for her?”

The green orbs erred slightly from their penetrating hold on him, "I know her."

Trent continued to dry his chest and back, studying the tense figure before him and wondering exactly how well he knew Nikita. He didn't dwell long on the fact - his stomach wouldn't allow it.

A sudden wave of nausea shook him, driving him to hug the white porcelain bowl. Vomiting until Trent felt quite sure there could be nothing left of him, he wiped the sweat from his upper lip.

Collapsing sideways and leaning against the wall, long legs positioned themselves at odd angles.

The intruder stood in the doorway, holding a half-filled goblet of wine and studying it in the light. Dipped a finger and tasted it.

“She drugged you.” He concluded, dumping the remainder in the toilet and flushing it.

“Why?” Trent asked weakly, fighting another wave of nausea that assaulted him.

“I don’t know.”

“How well do you know her?” Trent asked, swallowing the rising bile, and trying unsuccessfully to locate something that wasn’t reeling.

“We work together.”

Trent retched again.

“You were in the garage, then?” Trent directed the question to the swirling, rise of clear water and the gentle spray that freckled his face.

No answer. Trent tilted his head and found an empty doorway.

Some time later Trent emerged each step small and contained, wavering slightly as he grappled the stairs. The man in black sat in the living room, casually rifling through all the items that Trent had brought.

“Hey, buddy that’s confidential.” Trent protested, making his way as quickly as his compromised state would allow.

“It’s Michael , and not anymore.” Calm eyes addressed Trent, and a slight gesture over the items precluded “Find out what’s missing.”

With a resigned sigh Trent plopped into a chair opposite Michael’s. “If you could find a cup of coffee, I’m sure this would go more quickly.”

A slight nod and a noiseless exit. Trent covertly noticed that Michael did not search for the items needed, but rather knew their place. One might think he felt very at home here.

Trent’s attention returned to the task at hand. And after two cups of coffee concluded that nothing seemed to be missing. Once this fact was presented, Michael started a barrage of questions that Trent felt none to happy answering.

But the feral quality that the hazel eyes provided left him little choice. Obviously this was a man who was seldom second-guessed, probably even held some power in the Section.

“So Michael why all the interest in the COS surveillance files on Nikita?” Trent queried, certain now that Michael had been the source of his terror in the garage.

“Better question. Where is Nikita?” Michael returned.

Nikita. Trent’s mind reeled. Until now he had assumed that Michael knew her whereabouts. Missing had never entered his mind, but the possibility and the ramifications therein served to drop his jaw, further confirming his ignorance of the matter.

“Surveillance?”

“Drugged. They remember nothing.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A black felt sky grew thumb-tack stars. Nature’s sounds grew silent as all laid down to rest. The tiny amber dot between two mountain heads - the only remaining traces of sunlight.

One by one a thwit, thwat, and thwut signaled the piling of winged insects on a makeshift graveyard windshield. The song of the their deaths somewhat lulling in its perpetual rhythm.

Nikita’s hand closed over the window’s crank, and she rolled a barrier between herself and the cool night winds. Garth sang about a rodeo until the radio station drowned in a bath of static.

“Out of range.” Her driver provided, reaching to find another station.

Beside her a fiery, red-tipped stick bobbed and weaved with the jostling movement of the yellow El Camino. Corners of the his lips and eyes lengthened beyond natural lines with the furrowing wrinkles. In contrast to his sun-dried leather skin, bright red hair riled about in no particular order.

Nikita reached the conclusion this was his desired appearance. He exuded a careless, hapless attitude that defied his alleged connection with Michael.

“Wondering howz the likes of me knows ‘bout Michael?” The driver supplied, scarcely removing his eyes from the road. His fingers tightened about the wheel, painting knuckles a ghoulish skeleton.

She nodded, continuing her survey. A pot belly stomach matched a double chin. The flesh of his feet overflowed his shoes, and his dry, rattling cough with the full ashtray of cigarette butts suggested a lengthy smoking history.

