Light pressure at Trent's back implied that he should follow. The journey ended in room that she - the suit - called Systems. Unlike his Agency office, not a soul wore nametags. Nods and shallow, tight-lipped smiles carried the bulk of communications. Woodward felt himself automatically returning the occasional nod tossed in his direction.
The journey ended over a goggled-eye boy, screaming orders to the floating lint in the air (obviously a rebel in matters of Systems' communication protocol).
Pausing mid-sentence, the crew-cut kid looked half-strangled. "You're Trent Woodward."
Within seconds, Boy Wonder, (Trent gave nicknames to everyone) stood in front of Trent furiously pumping his hand.
Vision jiggling from the force of such a hearty greeting, Trent managed a shaky smile.
"I knew it!" The boy exclaimed, observing Trent as one might observe such legends as Big Foot and the Abominable Snowman. "I've studied your work; read your theories... Gosh, I just can't believe it's really you."
Both hands ran through the shortage of hair before again grabbing Trent's right hand. The furious pumping jumbled Trent's reply, but Woodward gathered that it hardly mattered to his admirer.
The suit left and with her the sense of foreboding. Trent felt himself relax incrementally, knowing even as he did so - relaxing was a mistake.
Recipient of a Systems tour, Trent immediately focused on the surveillance tapes. Even without a audio feed, he found himself entranced. Of interest a bare, gray office where the brown suit stood statuesque above a motionless Michael.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Subconsciously aware of being observed, Michael sat motionless behind his computer, files untouched on his desk, his intercom switched off, and calls left unanswered.
Somehow, Section One had known about Michael and Trent's alliance - that leak in information had brought them back. His actions, not quick enough, had failed to reach his objective - rescuing Nikita. Woodward caught in the web added yet another casualty of war.
Madeline appeared in his doorway, "You haven't been responding to your calls."
"Woodward?" Michael greeted her.
"He's been cooperative as expected."
"Does he know of our plans?" Michael inquired.
"No." Madeline responded coolly. There was more to be said; Michael could sense it in her tone - the one that made every statement seem a question. This tactic left one feeling the need to fill the gap, say something... anything to answer that question.
Michael settled tented hands on his desk, steadfastly resisting that urge. He might well have drawn a line in the sand.
Madeline's form started. A quick jerk of her chin communicated that she had tried.
"Your performance has been less than acceptable." She paused, waiting a response and getting none. "The unauthorized actions you undertook for Nikita's benefit have rendered you responsible. Furthermore, your interference has severely limited our options."
Michael nodded, answering affirmatively.
"Will you be able to perform the duties necessary once the Section has located Nikita?" Her directness pinned him with unrelenting force.
"Yes." Michael answered with great certainty - too much certainty.
"You realize that Nikita's status is no longer salvageable. Under no pretense can she be allowed to re-enter the Section." Madeline further goaded.
"We could use her as bait; lure the opposing party to a false location." Michael attempted, meeting her gaze then standing to view the activity beyond the blinds of his office.
Her silence beckoned his attention. Once getting it, the smile that she held for him seemed more a hangman's noose.
"Obviously, we were mistaken in your objectivity concerning this matter, Michael." She returned. "We can assign this matter to another team, but we thought that you would need closure." She stepped to join his view.
"That's not necessary." Michael dismissed. "There will be closure." He promised the dusty blinds.
*************
Three days of rustic forestland fraternizing, and three nights of treetop whispered promises. This haven of safety carved from amongst the pines felt lonesome - the shed-like lodging increasingly cramped. Communing with Nature had grown tiresome, as had counting the same stars night after night.
Sitting cross-legged in the knee - high golden grass, Nikita restlessly chewed and twirled a long blade of grass. Aloud- to the wind and sky - she contemplated her payback to Michael - that is when and if he ever decided to arrive.
With nothing to do but brood and revel in self-induced insomnia, Nikita grew increasingly edgy and vulnerable. Twenty-four more hours she promised herself, then she would follow the retreating tire tracks of Crispus' escape.
Swatting away the pesky mosquitoes, she itched multiple, swollen bumps. "I'm going to die of malaria." She shouted to the sympathetic, cloud-freckled sky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was square. It was white. It was dull. And now "it" was... home.
Trent Woodward rummaged through cardboard boxes - old records, championship chess trophies, and a framed picture of his wedding day. So happy - he and Diane cutting the cake - her small hand lost in his; his goofy smile that at the time had seemed so permanent.
Disgusted at the rising stench of self-pity, Trent stashed the picture, and with it his memories. Equipped with multiple PCs, keyboards, his old college yearbooks and diplomas, the room appeared almost homey.
This room with all its attempts at comfort failed in one major area. He had no key. Throwing himself against the steel door repeatedly - while relieving a fair amount of frustration - had furbished him with nothing more than bruised shoulders. If they were watching him as he had watched Michael moments before, then they must be getting a good laugh at his expense.
Michael entered - confidence evident in his sharp attire and stiff strut. His green-eyed gaze traveled the whole the room before coming to rest on Trent. "I didn't intend for things to end up this way." Michael offered.
"Well, what did you intend?" Trent asked in a huff, taking great care to make excessive amounts of noise midst rustling through his things.
"To get Nikita back." Michael answered quietly.
Trent nodded to his smiling grad picture, answering, "Well at least that's still possible."
"Maybe."
"What has the Section come up with so far?" Trent questioned, investing his attention in the dusty relic of his bronzed chess piece - a knight.
"Not much." Michael answered, circling the room. To Woodward, his manner suggested that more wanted to be said. "They're analyzing the usual forensics."
Trent nodded, nonplussed.
"We need you to resurrect 'Q Factor'." Michael stated abruptly.
Rising quickly to a sitting position, Trent felt his stomach souring. A perfectly clear picture presented itself in Michael's simple request. True you had to read the between the lines to get there, but Trent realized that his future depended on this demand performance. Locate Nikita or die.
Whatever happened to Michael just needing his help? Trent wondered. Not that Woodward minded being escorted everywhere by Fabio and his dark-haired twin, but a life existed for him outside these walls.
"And when I've found her?" Trent questioned Michael's back.
Michael paused mid-stride, as though the question had had physical force. Recovering quickly, Michael exited without reply.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The popping of the wet wood startled Nikita; it echoed like gunfire. Twisting her hair around her fingers, she charted the flickering shadows of the lurking rocker chair and lanterns. Pictures of grotesquely shaped objects shimmered like animated toy figures in the wavering firelight.
The chuckling fire zapped a careless moth, and chill bumps surfaced her warm body. Peering out the window into the black abyss of night, Nikita surveyed the darkened tree line. A shadow seemed to weave the maze, dimly spotlighted by the faceless moon.
Suddenly illuminated - two furrows of white light, blinding by fire and moonlight standards.
"Michael." Nikita's first thought pushed through closed lips.
The furrows stayed lit, and the dull roar of engine ceased. Swarms of insects danced a tango in the stream of liquid light. Nikita could hear their heralding buzz as she stepped outside the door.
Shielding her eyes from the light, her bare feet scuffled the uneven boards of the porch, catching splinters that failed to register pain.
Still wary and unable to see, she stumbled closer. "Michael?"
Hair lit up like a halo; blond hairs statically swimming her vision, she ventured forward.
One word to comfort, drive wild, or terrify. She heard it - "No."
Muscles jived and jimmied, perplexed with the contradictory signals that her brain kept firing. Fingers became claws; toes were shovels lifting loose dirt.
....the sound of a gun being chambered and crunching leaves under heavy footsteps.
************
Nikita slid on slippery leaves, wet with early morning dew. Stealth not being the issue - he had a flashlight and shoes, she didn't- she battled through the dense foliage..
