Adrift

by RoxKean

Michael and Nikita are set adrift in the Pacific after a sabotaged mission

ADRIFT

"Mayday! Mayday! To any ship at sea! This is the tanker Gregor Leniov. We are under attack, I repeat, under armed attack!" There were sounds of gunfire, then silence.

Operations tossed the controller on the top of the conference table at the end of the audio.

"An oil tanker? Michael asked.

Operations frowned, "Ordinarily, yes. But on that particular ship, on that particular day-no. The cargo was nuclear waste."

"Waste? That's got to be illegal as hell." Walter quipped with a crooked smile.

Operations gave him a quelling look, but verbally agreed. "The Russian government, being extremely hard up for cash, has begun exporting nuclear materials abroad to whomever can afford to pay their price. The waste has several terrorist uses-it can poison water supplies, or be collected to extract enough plutonium to make a low-yield weapon. To prevent a panic in the Pacific Rim areas, the theft of the contents of that vessel remains classified."

"Why doesn't the West just pay the Russians for the material to keep it out of the hands of terrorists?" Nikita asked.

"That's just it. The cargo was on its way into Western hands. The ship was in route to the JACADS facility on the Johnston Atoll, in the northern Pacific. Someone else decided they wanted it more and hijacked it."

"The Agency has pledged Section One's help to the CIA and we are mounting a joint mission to locate and recapture the ship and its classified cargo."

"Who will be in command of the mission forces?" Michael asked quietly.

"It's the CIA's show. Special Agent Miller will be in charge." Operations sounded less than happy about it.

Nikita noticed a look of disquiet in Michael's eyes, but he voiced no objection.

"Collect your PDAs. Get your gear at 0830. You leave in three hours for the Pacific. This meeting is over!"

Northern Pacific, Southeast of the Marshall Islands . . .

Nikita saw Michael standing alone near the bow railing of their attack boat. It had been a long, exhausting day, but she couldn't sleep. Not that she ever got much sleep right before a mission.

The cool evening air had a bracing, salty tang that was somewhat refreshing. Resting her hip against the railing, she noted, "It's a beautiful night, isn't it?"

The stars above twinkled with a clear intensity she'd never seen before, like diamonds splayed across a length of black velvet, but Michael was lost in thought and the notion that the evening was a lovely one seemed to be the furthest from his mind.

"Wow! Look at all those stars," Nikita said with an awed sigh. She sucked in a deep breath of the sea air.

"You should get some rest," Michael replied, watching her face in the dim starlight.

"Tried-can't seem to unwind. What about you? You've been going full steam since yesterday morning." Nikita answered.

"I caught some sleep on the plane."

"What? Three hours?"

"Enough." He said absently.

"Michael, what's wrong?"

"What do you mean?" He asked, his face in full shadow as he faced her.

"I don't know, but you've seemed pre-occupied ever since we got this assignment."

"It's nothing. I just prefer Section lead this mission instead of being strictly backup for the CIA."

"It's a simple in and out operation, isn't it? We retake the ship, make sure it gets to its destination and that's it, right?"

Michael nodded.

"But?" She coaxed.

"It's nothing except a little rivalry between agencies. Miller is not a fan of the Sections, and it makes me wonder why he involved us in this mission, that's all."

"Maybe it wasn't his decision. He's got to have a boss, same as we do."

"Perhaps," Michael said vaguely.

"Hey." Nikita said semi-seriously, grabbing his wrist. "Come on. You should go to bed. You're exhausted Michael, I can hear it in your voice."

"Michael! Still f-king your Section mates, I see." Came a voice from behind. From the few instances that Nikita had heard it during the day, she knew the speaker was Special Agent Miller. Her grip on Michael's wrist tightened as she turned towards Miller.

"Excuse me?" Nikita said angrily.

"Let it go, Ni-ki-ta. Get below. I'll be down later." Michael said quietly, loosing himself from her grasp.

Nikita nodded and moved to obey, but gave Miller a frown of disgust as she passed by him.

"What's she in for? Prostitution?" Came Miller's parting shot.

Miller suddenly grunted in pain, causing Nikita to grin as she slipped inside.

"Once a criminal, always a criminal, eh, Michael?" Miller nursed a swollen jaw. "Do that again, and I'll cancel you."

"You can try." Michael said coolly.

Miller was tall-several inches taller than Michael--balding, and on the muscular side. He was a bully that got what he wanted, both physically and politically.

Had Miller been caught as Michael had, his past contained enough crimes to have made him a leading Section candidate, but as it was, he was CIA's favorite "get-tough guy." The dirtier, more dangerous the mission, the happier Miller seemed to be.