A veritable chimney stack, he couldn’t string five sentences between cigarettes. A stack of Marlboro’s separated them - a ready reserve to feed the addiction.

“I’m not Section.” He supplied, blowing a mouthful of smoke out his open window. “But ya pretty much knew that.”

Nikita nodded her confirmation.

“Fact is, I met Michael durin’ a high profile case in south Texas.” He paused, inhaling and swallowing a ring of smoke. Then with ragged breath continued. “I retired nearly eight years ago.” He tapped his right ear. “Honorable discharge if ya will.” A rumbling chuckle followed, quickly turning into a terrible fit of coughing.

“Your hearing?”

“Yep.” He confirmed, throwing his un-extinguished cigarette out the window. “Actually Michael - the little bastard - he’s the fat monkey that set me up.”

“Really?” She responded, interest now piqued.

The furrows widened bringing lines of his eyes and mouth impossibly closer. “Bloody stroke of luck! Came to startin' my own PI business. That’s right, ol’, Crispus here started having me a life - drinking beer, playing poker, loving the ladies.” ‘Ladies,’ he pronounced with a heavy accent on the ‘e’, sounding much like a wailing bagpipe.

Nikita shrugged at this, raising an eyebrow of slight consternation. Meeting people on the outside who knew Michael was losing its novelty. The man was positively an octopus of contacts.

“So is Crispus your first or last name?”

“First.”

Obviously, the conversation had reached its end. Her new friend had already lit another cigarette and begun singing “Your Cheating Heart” between puffs.

Nikita settled further into the seat with a sigh of regret- her freshly washed hair would now reek of smoke.

The darkened countryside, barren, consisted of flat nothingness.Strange that civilization stops and starts like mere blips of ink on landscape pages. A bright yellowish halo surrounded the upcoming string of mountains, suggesting impending civilization.

Crispus suggested that she sleep, and quite honestly the idea seemed quite a good one. Content now that all rested in Michael’s hands. A blonde head succumbed to the heaviness of slumber, and thirsty skin drank from the coolness of the perspiring window.

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

A buzzing sound in her left ear awakened Nikita. Unconsciously, her hand flew to badger away the distraction.

Head wet and damp from the window's perspiration, she groggily surveyed her surroundings. A jacket, reeking of smoke, covered her chin to knees. Before her a dimly lit window stood out against the heavy cloak of dark forestation.

A thorough search of the car found a host of old receipts, empty matchbooks, and scrawled notes. A wrinkled picture of a dapper looking Crispus decked out in his finest police blues. Forty pounds thinner and smiling he stood at attention while receiving a medal of some sorts. The date on the back placed it somewhere near the timeframe Crispus had given her.

A rap on her window startled Nikita from her reverie.

"Finished, Nancy Drew?" Crispus opened the car door, and from the red shading of his cheeks, her explorations were not appreciated. The tone sarcastic bit worse than the digging fingers that surrounded the soft flesh of her upper arm.

Half-dragged towards a shed-like shelter, Nikita gave no protest to the angry reaction.

Once inside, Nikita faced a pacing Crispus, huffing and puffing, gesturing wildly without yet saying a word. He stomped to his stash of cigarettes and lit one. Taking three deep puffs, the words that had been trouble finding came in like a rolling tide.

"I'm doin' you a favaar, ya know that!" Three more puffs. "Ya don't have right to my life like that." He extinguished the half-smoked butt, spitting on his fingers and rubbing them against his polyester pants before promptly lighting another.

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again." Nikita insisted, trying to reassure him with a smile.

"Damn right it won't!" Saliva flew from his mouth with each harsh syllable. Blowing smoke upward, he stalked purposely towards her.

Habit and training forced Nikita's defensive stance - one that only garnered a responsive snort from Crispus.

"I ain't gonna hurt ya." Crispus defended, offering her a cigarette, which she declined.