One thought consumed body and soul - run faster, then faster still. She could see his shadowy silhouette everywhere - in front, behind, both sides. Darkness treated each tree stump a glowering armed attacker.
Feet bruised and muddied, Nikita stopped, consciously slowing her breathing and controlling her fear.
Outgunned and outmaneuvered, she didn't have to be outsmarted. Crouching in the moonlight shadows, with much effort Nikita stilled her shaking limbs . Silence, save the creaking of crickets and chatter of ground life.
Creeeck...cracccck - sounds of snapping branches. His breathing labored raspy. The flashlight's piercing eye investigated every bush and shrub.
The bouncing beam breezed in and around her position, and she heard squeaking leather with his every step.
"I can hear you." He whispered.
Darkness penetrated on either side of her tree. "I can smell your fear."
Gritting her teeth, palms relaxed along the soft dirt, moving to find some weapon.
"Come out, Come out, wherever you are." He taunted.
Tiny pebbles her only reward; she carefully scooped two between her fingers. Holding her breath and judging his search pattern, she tossed them away from her position.
The beam swung as anticipated following the sound; she emerged to tackle the beam carrier. Her force brought them both to the ground, flashlight and gun careening out of reach.
They grappled, dirt rubbing her bare arms, scratchy sticks poking her back. The feel of his massive thighs, they entrapped hers. His size was proving a definite disadvantage when paired with his obvious skill.
His hot, panting breath smelled of soured milk, and occasional droplets of spit showered her face from his exertion. With massive effort she brought one knee to connect with his groin. His grip slighted, she squirmed from his hold.
Rushing towards the fallen gun, her spread hands combed the leafy ground cover, while eyes anxiously peered at his gyrations.
Seeing him stand with flashlight in hand, Nikita froze in her efforts, then ran. Four yards later, something hard contacted the back of her head, fluttering her vision into wide circles of bright red and blue.
Walking as though drunk, she staggered. Crawling, she heard his slow stalking. Reduced to lying on her belly, she gauged her last strike.
The kick that her mind had ordered fell dreadfully short in real time. Her masked tormentor grabbed her foot, twisting so that she landed on her belly with a sob.
His weight mated her hips with the unforgiving earth. Squirming, grinding body and chest pressed downward against hers.
Huge hands meshed with her hair and pushed her head into the wormy earth. Pulling up sharply, Nikita sputtered dried leaves, pebbles and dirt, coughing, retching, and catching just enough air before he shoved her down again.
"What do you want?" The young operative cried. Head jerked upwards, tears of pain and indignation mixed muddy streams on her cheeks.
Cold metal linked her wrists behind her back. Drawn to her feet, she heard his order. "Back to the house."
Feet sorely abused tip-toed back to the flickering light and smoking chimney.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Masked removed, Nikita found her attacker just short of ugly. Head too small for the rest of his body, massive amounts of hair covered him nose to ear. In contrast to the sandy blonde hair on his head, his beard was coal black. Skin strikingly white contrasted dark green eyes; his hooked nose seemed a mushroom to the overgrowth of his beard.
She studied him as he studied her.
"I thought you'd be bigger." The bearded man spoke at long last.
She quirked an eyebrow, fuming underneath. "Big enough to kick your ass."
He seemed un-impressed by her banter. "Michael..."
"You know, Michael?" She interrupted.
"I know him." He answered.
"Of course, you do." Nikita answered with a sigh. "Did he send you up here to terrorize me, test me?"
Chugging a bottle a brandy, the man wiped the beaded waste from his beard. "Anyone ever tell you that you ask too many questions?" He questioned, his hairy eyebrows drawing into on scruffy black worm.
Hours later and roped to the water pump, she watched his massive belly rise and fall with sonorous snoring.
If her ceaseless attempts to break free of the water pump had annoyed him, he never roused to show it. Morning came and with it the headache of not sleeping. Surviving on three hours of sleep in four days, Nikita bordered on delirious.
"What now?" She petitioned, observing him ducked over a plate of food, shoveling things inside his furry chin forest.
"History lessons." The man affirmed between bites.
************
King of his castle, Operations surveyed his scurrying tenants beneath him. Devoted to their tasks, their attention focused solely on the job. A small smile formed - the smile of a man on top of his world.
"Still like to watch." A woman observed. Sultry tone gave the speaker's words a double meaning.
"What are you doing here?" He questioned, softly as if to doubt her existence. Shoulders startled then settled, while his hands gripped the edge of the table. And the realm below clouded a different color with her present. He didn't see order; he saw dementia.
"You should learn how to ask for help." She chided him. She joined him - her movements silent and ghost-like. A small, lithe figure flanked his on the window.
Breath held, every muscle tensed, he feared the movement that could destroy this visage. Had he blinked since her voice brought him back all those years? Eyes seemed dried and shriveled to dust.
He watched her gaze caress him - measuring, memorizing, and motivating. Nerve endings fired to life. His heart's rhythm rushed to the tune of desire - not fear or stress. Eyes closed to savor and commit to memory this resurrection.
Still, he couldn't be sure. Testing this altered universe, his eyes opened to view the man in the glass - no longer king. Tombstone eyes that delivered and sanctioned Death stared back at him. Shoulders drooped, weighted by the blood of innocents. Scars physical and emotional surfaced with each blink. Repulsive.
"Don't need help." His head shook trying to convince her of this false logic.
Excuses, lies, compromises - they scrambled to defend his weakening psyche. And suddenly her presence created him angry.
Her round, wide eyes held mirrors; they held conscience. They held an ugly ... spent ... evil man's reflection.
Grabbing her arm, he steered her from the observation deck and away from curious stares. "You shouldn't have come back here, Margaret!" He reprimanded fiercely, hoping that his scowl might deter her.
Knowing her as he did, he knew that she was judging him. Obviously finding his anger genuine, she responded - soft edges hardening. She approached under the banner of friendship, offering help - offering herself. Flagging a banner of a different sort, she changed tactics.
"Like hell I shouldn't." She seethed, through gritted teeth. "Now get your damn hands off me."
Instantly full of regret Operations shook his head sadly. Hands gripped her upper arm slightly intending an apology, and then dropped to wrinkle the fabric of his pants.
He slumped in the nearest chair, and studied the woman before him. Margaret hadn't changed. Maybe a few more wrinkles, few more gray hairs, but there she stood - his Margaret just as though she had never left.
Margaret brought back more than the man he used to be. She brought history roaring to the forefront - days of building, days of tearing down, day of not knowing the difference between the two.
"This is about Elements, isn't it?" He whispered the question.
She nodded, moving to crouch by his knees. "I think... I think that this is about the birth of Section One."
Operations nodded, swallowing hard. He managed a weak smile and felt his eyes water. Her tears fell hot on his knees. Standing abruptly, he paced restlessly. She remained kneeling; head dropped in prayerful retreat.
Rubbing his temples, the space between his eyebrows, and his lips, a leader reflected. He wanted to cling to the Section's reality, but Margaret wouldn't allow it. She clashed with his illusion of comfort, and he couldn't reconcile her to his world.
"Did I ever leave the past?" He petitioned, hoarse with emotion. What could he be, but what the Section made of him? "War, death, and heartache, they have always been with me..."
She stood very near him, offering support just by her close vicinity. "Tell me about a man named Wolfe. I think that I might have liked to know him."
"He died in Vietnam." Operations chuckled on the irony. "I scarcely remember him." Voice breaking, he remembered....
"Sir?" A whispered directive
Dreaming of escape and of rescue nightly, he refused to trust this waking vision. Having given his men hope with his leadership, he felt that hallucinations would merit them little.
Clutching the tattered cotton shirt more closely around his wasted frame, he closed his eyes again. Silence highlighted the vermin's activities, amplified the sounds of flies and mosquitoes. His ankles bound to a thick wooden slab were loosened. Shoes slid over his raw feet, causing him to gasp.