Miller pushed a small button on his watch and illuminated the dial. "You'd better go screw the blonde while you have the chance. We'll be arriving at the rendezvous point in little over an hour."

Michael ignored the taunt and left Miller alone on deck.

* * * Two hours later, Michael and his Red team stood around a table as Miller gave them final instructions. Radar placed the missing vessel on the horizon. In half an hour, it would be in range for the attack.

"Okay, here's the plan. Michael, you and your team will be on point. Grapple onto the ship and board her-I want two teams, one on each side of the ship-to board simultaneously. That will give us the best chance of getting aboard. Then take out the deck crew. My team will follow and will take control of the material."

"Our guts, your glory." Nikita muttered aloud.

"Michael! Can't you control your people during briefings?" Miller asked angrily.

Nikita's face went scarlet, embarrassed not for what she had said, but for getting Michael in trouble. Like it or not, Miller was in charge, and he was CIA.

She looked at Michael with an apology in her eyes, but he was looking at Miller.

"She has a point," Michael said softly. "I was told that Section was backing CIA, not the other way around."

Miller shrugged, "Change in plans. Besides, if you take casualties, so what? That's what abeyance is for, isn't it." He smiled at the surly faces around him. "Don't like it? Kiss my ass. Now hit the deck. We're on the clock!"

Miller watched as the team filed out of the ready room with an amused grin on his face. Michael was the last to leave. The two men exchanged intimidating looks, before Michael left to join his team.

* * *

Nikita nudged Michael as he oversaw the boat assignments. "Sorry," she whispered in passing.

If he heard it, Michael didn't acknowledge her comment.

"Rosewood, Adams, you're in one. Niles, Stone, take two. Nikita, you and Talbot are in three. Joseph and I will be in four. Rosewood, Niles, Nikita-you will be team leaders. I want boats one and two to approach from port side, three and four will take starboard. Remember, keep the noise down. Sound carries over water. We will only have minutes, perhaps seconds to get aboard before we are discovered. Anchor your rafts 15 meters from the ship and swim in from there. Any questions?"

None of the team ventured any.

"Fine. Get to your boats and go through final checks with your scuba gear."

"Michael-one more thing." Miller appeared on deck.

"Yes?" "No com gear-I don't want to take the chance that your people will chatter and get overheard."

"How will you know when to board?" Michael pointed out the obvious.

"Oh, you can keep yours-send me two pulses."

* * * Nikita cringed at the loudness of the grappling hook hitting the deck above her. She hooked on to the mechanized lift and felt her body rush upwards. Hooking her heel onto the deck of the ship, she pulled herself over the side, wiggled out of her rigging and moved to make way for Talbot.

Two seconds after Talbot landed at her side, gunfire erupted all around them. Nikita hit the deck and scrambled out of her scuba gear. Talbot followed suit.

"Ready?" She whispered to him, pulling her weapon from inside her wetsuit.

"Yeah-let's do it."

Run. Drop. Roll. Cover. Again and again, Talbot and Nikita advanced across the deck towards the bridge.

Suddenly, a bullet ricocheted nearby and Nikita hit the deck hard, bloodying her lip. The taste of blood mixed with the smell of rust and petroleum.

"You hit?" Talbot shouted at her.

"No!" She fired as she spoke and took out a figure firing at them.

"There's Michael!" Talbot motioned to their left.

"Okay-he's signaling-link up! Let's go!"

The sound of several, booted feet pounded across the metal decking. Nikita watched as Michael orchestrated team two into position behind those that were firing at them.

Two hand signals later, the last of the deck crew were lying dead on their faces.

"Nikita! Bridge-take Talbot and Joseph--go!" Michael ordered over his shoulder.

Nikita nodded and gestured to her two cohorts, and all three ran towards the bridge.

They paused at the doorway. Nikita nodded for Talbot to take point. He nodded and quickly curled his body inside the portal. "Clear!" Came Talbot's signal from within. Nikita followed him in.

Ten minutes later they arrived on the main bridge to find it empty. Nikita sighed. "Mission accomplished-let's get back on deck," she ordered.

"Aye, Captain," Talbot said with a jovial wink.

"It's the plank for you, matey-go!" Nikita chuckled.

They found Michael on the deck, waiting to hear from his portside teams. Their responsibility was to search the remainder of the ship for other crewmen and to capture them, if possible. They still didn't know what group had planned the hijacking.

A few minutes later, the teams arrived with eight crewmen, their hands cuffed behind them.

"Is that it?" Michael asked his teams.