Nikita nervously scratched her upper arms, trying to prevent the shivering from overcoming her entire body. Dimly lit, the residence represented the essence of functional - no amenities, just the bare basics.

"Do you live here?" She wondered, tracking his movements about in the tiny kitchen. Crispus had grabbed two cans of black and white generic- either soup or pork and beans - neither of which appeared desirable. Her stomach rumbled against the cautious thinking causing her think twice about her reservations.

Thankful for the near darkness of the room, she picked at the clumpy concoction in front of her. Her prying fork found some of the lumps too difficult to spear, so she resigned herself the thick liquid surrounding.

"Nah, I don't live here." Crispus cast what looked to be a discerning eye around the place. "I supposed it was Michael's doin' - the whole hiding out thing, ya know."

"Is he going to contact me? I mean, how long are we going to stay here?" She questioned.

Two bites of the lukewarm lumpiness firmly entrenched the unsavory nature of the bowl's content. Pushing the bowl forward signaled she was finished.

"I'm leavin' first light, " Crispus directed a pointed finger into his chest wall further emphasizing the point. "An' then I'll forget thatcha ever existed." He grinned widely reveling a jagged line of teeth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two pots of coffee later, Trent's mind began to function with its first coherent thought. Suspicions grew concerning the fortuitous nature of Michael's calling. Agent Woodward surmised two things about the intense figure before him. Playing by the rules and adhering to Agency guidelines were not the things in which Michael excelled.

"What?" Michael petitioned in a manner that warranted answer.

Trent quickly averted his eyes, embarrassed by his frank calculations. "A strange thought just occurred to me." Trent paused, waiting for the usual conversational reply to such a leading statement.

The facial expression before him remained unchanged. Trent ventured further. "The surveillance tapes - I only garnered a preliminarily view, but I'm almost certain that I observed you lurking about the area."

Woodward awaited a denial, a defensive rise in anger, or even a dissuasive nod, but received nothing.

"You have nothing to say to that?" Trent questioned in obvious disbelief. "The mere suggestion would bring Section disapproval and definite repercussions."

"Yes." Came the strange man's response.

"Yes." Trent repeated, licking his lips and leaning forward as if some secret could be revealed in the calculated blank demeanor. "That's all you have to say... yes."

Silence became a standardized answer to each and every question that followed.

Fed up with spinning circles. Trent offered one final disapproving "Yeah." Rising under the pretense of leaving, Trent shook his head defeatedly.

His briefcase packed, coat in hand, He was halted physically by a force surrounding his right shoulder.

"You can help me." Michael stated simply with understated emotion.

Trent shifted his briefcase. Eyes trying to avoid what could be classified as pleading in the young man's eyes. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me." Trent replied flippantly, moving to go.

In a split second Michael stood before Trent blocking the exit. Gone was the doleful pleading, and in its place was a glint of determination.

"What do you want, Michael?" Trent demanded the old anger of helplessness re-surfacing. With a thud the briefcase dropped; the jacket joined it with a billowing sigh. "For all I know this whole thing is just a way out for you and Nikita."

Trent whirled backward, pacing a line perpendicular to Michael's position.

"You have someone follow her, get the Section riled up about it. She goes COS, and you whisk her away to Never Never Land." Trent was shouting now, becoming angrier still at the absolute lack of emotion Michael evidenced. "Bye Bye Section forever. So... am I getting warm, Don Juan?" 'Don Juan' - Trent recognized as a cheap shot, but it had provided a perverse sense of comfort.

Trent loosened his tie and un-tucked his shirt, feeling that his anger justified a rumpled appearance. Sweating from his exertion, Trent realized that Michael had journeyed to the couch and was clasping his head between his hand in obvious reflection.

"I'm sorry." Trent mumbled, automatically. "I'm just not used to..."

"What is it that you want?" Michael interrupted.

Trent scrutinized the enigma before him, justifying his grief with his words. Slumping into a chair and splaying his legs like a wooden doll, Trent played with the ring adorning his left hand. "The power to guarantee that Diane will re-marry me, raise fat babies, and ranch on a farm in West Indiana."