"Sir?" A gloved hand covered his mouth.
They had come.
His eyes flashed to Brady the weakest of his men. Skin transparent and dull painted him a living skeleton. And even in sleep, the boy scratched for lice and batted the humming insects.
"Come with us, sir." The hand moved to his underarm.
They were tricks of his imagination. They could not be real. But they were. Three of them moved amongst the war-weary POWs with such stealth that they appeared to float. Spirits, phantoms - the last fringe of his sanity. He chuckled softly, running his dried leathery tongue over his greasy teeth.
But phantoms couldn't kill. Guards rested - as though sleeping - sunken to the ground or slouched against the wall. Looking closely - bright red blood collars decorated their throats. Fat tongues lapped over their open lips - an invitation flies took readily.
"My men." He protested, as they hoisted him.
"You would have all died tomorrow." Warm breath hovered around his ear.
They moved quickly, with utter silence. He floated. They floated. Together. Outside they became one with the dense foliage. Sounds only of foliage pushed away. Dirt shifting beneath their weights. Leaves crunching in protest.
"Why?" He moaned to those that carried him.
"The government that you protected will not trade the arms for your lives, neither will they retrieve you by force." Even in darkness, the bitterness seemed evident.
"Take me back." His feet struggled to find the ground. "I should die with them." Hands gripped his upper arms more tightly. The pace quickened. Faster.
Alarm sounded behind them. Floating light punctuated the sky. Shouts of Vietnamese and barking dogs, his men shouting, yet still they moved.
"Must die. " He pleaded, struggling as much as a hundred - pound man could.
"Please try to remain calm, sir. Dying is not an option."
Not strong enough to resist, and not stupid or smart enough to cry out, He allowed himself to be carried away.
... He allowed himself to be carried away.
***********
Snappy didn't begin to cover Trent's latest personality. Jittery from the caffeine necessary to keep his eyes half-opened; his skin crawled with need to sleep.
Music soft and barely audible - The Eagles crooned "Desperado, why don't you come to your senses..."
Why don't I come to my senses, Trent thought to himself, angrily typing at the keyboard.
Somewhere in some paper-pushing idiot's desk, a profile had probably suggested that he had liked the Eagles. So in the interest of keeping him sane (Madeline had heard him refer to Operations as Mr. Grinch), the Section had sprung for the entire Eagles collection.
"By all means keep 'Brain Boy' happy," he grumbled. He blamed the music for his present state, but he should have blamed his sleep swindlers.
Grabbing a half-empty (being awake for forty-eight hours creates most things half-empty) bottle of antacids, he poured a liberal handful and started crunching the powdery discs. In direct opposition to the soothing powder, he poured coffee-cup-number-forty-two-and-counting. The smirking profile of Elvis' face across the mug stared back at him.
Damn that stupid profiler, Trent thought. Truthfully, he had merely tolerated Diane's Elvis obsession - loving it because it created her nearly human. Diane's only fix - and most likely her only love - Elvis Presley. Mind wandering freely in the haze of the half-awake, he slowly succumbed to the numb sensation. Vision blurred, and the round room became a turning Ferris wheel.
Tousled black curls swung with each bob of his head. Black-circled eyelids fluttered between mental duty and physical need. Just as sleep laid intimate claim on his tired body, his weight tipped his chair backward nearly falling.
Disgusted, he rubbed his eyes to better focus on his task. Things would have progressed more smoothly had the housekeeping team collected the data correctly. Precision and detail made Q Factor a forensic scientist's dream, but the slightest variable entered incorrectly...
Now it was Woodward's job to clean up the mess. His fourth attempt brought a slew of expletives as the automated voice serviced him with "Unable to process"
In other words, you're a complete idiot who has taken incompetent to whole new levels, Trent thought. I should have programmed it to say, Try again, sucker! Chuckling in spite of himself, he willed the floating bugs and white-circles of light to the background.
Senses on overdrive but reflexes slowed, Trent processed the opening hiss of his door without turning to greet his guest. The past few days had accustomed him to the uninvited arrivals of his gracious hosts - i.e. any Section bloke remotely interested in screwing his brain and body.
Certain that whatever he or she wanted from him would be demanded with or without his attention, Agent Trent Woodward remained semi-focused on his task - trying to remember what the heck he was doing.
"How are things coming?"
Ah, the unexpected, seldom pleasant intrusion of Madeline, Trent thought. He could tell from the location of her voice that she hadn't fully entered the room. Every interaction proved to be a game with her; she wouldn't approach without his invitation. Be it in the form of a nod, word, or glance, she wouldn't continue until he gave her credence.
"Slowly." He answered, purposely taking his time by sipping at his cup of liquid energy.
"We don't have a lot of time, Mr. Woodward." She answered softly.
"Mr. Woodward." Trent repeated. He swiveled his chair to face her. She wore a suit - big surprise - a black suit that accentuated the smallness of her frame. "Seems a bit formal, don't you think?" He tapped his pencil against his jumping thigh muscle to punctuate his point, his fury.
Her forced silence surfaced a warning. A small sigh escaped as her lips fell slightly open in a false smile that failed to reassure. With slowly beating steps she circled - pace measured, intoxicating, and enough to brainwash. Tracking her with small movements that made his chair squeak, Trent felt the extreme compulsion to hum the Jaws theme.
"Much is riding on your discoveries, Mr. Woodward. I'm sure you must realize that failure is not an option here."
Here, his mind echoed. She suggested it as though the outside world the world of CAS could tolerate failure.
"Please don't disappoint us again. I can't promise that next time we will be so..." She paused, her lips tightening to a thin line. Chocolate eyes melted him with their intensity. "...Lenient." She finished. And he... breathed again.
Swallowing air like it had just made available, he found that he was angry. Mind a pressure cooker ready to explode, he ticked faster and faster until he detonated. Standing, he towered over her with fists clenched beside him. Amazingly, she did not appear threatened.
"I've been up for forty-eight hours straight, I barely take time to urinate, I eat whatever crap Fabio outside there brings me, and my beverage of choice consists of any coffee that can do hand stands across my desk. What do you people want from me?" He growled through gritted teeth.
"We're aware of your extreme efforts, Mr. Woodward. We're simply inquiring as to how we might better help your progress. Consider this a reminder of what's at stake." She spoke with minimal lip movement, as if the effort of this conversation had bored her.
She stood before him inferior in the physical sense, yet lording the unknown. And he felt small, and pathetic.
"And, Fabio - his name is Jackson." A twinkle of amusement passed fleetingly in the eyes below him.
The Suit exited as quietly as she entered. Trent sank back in his chair - entirely depleted. The thumb of his fist rubbed beneath his lips. The Eagles sang of "Taking it to the Limit one more time," and his computer reminded him "unable to process."
Resignedly, he shut down Q Factor and spun slowly in his chair. Something deep inside nagged him. What could possibly motivate an outside agency to kidnap such a low-ranking operative? And why then would they keep her without making threats or contact? Why? Why? His mind chanted.
With eyes that could barely see straight and a back that seemed permanently molded to his office chair, Trent buried the unknown factors and the impossible variables, focusing instead on the only possible answer.
It was an inside job. That someone must be Michael.
Michael! Trent smiled, tipping his chair backward to gaze at the ceiling. A gambit a chess game, "Check." He promised an imaginary image of Michael.
Mind renewed with hope, Trent re-counted the past few days. Michael's contact had kidnapped Nikita. Michael had secured Crispus' house. Michael had stalked and attacked him in the parking garage. Michael...
"And mate." Trent whispered.
**********
What turned him on?
What made him tick?
What made him angry?
She had had two days to think about it? Seduction had seemed out of the question, but the way those coal eyes looked at her suggested seduction as the only option. He probably hadn't seen a woman in years, if he had she would have told him that sideburns and facial hair that rivaled that of grizzly were not quite the fashion pleaser of the nineties.
She provoked him at every turn, demanding his close attention. He wouldn't forget about her. He would be cognizant of every exaggerated stretch, every toss of her hair.
Sure that the battle was hers for the winning, Nikita twisted and turned, revealing a snatch of exposed belly skin.
He broke - not in the way she had imagined - but he broke. Laughter exuded - his belly rippling jelly-jiggling waves. "You're something else there, Goldie. If I wanted to f--- you, I'd have done it by now."
Nikita felt her jaw drop both from indignation and shock. He approached her slowly giving every hair on her body time to stand erect.
Towering above her, he took great time in straddling her position and making mock thrusts against her. "Oh baby, let me un-tie you, so you can treat me right." He rolled his eyes in exaggerated passion.
"Get the hell off me." Nikita demanded, squirming.
"Isn't this what you want?" He whispered, his hands circling her arms, massaging inward to briefly fondle her breasts.
His weight pushed against hers, scruffy beard scratching her cheek. He nuzzled her cheek, fat tongue licking her ear. He smacked her face lightly, gripping her chin to plant a wet kiss on her forehead.
He stood suddenly, and she braced herself against a potential strike.
"Gawd, you really are something." His tone had changed into something akin to shock. He held his head between his hands, pacing the floor in front of her.
Nikka tucked her feet out of his raging path, her coiled appearance that of rattler. Her stance though passive dared any attempt against her. Come and get me - her out-thrust chin invited. Tightly pressed lips and flared nose taunted.
He disappeared out the door, and Nikita stood, trying to free her captive hands. He entered again, thrusting a computerized panel in her direction. "These are your lessons." Sitting the instrument on the counter.
She kicked it off the counter, "A lesson of lies."
He chortled, a hand molding his beard into a pointed dagger. "Much as Section One would like you to think its people are automatons, they're nothing but."
"They are people just like you and me... wants... desires...hates... and evils... They all lie buried just inches below the surface. If you scrape long enough, those layers reveal the heart and soul of the true Section One."
"A terrorist waxes poetic. Remind me about that scraping the layers part when I write my novel Decency in Killing." Nikita scoffed, trying to adjust her position to that of more comfort.
"Funny and a pain in the ass, just what other endearing qualities do you possess?" His hands reached to cup her face again, but she avoided his touch. Her nose twitched from the irritation of a pungent odor staining his nails a greasy yellow.
"I'm more interested in what's hidden under your layers - the fat belly and fake facial hair." Nikita smiled, nodding to his stained fingers that he quickly retracted. "You should wash your hands better."
Restrained and wilted from battle Nikita sensed a small victory in this discovery. Some contest of wills that had turned in her favor if only for a second.
The white patches of skin not covered with a rug of hair flushed bright red. His continuous nodding seemed a fuel pump for the invisible steam pouring from his ears.
"Something' aren't ya Goldie." Voice low as though in worshipful prayer, he squatted just out of reach. All of his adoration focused on her bare, bruised ankles which he caught deftly. Twisting them - sudden fascination - he engaged her wary glance.
"I know what you are made of little girl." He confided. Bending, further he blew hot breath against her toes. Fire's light painted him a ghoulish Devil worshiper.
Chanting, every word slowly drawled and annunciated as though tasting a sweet treat. "Sugar and spice, and everything nice..."
... Grip tightened and her toes went suddenly numb.
"That's what little girls are made of..." The shag of facial hair shifted upward with his smile.
A slight cracking as the ankles were forced outward threatened tears, but Nikita gritted her teeth and stared back.
Breathing quickened. Her pulse shook her vision.
In one flat tone he continued. "You want a normal life - one with fresh peaches for breakfast, strawberry bubble bath, white wine, unconditional lust, and the knowledge that 'love' will never leave you."
Twisting, wringing, her chest sprouted beads of sweat from exertion of swallowing pain. Pain traveled a familiar sailor through the sensory canals of her legs. Throbbing of trapped blood.
Through measure breathes she whispered, "I despise peaches, and I prefer jasmine oil for bath scents..." Controlled without wavering she corrected his flawed Intel.
"You're as good as dead to Section One." Pitching himself forward slightly, he shook his head slightly. His breath smelled of peppermint, and his beard tickled her chin. "No one, not even Michael, can prevent that. Michael's not your salvation; he's your damnation."
Her lips crinkled enough to pass for smirk, and through gritted teeth, she questioned. "So who is my salvation, You?"
"Maybe." He released the ankles, stood staring down at her. "We've wasted enough time. If I release you, will you be a good little girl?"
"Define 'good'." She deadpanned.
"It must frighten you." He surmised. "Knowing that Michael wants you dead?" He kicked at her sullen figure, provoking a response.
"Un-tie me."
***********
Trent moved with Michael through the gray network of Section hallways. There had always been an underlying hum of activity, productivity. Today that was missing. Michael seemed oblivious. His sure quick stride maneuvering the labyrinth with practiced skill.
The journey ended at a briefing station. The Suit sat serenely behind the desk looking like an airline attendant ready to book their flight. Boy Wonder raised a welcoming hand, nodding at Trent like they went way back.
An older man whom Trent had never seen sat with spread, leather-clad legs, a blue paisley bandana, and a silvery ponytail. Obviously a throwback from the sixties, his tie-died shirt boldly proclaimed "Peace."
The oblong table housed three other operatives each with equally serious expressions. They offered him nothing in the way of acknowledgement. Sat hands folded in front of them. Trent glanced nervously around, noticing that there were no other operatives to be found. Michael pulled out a chair, motioned for him to sit before joining Madeline on the other side of the table.
The absurdity of the silence forced a giggle that Trent promptly disguised with a fit of coughing. A stern look from the Suit and Michael stifled the humor. But the idea of eight people sitting around a table without so much as a word humored him.
Mr. Grinch's growling voice echoed loudly in the quiet atmosphere. Trent's mouth widened in horror to find Anne trailing behind his grim figure. His gaze followed her path, taking in the changes. In the office he had always thought her weak and old. She looked different now. Silvery hair pulled in a loose French twist, eyeglasses missing, and her figure magnificently displayed in a black pantsuit. She looked ... regal.
"We've entered a situation which requires our utmost concern." Operations spoke - his manner quick, direct, without superfluous waste.
"As class five operatives and leaders of your individual fields, you've been chosen to carry out this assignment. Make no mistake, the outcome will affect the very existence of Section One."
He aimed a small rectangular black box at the open air, and Trent jumped backward slightly. Good God, Woodward thought he's gonna try some new weapon on me. Bandana man snorted with amusement, clapping him soundly on the back.
Trent sighed with relief at the light blue film that rippled then magically produced a picture of Nikita. Too many sci-fi movies, Trent realized.
"Two weeks ago, one of our operatives became compromised. It is our belief that she now represents a class six threat to the Section."
Trent investigated everyone for his or her reactions. Class six threat meant nothing to him, but from the grim expressions, it didn't bode well for Nikita.
"Trent Woodward, CAS agent and forensic scientist, has been formulating a location."
For a second all attention focused on him. The compulsion to explain felt overwhelming. He opened his mouth to speak, but was by-passed by Operations.
"Michael trained Nikita. I've asked him to clue you to the strengths and weaknesses of this operative."
"Excuse me." Bandana man interrupted. "But am I to understand that you're initiating Class Six Operations against Nikita?"
"That's right." Operations admitted, casting a look towards Anne for what appeared to be reassurance.
Trent couldn't believe that Anne would be behind something like this. How could she condone Nikita's death sentence so easily?