Trent watched the slightest nod of acquiescence from Michael and had to laugh.

"Seeing you accomplish that... that would be reward enough. " Trent responded - in essence agreeing and in essence signing some un-written treaty.

"There's a lot to be done." Michael ordered, rising quickly and brushing past Trent's extended legs.

Trent saluted the area that Michael had once inhabited. A treaty with the Devil - that's what this is Trent thought.

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

It wasn't much but the small Section camera in Nikita's hallway had captured a shadowed visage of a portly man, rapping on Nikita's door. A few minutes later he was seen exiting with Nikita.

Trent felt uncomfortable hacking into Section surveillance files. His fingers literally trembled over the keyboard. The shadowing by Michael only worsened the discomfort growing like a snarly tree wrapping branches through his intestine.

"Wouldn't it be easier for you to do this?" Trent wondered to the computer screen. Luckily, Anne had been as charmed by Michael as she had been with Nikita. She had left them alone, but that didn't keep Woodward from nervously glancing towards the door every few seconds.

"I could get fired for this." Woodward realized that his tone had taken a definite whining pitch.

"You're almost done." Michael switched sides, leaning over Trent's left shoulder.

"Won't the Section realize the tap?" Still the whining.

"We isolated our position. It should be days before the accessed files are detected."

Ten hours later, Michael identified the mysterious man. Not by surveillance but by an encrypted voice mail.

"Hey man it's Crispus, 'member the old blue that you 'afted outta the protectin' business." A burp interrupted the communique, and from the slurred speech the speaker sounded drunk. "Little chickadee is safe, uh, the coo-coo has landed. Ah, and, I hate this crap."

The line deadened. Agent Woodward watched as Michael replayed the message six or more times.

"You know him." Trent accused, lips wrinkling in the dissatisfaction of being foiled.

Trent Woodward watched in amazement the metamorphosis that Michael's face underwent. Ashen gray and fairly tremulous, Michael ordered, "Move."

When Trent failed to move fast enough, Michael pushed his rolling chair backward, commandeering Trent's keyboard from a standing position.

In a moment's time Crispus Atwood's picture rotated in the left corner of the computer screen - by the picture an address.

Michael cast a meaningful look towards Trent, grabbed his overcoat. Trent followed a step behind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was as scrappy excuse for a house. Half - blue, half - white the paint roller and ladder suggested a job half-completed. A yellow El Camino matched the yellow turf of grass and the faded spinning wheels in a mock flower garden. Yesterday's paper joined today's, forming an uncomely teepee.

Stepping around a growing puddle of water fed by an immersed green hose, Trent quirked a questioning eyebrow. Howling sounds greeted their intrusion while a lopsided black mailbox confirmed AT_OOD with silvery letters.

An anxious Basset hound - the source of the howling - growled low at their entrance then started to whimper pathetically. Cowering, belly to the ground he circled their legs.

Sinking in the pit of his belly, Trent observed the puddles of urine and feces, empty dog bowl, and disconnected phone. They all suggested the same horrible thing.

They weaved an intricate pattern, journey ending in a cluttered living room. Papers, books, and beer cans adorned the darkened room.

Lifting a yellowed shade found Crispus sitting - King of his castle - in an overstuffed orange chair, his throne. Red head dropped forward as if in sleep - he was altogether dead.

Two hours later, Trent sat listless in Michael's auto- in his lap a basset hound affectionately licking his hand with soothing motions.

"We have to involve the Section." Trent ventured, not bothering to look from his side mirror view.

"It's a death sentence." Michael countered.

"For Nikita?" Trent quirked an eyebrow.

"And for you."

Trent shrugged - from indifference or to rouse his sleepy head, and blinked deliberately.

"So what about you?"

"I'm just trying to escape. Remember?" Michael's hands tightened over the steering wheel. Small pattering rain drops formed rolling streams on the windshield. And a flash of lightning illuminated the darkening sky.

Trent felt a sudden gush of guilt, remembering his hasty statement from before. "So what are our options."

"Our options." Michael cast a sideways meaningful glance towards Trent. "I've seen your personnel file..."

Old feelings of inadequacy bubbled - a witch's brew tormenting the lining of his stomach. Trent felt his eyes narrow and a resurgence of false bravado colored his words doughty "And?"

"You would be more a liability than an asset." Michael furthered.

The words were true, perhaps even generous in nature. Trent conceded mentally. His lower lip formed the beginnings of a pout, nevertheless. Vision of the child that no one wanted on their team - the little boy left kicking the dirt while others evaluated just how little they wanted him.

Shifting in his seat, and elbowing away the suddenly anxious hound, Trent found himself insisting that Michael allow him to help.

Further deepening his position, he half-heartedly reminded Michael that his future in the Section would depend on him. Laughable thought, as if this man of steely control and vigor would cease to exist without Trent's endorsement.

Michael didn't laugh, as Trent thought he might; instead, he merely nodded. Could there be a more ambiguous response to such a tirade?

The conversation ended as the zealous hound finally let loose his bundle of yappy energy in a stream of urine - urine soaking Trent's left pant leg. Perfectly fitting.

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

The orange-colored sun perfected a splash-less dive into a hungry ocean. Waves hungrily devoured the fruit offering, casting the world in that perfect haze of dusk. Though not the visible the sun cast remnants of light, creating a veritable shadowland. The pier, wooden and rickety groaned loudly, threatening to break apart, yet the merriment aboard continued.

Vendors pushed the steamy hotdogs, salty pretzels, and fresh flowers. Song and dance shows gathered a few interested people willing to toss loose change for the performances. Tourists with purple zinc noses, couples in worlds all their own walked the creaky planks. Surfers below two somber watchers bobbed with each rhythmic belly thrust of water, chattering amongst themselves that language of the unafraid.

Ten degrees cooler by the water, but humid, Trent had removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the first three buttons of his wrinkly white shirt. Breezes riling his black curls and reminding him that he had not showered in two days.

Michael consented not the stuffy weather, seeming in many ways transplanted. Clothing black, face somber and white without sun, he was a winter traveler in a summer wonderland.

Buying time while waiting for a flight back to Section One, they stood strangers in a foreign land. Here were people more concerned about tanning lines, then lines of battle. Careless, hapless, weightless - their gaiety emerged trifling shallow and dully one-dimensional.

"I told you - the less you know the better." Michael murmured in that low voice that signaled no debate could sway him. His white knuckled- grip on the wooden railing steadied his figure against the brisk wind that arose.

Trent pitched the last of his purchased birdseed into the swarm of seagulls hanging in a tight circle, squawking their indignance at his empty hands. "Better for me or better for you?" Trent scorned.

"It's just better." Michael answered low, casting his gaze to the open space between land and air.

Trent's voice lowered, not menacing but frightfully serious. "I'm sure in the Section your orders are taken without question. But, I am not some murdering, thieving, rapist who tortured his sister, beat his wife, and killed some sales clerk because my drunken father locked me in a cellar."

Trent's fist pounded the railing beside Michael, scarcely gaining a flickering eyelid in response. "I am a law-abiding citizen who just happened to possess brains enough to interest the government and heart enough not to use it for mercenary gain."

Trent heaved a sigh, feeling a tremendous burden lifted. The hazel pools directed toward him seemed a trifled amused - thankfully not angry. The slight pursing of lips seemed to consent that yes, Agent Trent Woodward had finally developed a sense of stamina and resolve replacing his naive indolence.

"So." Trent maneuvered over the railing, leaning under Michael's gaze. "Tell me what's going on."

"What is it that you don't understand?"