"That's crazy!" Bandana man glowered. "There's no way that a Level Two op could pose that kind of threat." Gone were the lax, relaxed features Trent had first seen. This man emanated pure rage.
Trent began to realize Nikita's importance to the Section. When she first entered his life, he felt exactly what the man beside him felt. Rage that anyone would harm someone so innocent. He had wondered why they chose to save her, and now he had his answer. Valued for more than her abilities as an operative, Nikita must have been important in other ways.
"She represents a threat to the Section. It is our job as Leaders to eliminate that threat, Walter." Operations seethed. He clicked the button on his remote box with disgust. Trent felt the burden of Mr. Grinch's blaming eyes and felt the rise of guilt.
"You'll do it without me." Walter retorted, shoving his comm. unit across the table and pushing his chair back with maximum clatter.
Operations seethed and moved to pursue. But a slight restraining arm from Madeline sufficed him to stay.
"Michael." Operations snapped, sitting resigned in a seat with eyes unseeing half-covered by his hands.
"I've outline some of Nikita's tactical strengths and weaknesses."
Trent felt sick listening to Michael outline how the Section should go about murdering Nikita. He felt like shouting, felt like shaking Michael until the ice man cracked his stoic facial mask. But worse than anything, Woodward he felt that he should have done his job better.
" She improvises well, thinks on her feet, reacts with rivaled quickness. Physically, she could equal some of our best. Listed are her numbers for simulated hostile activity."
A moment of silence as the other operatives regarded their panels. Trent peered nervously about, finding Madeline's eyes directly on his.
A tawny-colored monster of a man spoke first. "Well I can see why she'd be classified as class six. She's only a little under four years out, but the potential is astronomical."
Did Michael's chest surge with pride? Did Operations' face sour like he'd sampled too many lemons? Did Anne feel as sad as she looked?
"She has one notable weaknesses." Michael paused, staring intently at Trent. "She refuses to engage in any hostile activity unless threatened."
A mild uproar ensued. Needless to say, the forces felt cheated in some way. They probably expected a challenge a contest, but Nikita would provide nothing of the sort.
"So we're going after a Level Two Compromised operative who doesn't like to kill..." The open statement left everyone to draw the obvious conclusion.
Trent peered at Operations. Wrinkled face twisted with turns to rival a country road. "I expect you to carry out the mission profile as specified."
**********
"Just Married" - the sign that kept the ranger away from the isolated cabin in Oakville Canyon. You might call her a hopeless romantic.
Hopelessly romantic or not, this gray, shabby shed hardly passed for honeymoon material. No smoke curled from the haphazard chimney. The rotted wooden door lay propped against the outer wall. The Section's only welcome - the curious squirrel chattering noisily and scampering along the shed's porch.
A foul odor of old blood grabbed Trent Woodward thirty feet from the cabin door. Hands covering his nostrils, Trent entered behind the assault team. Three operatives stood with eyes transfixed on a small wooden table.
Trent realized upon looking that this picture would forever be imprinted in his mind's eye. Leather restraints hung strapped from each corner. Dried blood stained both table and floor. Stains of varying colors perhaps vomit, semen, or urine. He couldn't hardly tell by looking. He circled the table, horrified, revolted, and entranced all at the same time.
The three operatives shuffled awkwardly, sheathing their guns and trying not to stare at the man who stood by the window. The man - Michael - peered out the window, seemingly refusing to acknowledge the scene.
"Michael?" One of the operatives ventured.
"Comb the area, coordinate with Birkoff on infra scan." Michael ordered, taking off his gloves and lightly tapping his open palm.
Trent looked at the other operatives. They obviously disagreed with Michael's orders. He heard their whispers as he plucked a long strand of hair from the splintery wood.
"She's dead Michael." One of them finally muttered. He repeated his opinion louder. Trent stopped his activity and turned for Michael's reaction.
"We don't know that." Michael said, slightly turning his head in acknowledgement before returning to his window's view.
Trent turned to the operative who had spoken up. If he recalled correctly, the stupid jackass was Griffin. Say good-bye, Griffin Trent thought grimly.
What operative in their right mind would go head to head with Michael at a time like this? Judging from the other operative's nervous glances, their opinion sided with his.
"I know." Griffin straightened, speaking with defiance.
Michael flinched ever so slightly, shoulders rising with stiffness. "Comb the area." He repeated slightly louder yet underscored with force.
The thought of Griffin impaled on the nearest tree provided some amusement, but really Trent felt increasingly nervous for the poor fool.
"You two were close..." Griffin made the mistake of moving closer and sounding a bit too patronizing.
What happened next seemed a blur of whirling black that ended with Griffin eating the moldy wall. Michael's features remained unchanged. He spoke again in the same tone with the same expression. "I gave an order."
"Got it." Griffin replied, gulping furiously over his profuse apologies.
Trent released a sigh of relief and watched as the operatives filed out to do Michael's bidding. Michael stood in the open doorway. The silence left Woodward untouched. His mind greedily processed every inch of that table as he lost himself in its exploration.
"What have you found?" Michael asked in hushed whisper.
Michael's voice jolted Trent back to the present, back to the reality that the blood on that table could be Nikita's. "A couple of hairs, part of a fingernail, some skin fragments...."
Trent paused as Michael issued commands to the searching men. Honestly, he hoped that there would be no connection with what had transpired in this cabin and Nikita's predicament. From the different patches of blood, he surmised that death had not come slowly. The victim had most likely been tortured.
"What color?" Michael persisted.
"The hair?" Trent questioned. "It's blonde."
"There's enough blood loss to suggest death?"
"Maybe." Trent shook his head with uncertainty. "There's no way to be certain at this point."
Trent eyed Michael trying to gauge his response. Grizzly as this scene appeared, it would be easy to fake. He could have warned Nikita. Woodward didn't trust Michael. Why would he trust the man who had condemned him to Section One?
"Bring it in." Michael's tone abruptly changed as he rescinded orders to his team.
"It" turned out to be Nikita's tracker on a leather glove. The tracker, old and inoperable, was most likely useless.Figuratively and literally a slap in the face. Michael took the glove, studied it, and threw it to the ground. So far that action provided the only symbol Michael's anger.
Michael pulled a cell phone from his jacket. "Target eliminated."
Trent thought about arguing that assumption with Michael, but he also remembered Griffin's fate. That poor operative would probably be relinquished to Section hell for the stunt he pulled.
Woodward insisted they take more time, but Michael informed him that there was none. It only furthered his belief that Michael had a hand in all of this.
**********
"Another day at the office." Operations grumbled to his wall of medals and commendations and the picture of his wife.
Heaving his coat in the general direction of the coat rack, he loosened his tire and the first three buttons of his shirt. He stroked the frame, blew at the dust, and traced his dead wife's face.
"We're running out of time." Margaret's voice reminded him. His fingers drew back guilty reminded that the man whom this woman loved had died years ago.
His eyes drifted from the amber liquid to Margaret. There had been a time when they couldn't make it past this entryway without their savage version of sex. She remembered. With flushed face, tightly tucked coat, and loosened hair, Margaret remembered
"I know what I'm doing, Margaret." He snapped, draining the glass she extended to him, and moving to pour another. "I didn't become Operations by acting stupidly."
"Didn't you?" She wondered. She hadn't left the entryway. Her gaze seemed glued to the picture of the woman that had always come between them. Her gloved fists tightened and relaxed, her head shook slightly with that nervous tick of hers, and he drained a second cup of wine.
"Ebersole led an era of weakness." Operations declared. Emptying his glass, he moved for something stronger... something that would erase the numbness and fill the void. Her heard her lighting a cigarette. Smoke preceded the perfectly rounded mouth just below his. His nose itched under the smoke. She took one more drag (she only ever smoked after sex, he suddenly recalled) and placed the fuming stick between his lips.
He inhaled slowly, savoring the rush of nicotine, the pounding of his heart.
"Elements operated on a fourth of our expenses. Resources scarce, barely scraping by, he had no vision." He shrugged at his argument. Vodka promised to soothe his ache, and he poured a generous cup.
"No more." Margaret gently dictated, placing her palm over the brim of his cup. "Getting drunk won't accomplish anything."
He had never had much tolerance for alcohol. Ordinarily, he abhorred the idea of some foreign substance altering his thinking. But he reserved it for occasions such as this, when nothing made sense, and thinking could only make things worse.
"I've accomplished more than enough." He replied bitterly, tipping his cigarette over an empty glass.
"Ebersole's downfall." Margaret concluded.
He nodded, seeing his past in a different, less kindly light. And his world spun sharply out of focus. "The vodka. " He ordered.
"No." She whispered, taking his hand and kissing its palm gently.
"You never change." One corner of his mouth conceded a smile. The statement seemed to baffle her. It baffled him as well. Neither knew if his statement had intended to be kind.
"You do." Her eyes studied him for a stranger.
"I had vision and a better way of doing things." He reminisced. Giving up on the vodka, he paced.
"You had trust; you betrayed." Her back was to him. She spoke of a truth that he could not admit. Lies and deceit had become his friends. Truth couldn't hope to bring the comfort that these friends had.
"They never controlled me." He insisted. She must believe him.
"I remember things differently." She replied.
Things had been different. Ebersole had insisted on maintaining their independent status. Marcus Wolfe or the shadow of that man saw the gift in the Tempter's apple. And like the Bible's Eve... he partook of the proffered apple, and gave to "Adam" to eat.
A bloody coup dissolved casualties on every side. Elements had been about four people independently intervening. Named after the Greek elements earth, air, water, and fire, their group did the impossible in the espionage world. But thanks to his "apple," Elements split in two, warring a secret battle of ghosts.
Ebersole disappeared. But his cohort, Bailey vowed revenge, and soon after Marcus Wolfe mourned a dead wife. The fray escalated until it destroyed Elements.... Earth settled, air dissipated, water leveled, and fire consumed all but three.
After the coup resolved, the Agency appointed him under the title of Operations. Strict rules and guidelines became established. Order reigned supreme. The government had their animals. The government had their ghosts.
"It's only human nature." Operations offered with a wave of his hand.
"Murder, rape, destruction..." She pondered, shaking her head in disbelief "... human nature?
He no longer wondered why he took such offense to Nikita. Margaret was Nikita thirty years down the line. Margaret had balanced their operation. No one questioned her prowess or her ability to contribute. She fought like a man, but she had a woman's heart.
"A nature we seek to abort." He nodded his agreement. This circus settled its uproar in his right temple. He hovered on the tightrope of sanity, and Margaret sat serenely on the platform tossing him twenty-pound bowling balls.
"Nikita's included in that abortion?" She pressed.
"Jury's still out on that one. " Operations grumbled, recalling today's unsatisfactory mission in Oakville Canyon.
"It wouldn't be so bad." She soothed. She sat beside him, hands gripped between her knees. "Living outside the Section."
"Without 'Operations'... I can't exist." He stated.
"Pity." She smiled sardonically.
"Pity." He nodded, patting her knee gingerly.
"You mean to fight." Her voice sounded resigned as if she disagreed with her own proposal.
"I'll mean to take care of business." He stood, draining his vodka in one breath.
Conscious reared her ugly head. Guilt visited the stranger of his mind. And he dropped his smoking cigarette into his empty glass. A tiny ember ignited with the alcohol and quickly died. He had no more choices. "Section protocol." He stated for her benefit and for conscience's sake.
"Section bullshit." She argued. She tightened the knot of her coat belt, and hurried past him to the door.
"I've learned that battles can't be won with honor." He apologized.
Hand on the doorknob, she paused. "You learned wrong."
He sat for hours, surrounded by medals of honor, marriage rings of commitment, and blood stains of conscience.
***********
"So... What happened to Ebersole?" Nikita questioned the man she had come to know only as Tate.
Tate ate obsessively. Whether he crunched Peppermint Lifesavers or Red Delicious apples, he enjoyed his food. Direct, civil, and distant, he defined the meaning of boundaries, avoiding all her advances and giving information at his pace.
"He went underground ... received help from a woman operative named Margaret."
"Margaret, meaning Madeline?" Nikita queried while helping herself to a wedge of his apple.
"I don't share." He declared calmly, taking back the half-eaten portion from her mouth and throwing it in the fire.
Nikita's mouth opened in shock, as she wiped the fruit's juice from her lips. She studied the enigma of Tate once again. Without the fake beard and belly, he had tolerable looks. Nothing about him would make you look at him twice. Without a personality to speak of she recognized him for the ghost that he probably wished to be..
"I think Madeline came with Section One. But Ebersole only ever referred to his helper as Margaret." Tate continued between bites.
"So where is Margaret now?" Nikita stood slowly, warily. She had learned not to make any sudden moves. Sudden moves made Tate nervous. They also made him mean.
"You need preparation." He finished the apple, wiping his mouth and sizing her up from head to toe.
"What kind of preparation?" She slung out her hip, widening her stance as a dare.
"The Section must think you dead." He stood as well, circling her leisurely as though assessing a suit.
"And then?" She prompted, thrusting her chin out defiantly.
"They'll find that you're not, and they'll think that Michael betrayed them." He answered, stopping in front of her to study her reaction.
He made it all sound so simple. But Nikita realized that things involving the Section were rarely simplistic.
"Divide and conquer." She assessed.
"Divide and conquer." He nodded, patting her gently on the shoulder for reward. He gathered the remnants of his apple and tossed them in the fire. They crackled and hissed as the blame sucked out their wetness.
"How do you know all this?" Nikita ventured, casually making her way to stand with him at the hearth.
"Surveillance, implants, the usual infiltration." He replied, staring into the orange flames.
"And why would I betray the Section?" Now she studied him for his reaction, but his face never changed. This man could rival Michael in the blank stare department.
"You betray it daily." He judged, dark coal gaze grabbing hers and holding it.
Nikita snorted with uneasy laughter. Tate's attention made her nervous and giddy all at once. Here stood someone that seemed to understand her. He didn't judge; he accepted
"Here." He pointed to her heart. "They never owned this." He whispered confidentially.
Such soft contact startled her. The man had proved immune to her charms, and now he had begun to charm her. His gaze proved hypnotizing. He was dangerous, and that was attractive. Her fingers closed over his, tightened slightly and pulled him closer.
"You don't own it either." She whispered against the side of his face.
He pulled back to study her. For once a readable emotion canvassed his features. He looked confused.
"You want a life." He stated simply a if he had declared the sky blue and the grass green.
"And all I need to do is betray the Section." She shook her head knowingly and stepped backward to give him the full affect of her skepticism.
"You would betray a man who has no honor and no compunction for human life. You would betray Operations." He supplied. "Section as you know it would survive." He promised.
"But at what cost?" She puzzled, biting her lip. So many thoughts raced inside her head. Section would survive. The only cost seemed to be her and Michael.
"I think you picked the wrong operative. I've never been one to go by numbers." She backed further away, pacing a bit to relieve her pent-up tension.
"Michael would be protected." He said, kicking a fallen ember back into the fireplace.
She remained uncertain. How could she judge the Section and its past based on a stranger's theory?
"Margaret was a lot like you." Tate said offhandedly. "I think that's why Ebersole picked you."
"I need time to think." She declared.
"Time, we have." He sighed, stretching his body and cracking his knuckles. "But not much." He produced a pack of Lifesavers and crunched two deliberately.