Noting the underlying tone of annoyance, Trent proceeded despite. Squinting his eyes in the growing darkness, he tried to decipher the small sigh and quirked lips. "Why would Nikita kill your contact?"

"She wouldn't kill him."

"So who did?" Trent prompted, turning just in time to face to the dwindling crowd on the pier.

"Ya wanna hotdog Mister?" A large hatted kid with abundant freckling stuck a wilted wiener under Trent's nose. "Two for a dollar, there are only four left."

Shrugging, Trent reached into his pocket, digging for change.

"What about him?" Freckles nodded to Michael.

Getting no response, Trent dumped a handful of change into the opened hands, and grabbed two soggy, bunned dogs.

"Your change." The boy insisted.

"Keep it; start your college fund." Trent instructed, cramming half the first dog, un-garnished, into his mouth.

"Wow! Three bucks that should get me places." The boy sneered, pulling the brim of his hat further over his sunburned face and scurrying away.

Trent shook his head, wondering just where the youth of today were headed. Worse than he thought - hot dogs were lukewarm and shriveled, and buns were soggy with the sapped juices, Trent heaved the last hotdog off the pier, watching as night enveloped the sailing dog.

"Maybe Nikita isn't who you think she is." Trent offered, licking the salty grease from his fingers.

"You think that she's capable of what we saw today?" Michael's voice sounded weary tired. His posture stooping as he leaned heavily on the railing.

"I think..." Trent paused, remembering the giving of the crystal rose, the wiping of the pizza stains from his face, and the smiling lips pink and soft. "I don't know what to think." Trent chuckled, shaking his head and turning to face the water again.

"Nikita's running out of options, and so are we." Michael murmured softly.

"You say she's not capable of murder, but then how did get into the Section?" Trent inquired.

"Still leaning towards your theory of mine and Nikita's escape?" Michael glanced sideways at Trent, suggesting with his narrow-slitted eyes the stupidity of such thinking.

Woodward shrugged. "They sent me her dossier; I could easily have read what I'm asking for."

"Why didn't you." Michael pushed back from the pier and faced Trent.

Facing Michael, Woodward's tone rang honest and vulnerable, "Because the moment I saw her, I could think of nothing less than saving her." He llaughed, opening his mouth to the sky. "Because, she is tough in a way that demands help." He eyeballed Michael, seeking reassurance and getting it in the form of two sharply raised eyebrows.

Voice lowered, reverently and reflectively Trent continued, "It's odd, but I felt, still feel ...driven to help her."

Feeling the weight of Michael's full attention, Trent returned, "You must feel something of that, or you wouldn't be going to all this trouble"

Michael glanced quickly away, turning toward the soothing song of the ocean. Despite the protective withdrawal, Woodward could almost bet the nature of surfacing emotions floating in and over eyes and mouth.

"She murdered a policeman in cold blood." Michael muttered. Eyes returned to Trent dead and dark.

Trent felt his lower jaw drop open. Air deflated slowly from the balloon of his high hopes, but he had to laugh. "All right, don't tell me. But if you're going to lie then at least make it believable."

"I'm not lying. The woman you speak of ... she's a street rat, a whore, a druggie, a thief, and ultimately a con artist. She's whoever you wish her to be, Trent." Eyes scrunched, lips snarled, the word spewed forth in a rush of bloated emotion.

Trent swallowed a gulp, feeling suddenly nauseated by the feral quality of man that stood before him. Weakly dropping to a wooden bench, he sought dark blue watery blanket ruffling white waves in the wind.

"I know what you're doing." Voice at a whisper, Woodward sat motionless, letting his heart speak without his mind's prohibition. "I did the same thing after Diane left me. It seemed so much easier to imagine her a horrid person. My angry thoughts sought every miniscule fault and magnified it until soon the fault was large enough to smother my breaking heart."

Sadness choked his faulty voice, yet Trent continued. "Nikita may indeed be lost to us. But I won't let your fear and anger make you see less of her."