***********
Twenty-four hours. Tate had given her twenty-four hours.
You can do a lot in twenty-four hours. You could fly to Rome and back. You could climb the Statue of Liberty fourteen times. You could kill the man you love...
It wasn't much to look at, and that provided reason enough for Nikita's choosing of this run-down building. The streets wet with yesterday's rain reflected streetlights.
Everyone received Nikita's attention. The hooker, legs spread and pelvis thrusting at every open car window that passed. Her invitations of "Come on, Baby, I'll suck you off." Bottle red hair shone burgundy in the hue of streetlights, and she seemed oblivious to her left breast overflowing her halter.
Roaring music and drunken men drifted from the strip of bars like liquid tentacles. Nikita sidestepped the intrusions, gathering her black coat a defense about her and passing down the middle of the street. Heart in her throat, thinking this could be the last time she would see Michael.
His response over the cellular had been difficult to read. She hurried her pace, shifting inside her coat so that the collar stood around her ears. Homeless men, women, and children hugged the building, huddled for warmth around tiny fires. Some ventured out asking for money, but she had none to give.
The warehouse loomed four stories of snide grandfather snubbing the smut. The left side had crumbled, leaving a pile of rubble and a place for the neighborhood gangs to smoke pot. Perched like Roman gods, they lorded their kingdom of rocks. Nodding at her approach, a couple ventured the perimeter. Shifting eyes, ready for her purchase should she require their form of gold. But, she required nothing save one thing.
At the bottom of the stairs an one-legged man stood propped between crutches, one hand extending his upturned cap the other gripping the leash for his mangy, howling mutt.
She hurried to the door, casting one more look into the streets over her shoulder. Inside she drew her gun, moving past the rooms occupied with "Oh Gawd, Harry, Bill, or Jimmy" and emerged to the crumbling structure of the third floor.
The plastic-covered windows occasionally wind-filled appeared like blisters in the wall. "Best Eats in Town" flashed neon red; flashed yellow; flashed blue.
Nikita waited - tension winding her up like Jack- in- the -box. Her eyes closed in concentration, blocking out the sounds below. She felt him enter the room. His face highlighted in red. With each step, his face and hands flashed a different color. Yet his eyes seemed black and hollow heavy with Death. And she welcomed him with raised gun.
Trapped in flashing animation, two killers stood behind guns that aimed for the heart
"Drop it." He ordered.
"You first." She argued, lifting her chin defiantly.
Michael primed his gun. "I said drop it."
"Kill me. It's what you've come to do." Nikita threw back at him, priming her gun and steadying it with both hands.
Neither gun wavered. Red. Yellow. Blue.
Hearts pounded loudly like clocks. Harry got off, and the "B" in Best Eats burned out. Time clicked by with the flashing of neon. Nikita blinked furiously, trying to awaken from this supposed nightmare. His nostrils flared with each breath. He never blinked; he only stared.
"I'll make it easy for you." Nikita tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. She discharged her gun - the bullet biting the plaster just inches above Michael's left shoulder. His gun fired a second later seeming just an echo to hers. So close, the bullet nicked her shoulder, tearing her shirt and growing bright red.
Nikita felt no pain. She only primed her gun again, gritting her jaw with stubborn determination.
Plastic from the window suddenly came loose, and she whirled towards the sound. Only the wind, but Michael used that split second to close the distance between them.
Michael spun her, tucking her gun hand painfully behind her. Nikita struggled, feeling him at her back. He moved with her, countering each move.
She tightened her grip, made attempts to elbow him. His hot breath seared her neck. Tips of her toes barely skimmed the ground.
He twisted further. She struggled to suppress her gasp of pain. A ball of fire had replaced her shoulder. Her frame arched seeking to relieve the ache.
His breathing quickened. Red. Yellow. Blue. His fingers sought hers around the gun.
Fighting her instincts, she forced her body to relax. He disarmed her slowly. The ball of fire in her shoulder subsided. She hugged her arm to her chest, and concentrated on his warmth still at her back. Their shadows were one on the floor, lit up from behind like flashing Christmas bulbs.
She trembled - from fear, desire, apprehension - she couldn't tell. His moist breath condensed around her right ear. He wasn't touching, but she felt him all over.
"You can't go back." Michael whispered against the shell of her ear
Nikita shook her head, biting her lower lip until she tasted blood. Tears finally came spilling uncontrollably.
"Nikita... Who..." Michael struggled, voice choppy with emotions she couldn't decipher. She needed him to touch her. She wanted him to leave her alone. "I need to know..." She heard the rustling of his coat as he reached to touch her shoulder.
Stepping forward a fraction, she avoided the contact "I'll become your enemy, Michael." She spoke over her shoulder, her vision capturing the stiffness of his shoulders. "It would be wise to kill me." She jerked her head forward again, catching his sharp intake of breath. Feeling every muscle in her body tense to rigidity. One touch could break her.
"You think that I should kill you?" He murmured, uncertainly. His shadow pulsed closer, and she felt the hard metal of his gun pressed against her ribcage. Felt the other hand close around her neck. Fingers gripping and relaxing over soft flesh.
Nikita leaned limply against him, absorbing his strength while promoting her vulnerability. His chest trembled; his heart pounded a hammer against the anvil of her back. She waited for mercy, but mercy never came.
Sighing she took the hand surrounding her throat and kissed the palm. Once. Twice. Three times before pushing it away. "I hoped that you might be stronger than I."
The gun pressed inward, bruising with its intensity. "I should kill you." He whispered hoarsely- no doubt as to the emotion now heard in his voice. Sadness with intensity she had never witnessed. Remorse and grief laced intimately with his words.
She recognized his dilemma. Away from him she presented a threat to the Section's existence. In his arms she possessed access to his body, mind, and spirit. She was his heart - and that he could not live without. His gun dropped to the floor.
"I need something from you." She swayed, her resolve slipping as she felt his struggle.
His voice sounded far away, rich with grief. "What?"
"The Section needs to believe that I'm dead." His shadow long and thin reached hers. She spoke to his shadow.
"Why did you come here?" He questioned, shadow moving getting fatter and more life like as he approached.
Unable to bear his proximity she moved forward, crossing arms over her chest. "I couldn't do this without your approval."
"I don't approve." He denied.
She turned towards him. Eyebrows wrinkled to dispute, she murmured, "If you didn't, I'd be dead right now."
Michael nodded; rubbed his chin; pinched his eyebrows between two fingers; nodded again.
There were no more words to be said. Already they had become enemies. A line in the sand had been drawn that neither would cross. Yet still they loved, still they respected.
"Tomorrow. You'll find me by the sea. Section will witness you shooting me. I'll fall into the sea. A few days later, a body will wash ashore - bloated, half-eaten. They'll think it's me. But you will know that it is not."
Her gaze joined his on the floor. Their guns lay between them, glowing red, yellow, and then blue. Two silvery lovers side by side dancing between life and death.
Stuffing his hands in his pocket, he breathed deeply and with tremulous tenor confessed. "Thank you?" Were the words that he spoke, but not the words he meant. She saw it burning in his eyes, felt it palpable in the air.
"I love you too." She replied, exiting hastily.
**********
Michael had finally come through with part of his bargain. Today, Trent would meet the former Mrs. Woodward. While appreciative of the risk that Michael had taken, Trent still found himself reluctant to involve himself with Michael.
Woodward sat in an open cafe filled with hoards of people, seagulls and docked boats. The wind gusts matched the sounds of crashing waves, and the salty air excited his senses.
Massaging his ringed finger, Trent's eyes groomed the area searching for Diane. A curious gull strutted on the sidewalk screaming insults to all those who dared crossed its path. A forgotten croissant garnered the interest. The creature would swoop every passerby, lighting for a quick bite, darting away, then coming back. The pattern repeated itself until satisfied all crumbs had been devoured the sea gull flew away.