Michael's sudden retreat startled Trent into reacting. Standing quickly, Trent shouted "Lie to me, lie to your heart and mind, but don't lie to your soul, because then you lie to her."

The pace of the rigid silhouette quickened. Disgusted, Trent licked the sea spray salt from his lips and shook his head, thinking to himself what a broken pair he and Michael made.

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

"Agent 238179 Classification Code CAS."

An automated voice answered. "Compromised Agent Services (CAS) clearance complete. Please, enter your sixteen digit numeric code and hold."

The hold wasn't long, and a tired voice sounding like the color gray answered. "It's been too long, Margaret."

"It never mattered - the time we spent apart. Besides it's Anne now."

"Anne, then." Came his reply. "You should use my title..."

"Operations, yes I know it." Anne hesitated, waffling between "Margaret" - headstrong agent of old - and "Anne" - the retired secretary who simply felt old.

Pulling back the receiver Anne judged with her eyes the monotone effort afforded her contact. Feeling a rush of warmth and color to her face, she concluded that she had obviously done the wrong thing in calling. Not that shouts of jubilation had been expected, but a warm 'hello' would have gone a long way.

Sticky fingers, wet with sweat of apprehension, gripped the receiver tightly. No turning back now, she thought.

"I know why you're calling." The voice, though abrupt, maintained an underlying tenderness.

That flavor of "what-once-was" encouraged Anne to reign in her retort of 'so you did get that God license from Crackerjacks. Let's see how well it works.'

"You have found yet another lost cause with which to divest yourself." Operations soured.

Experience aided the vivid picture of his snarly scowl, coating his words with bitter salt.

"The reason we have rules is to enforce order." A tired schoolteacher re-buffing a naughty student, Anne felt very much the recipient of a scolding.

"I see." She answered; thinking to herself what a magnificent waste this was turning out to be. This type of interplay was precisely the reason that theirs had never been more than a tenuous, lust-filled rivalry.

"You see." His voice sagged with sighing, but continued, "What exactly do you see, Marg..., uh, Anne?"

I see that I have wasted my time and yours floated over the tip of her tongue. Teeth clamped tightly, Anne prevented the words. If he persisted in goading her, his overly sensitive ears would hear the pleasure of her soccer whistle. The whistle gleamed a tortuous temptation, and a hesitant finger rubbed its shiny belly.

"What will the Section require of them when all is said and done?" Anne inquired, forcing her tone to that of papery thinness - one that she hoped would be interpreted as politeness.

"Justice."

"Justice." She scorned. "And, I thought the Section was above that." The words slipped over her tongue, bringing a wince to her wrinkled face.

"I knew that I could count on your humor, to make a bad situation worse." His voice sounded strained, his breathing slightly more raspy.

"Humor isn't always such a bad thing." Anne persisted, fiddling with the crystal rose that cast prisms of rainbow colors over her desktop.

"You see yourself in her, Anne." Lulling, sweet honey - his tone became familiar as an old lover. "I see it too, but it's not going to be enough."

"No, mostly likely not. But this is more about him though; isn't it?" Anne's back gained ramrod stiffness; her lips curled inward, entrapping the broiling anger.

"When will he have paid enough? When are the books closed, and the past forgotten?" She consciously lowered her voice. The office white noise could not hope to cover the explosion of her flaring temper.

"And what price tag would you place on my wife's life?" His lowered voice matched hers, deceiving in its quiet smoldering.

She tapped the desk, furiously with her pencil, and then pushed the whistle inside her open desk drawer. The temptation was too great. Standstill and silence - their past dominated this present - proved that bad things never change.

"Besides, without the past, there can be no future." Operations answered - tone dry and patronizing in its sing-songey rhythm.

With a loud laugh Anne mocked him. "Self-pity, doesn't become you. And, there's a difference between using the past and dwelling there permanently."

"I think I must hate you, Anne." He hissed, speech sounding insistent as if his lips were pressed against her ears.

Listening attentively, Anne heard the tired rubbing of his face. Something she recognized only by sound years later. Instantly full of remorse, Anne offered, "That's probably one of the nicest things you've ever said." Tone light and airy, she instantly forgave him, recognizing that the enemy was not he, but the Section.

"And I do miss you." A raspy whisper confided.

There it was - the vulnerability that he hid so well inside his cloak of covert darkness. Sweet daggers in her heart, it had won her then, today it was winning again.

"You, Operations, overseer of Section One." Anne's lips spoke against the receiver. Her plain, unadorned lips moving against the warm plastic. "You have the power to write your own history, and make your people believe whatever you tells them."

Closing her eyes, she willed her message straight to his heart - a heart that she knew to be fair and loving.

"I know you, Margaret."

He didn't correct his mistake. Maybe he wished to speak to "Margaret" and not Anne, or maybe he as she suffered from lack of sleep. Either way, Anne decided that she much preferred the name "Margaret," especially the way he said it.

"You called here because you know something, and now you're wondering how the Section will use it." He accused.

The conversation continued with the game of 'give - and- take' Mostly she gave and he took. And when good-byes echoed a distant memory, Anne sat alone in the bustling of retired operatives. The scurry of their activity skimmed over her, drenching her with indifference.

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

Squirming in an airport lobby's plastic chair, Trent rubbed sweaty palms over his wrinkled pants and nervously eyeballed Michael's activities. Blending with the shadows in an obscure corner, Michael's mouth hovered over his cellular phone; fingers pressed against the opposite ear. Over the rows of plastic seats, Trent nodded to Michael's unspoken commands of staying alert.

Busying himself with "agently" duties, Trent observed the milling force of peopled sea around him. Brows scrunched, teeth gritted; all persons seemed obsessed with the self-same set of goals - getting the hell out of Dodge - or D.C as the case would have it.

Sticky warmth of recycled air breathed musty life into listless crowds. A folded pamphlet addressing airplane safety served a fan, while Trent's mind raced with odd fantasies of how Section One might dispose of him.

After all, when Section One isolated his unauthorized inquiries, they wouldn't exactly consider firing him. Agencies such as the Section never "fired" anyone. Maybe they did, Trent suddenly thought to himself. His vivid imagination concocted a gargantuan furnace, complete with an evil, poker-holding executioner.

Shivering in spite of the rolling sweat, Woodward shook his head to clear his thoughts. Michael's figure slowly approaching provided Trent with an opportunity for observation. Broad shoulders stood stiffer; jaw squeezed just a smidgen tighter.

Trent fell into step beside him, and together they surfed the crowded waves, pushing to surface in yet another zoo - the parking lot.

Screaming brakes, whistling cabbies, honking horn - a circus of transportation awaited their applause. Fighting to maintain a three-foot square of territory, Trent pushed forward.

An odd sensation started in the tips of his fingers. Feeling as though both limbs had fallen asleep, he became increasingly alarmed as the sensation rose with aching fulfillment to his neck.

Saliva gathered a bubbly froth in his nose and mouth causing him to sputter. Mind commanded hands to break an impending fall. Yet into the busy street Trent collapsed. Eyes, open and dry from not blinking, focused on the approaching rubber tires. Flinching as they rolled ever nearer, Trent felt his last sensation - road dust choking his opened mouth.

Black hood removed, Trent's black curls stood with static. The firm, leading hand under his left arm released its grip. Several blinks brought the world around him into focus.

Though he towered above the petite brown suit standing before him, Woodward felt desperately nervous and cautious. Molasses eyes held him sticky in their glare.

"Agent Woodward, it was thought at one time that your services might be useful in retrieving one of our people. Since then, our thinking has changed." She stepped closer, her eyes finding amusement that her lips did not. "We expect your full cooperation in doing whatever is necessary to satisfactorily resolve this situation."

His nod came automatically - more a response than a sign of agreement.

Leather pumps turned carrying the delicate form above them away.