Eternity- the perfume- reached him before Diane, giving him ample time to assess the "new her." Platinum blond, a shade lighter than he remembered, hung shoulder level. Her fancy suit suggested her excessive salary, and her heels tapped out a tired rhythm that matched her disdainful sigh.
"I've told you before that that jacket does not match those pants." She greeted him with a tired smile and frank appraisal, offering her cheek to his quick kiss.
He stood, pulling out her chair. Her eyes traveled from his shoes to his head as she sat. She rolled her eyes as if she had lost a horrid battle and he was the cause of defeat.
Trent studied her. The pert little snub nose, overly large brown eyes, carefully arched eyebrows.
"Well?" She prodded, signaling a harried waiter and settling into the chairs while evaluating the surroundings.
He cleared his throat, not knowing where to begin. His life would be changing, and he needed to know how she felt about him.
Luckily the waiter arrived before too awkward a silence ensued. Orders placed, Trent felt the pressure of her evaluating gaze once again. The napkin display busied his hands for a minute, and then he grasped the half-filled glass of water like a lost man at sea.
"Trent, I'm a busy woman these days. Could you fill me in on the mystery, please?"
Trent nodded. Indeed she had always been busy, since the day he knew her, she was always involved in some monstrous project. Happy only when she faced impossible odds, Diane promised to be the best reporter the Washington Post ever boasted. Her tenacity for truth and gutsy reporting had attracted many a proposition in the early days.
"I'm leaving." He managed a small smile, holding her fierce gaze for a moment before instinctively finding the dark cinnamon locks of his Section listener.
"Oh?" She responded, sipping her drink and considering him as one might examine a specimen under a microscope.
"I wanted to say good-bye." He continued, squirming in advance to the questions he knew that he'd be receiving.
Lunch was served. She had a fruit salad while he chose the fried clam strips. What was the use of reserving a table at the best clam joint on the East Coast if you weren't going to enjoy the seafood?
She speared a strawberry slice, depositing the succulent fruit in her mouth and chewing deliberately. He could almost hear the cranks in her mind turning the issues. Even with range to a million questions, whatever popped out of that delicious mouth would be delivered with arrow-like precision - directly into his rapidly beating heart.
He wasn't scared of her; he was scared of how well she could read him. Lying not being one of his strong suits, Diane could easily phrase her inquiries in such a way as to guarantee answers that he didn't want to give.
A smile surfaced, and she started to play and pick at her food. "I've missed you, you know that?"
Trent gulped, inadvertently reaching for his nearly empty glass with his left hand - his first mistake. Downing the rest of the icy beverage, one lone ice cube remained his drink. His small gold band seemed a monument of gold, and her keen eyes settled there conceding a victory.
He nervously crunched the two ice cubes that had found entrance; something he knew must annoy her to no end.
Diane leaned forward, and patted his left hand. "I know that I've never stopped loving you."
Trent coughed, choking on the ice cube that he swallowed. Face reddened from the exertion and embarrassment, he answered her honestly for perhaps the first time since he had known her. "You never loved me, and I'm pretty sure that I never loved you."
It was her turn to flush - only slightly - but it was there. She sat back, looking haughtily at him over the brim of her glass. "Play fair, Trent. I didn't come here to fight."
Play fair, now there a grim proposition he thought to himself. He sighed looking out over the stormy water. Waves crested and spilled their cargo with increasing frequency. Clouds heavy and dark with their burden blurred with the darkening seawater.
The crunching fried batter of the clams sounded loudly in his ears, and he could feel the heat of her gaze. At long last he turned to look at her - the woman who had shared his bed for eight years and the woman whom he scarcely knew.
"I really wish things could have been different for us." Trent offered quietly.
She sat mystified, eyes scanning his face and for once getting nothing. "You've changed." She murmured in wonder.
"We've both changed." Trent corrected her. "I don't see the world in black and white anymore. I realize that I can change things - that I have the power to make a difference."
Diane leaned forward, interest piqued, "What gave you that power?"
Trent shook his head, shrugging slightly. "No one and nothing gave it to me. Maybe, it was always there."
"I don't believe you." Diane refuted with a slight nodding of her head. "You're not coming back ever, are you?"
Trent felt his eyes begin to water. The sadness that overwhelmed him had nothing to do with his loss of Diane, but rather loss of life, as he knew it. He confirmed her theory with a simple affirmative answer.
Silence prevailed - a dreadful nothingness filled only with the munching of food and sipping of drinks.
The cool beverage and the moisture, perhaps even the loss of weight served to finally loosen the restrictive band. Trent felt it slipping and held it up. Experimentally, he slid it between his knuckles, chuckling slightly.
"Do you remember what you said - that day at our wedding?" Diane inquired with a slight tone of bitterness.
Trent didn't respond, but she continued anyway. "You said that even in death our love like that circle would continue endlessly."
A scarce smile cracked his lips slightly open. He removed the ring and laid it on the white crisp tablecloth. "Good-bye Diane."
He stood, looking briefly at her upturned open lips and widened eyes of shock. He left his credit card on the table and bent to place a small kiss on her forehead.
He saw Michael rise from his seat and leave, and Trent followed. A new man with strength and wisdom, a fresh outlook, looking to make a difference, he left his past with all its failures - behind.
************
Two days had passed since he had left Diane stunned at that seaside eatery. Trent felt sapped of energy, emotional and otherwise. They had a lead on Nikita's location, and for once that information had not come from him. High noon. High f---ing noon. Nausea swept the beaches of his throat, coating tongue and teeth with the stench of bile.
He felt strangely empty yet somehow full. He had passed the many tests hurled at him, these past few days. A long way from the tired, masquerading of the office life.
Resurrecting Q Factor and using it successfully had in ways confirmed something basic about himself. He would never be the cold operative that Michael modeled, but neither could Michael hope to run the complicated Q factor.
A flash of blonde caught his attention in the afternoon sunlight. His gaze drifted lazily to the color. Nikita - dressed in dark blue cotton sundress, bare arms swinging almost carelessly.
He bolted upright in his chair. Her sunglasses hid the eyes that seemed to settle in his. Her lips curved slightly. He stood to maneuver his way towards her. Too late, his peripheral gaze caught the form of Michael. Michael's gaze pinpointed Nikita. Trent whirled to face Nikita.
Her beautiful face instantly transformed into that image that personified mortal fear. Hair swung with her hurried search for any form of help.
Michael's gaze met Trent's through the milling crowd. Trent pushed at the people that seemed suddenly to surround and box him in. In his brief snapshot views, he observed Michael reaching for his gun. Anxiety gripped Trent and he searched for Nikita. Occasionally, a flash of blue would catch his attention, but Nikita virtually disappeared into thin air.
"Team one, we're converging." Michael's voice sounded in his ear.
"No!" Trent screamed. People stared at him, forming a widening circle around him.
He became a center stage freak show. He grabbed a little woman, intent of asking her if she had seen Nikita. But she screamed, batting away his arms. Expressions around him grew grim. Someone volunteered to call the Police. Frustrated, Trent pushed through their perimeter. Rushing down the beach, slipping on the sand, he scoured the area.
They stood on a pier surrounded by people, yet alone. Nikita stood trapped on the pier, blond hair whipping furiously. Michael's black coated form stuck out in the sea of shorts and tank tops. They boxed her in. Some operatives diverted attention, and some blockaded her escape.
Trent pushed his weary legs and tired lungs, scurrying to the pier. Pushed past people. He could see her perched over the railing, seeking refuge in the boisterous chatter of waves. Woodward was close.
"Nikita, No." Michael ordered. Trent gained on the couple. Watched in horror the raised silver that tracked her every move.