"We're done," Rosewood answered.

Michael nodded.

"Nikita, you, Joseph and Talbot, withdraw. Teams one and two, stand fast, keep an eye on our prisoners.

He watched as Nikita gathered her gear and Talbot began to lower her over the side, before reaching to his ear, to send two pulses.

No sooner than the signal had been sent, the deck exploded in a flash of bright white light a few feet away, killing two of the prisoners and setting the deck ablaze.

Michael turned in surprise. Their own gunboat had fired the shot!

"What the hell is going on!" Rosewood yelled as he hit the deck. "That's white phosphorus they're firing at us!

The ship shuddered as another round hit her amid ships.

Michael heard Talbot yell, "Nikita!" and a rush of cold fear poured through him as he ran to where Talbot was standing.

"Abandon ship! Get back to the rafts!" He shouted as he ran. The gunboat began to circle around the bow to attack from the other side, as teams one and two tried to make their escape. Michael took one last look to see his teams go down in flames.

"Go Talbot, now!" He shouted to his remaining team member. Both men jumped together.

The water seemed as warm as blood. Michael surfaced and called out, "Nikita! Talbot!"

He heard Talbot a few feet away, "Here!"

"Get to a raft. It's your only chance." Michael ordered.

"Okay!" Talbot called back, just as the gunboat rounded the stern of the ship and headed their way.

Instinctively, Michael submerged. Talbot made a fatal choice in turning around to look. Several rounds of automatic fire ripped into him. He didn't even have time to scream.

Michael felt something bump up against his hip and reached for it.

Nikita! He felt her long braid float over his hand. He grabbed at it and pulled her to him.

Two fingers on her throat found a pulse, but she was unconscious and not breathing.

There was no choice, Michael pulled her to the surface and rolled her onto her back.

When he surfaced, he realized the gunboat had returned to the other side of the ship. For the moment, they were safe.

Blowing into her mouth, Michael struggled to pull her along towards a nearby raft.

He got no response until he got her aboard the raft. Then with a sound of gushing water, Nikita threw up and began to cough. Michael had to cover her mouth with his hand to mute the sound of it. It made her struggle.

"Shhh, Nikita. Quiet-don't move."

"D-dark. Can't see." She whispered hoarsely.

"Lie still." He ordered again, softly.

He felt her nod, and moved his hand from her mouth.

Searching the bottom of the raft, Michael found one of the paddles, dipped it into the water and pushed. The raft glided atop the water, effortlessly. He kept it up, as silently as he could, and began to make headway.

"Look! Another raft!"

Miller looked at it through binoculars. He smiled. Someone had 'survived.'

"Don't waste your ammo, Jester. He's as good as dead. Let's go get our property back."

* * *

Michael awoke with a start at sunrise after paddling most of the night. He looked down to find Nikita's head in his lap. He turned her face towards him, and saw that she had been burned across her forehead, nose and cheeks. They were first and second degree, most likely from the exploding white phosphorus grenades.

"Ni-ki-ta," he said gently.

She groaned and moved her head, frowning in pain.

"M-michael?" Her eyes struggled to open.

"Yes. Are you all right?"

"Where are we?" She raised her hand towards his voice and brushed against his chin.

"It's still night? What happened?" She continued groggily.

Michael closed his eyes and bit down on his lip. She was blind!

"Ni-ki-ta. You've been burned. There's a medical kit on the raft. Lie still. I'm going to get it."

Her eyes watered. "My eyes hurt." She said as he moved away.

"Shhh. Lie still."

Michael carefully applied antibiotic ointment to Nikita's injuries and gently wrapped gauze around her eyes to protect them.

"Is there any water?" She asked, as he tucked the end of the gauze into the bandage.

"Yes. Just a sip though. There's not a lot."

After she took a sip and handed him back the water, she asked, "Michael, what happened?"

"Either we were all in abeyance, or Miller has turned."

"My money's on Miller," Nikita returned. She leaned her head back against his shoulder and whispered, "No lies or sweet words, Michael. What's our status?"

"We'll be fine," he said softly.

"As bad as that?" she quipped bitterly, closing her eyes to sleep.

While Nikita slept, Michael busied himself with finding out their exact location and discovered they had been drifting northeast. It was bad news. He had hoped they had been traveling south towards Kiribati. While he had slept, the raft must have been caught in a current going northeast.

He checked the data in his PDA. The only inhabited landmass of any consequence was Johnston Atoll, well over 800 miles away. For a moment he thought of turning the raft around and trying for the closer Kiribati islands. Then reality set it. As strong as the current was, he would be exhausting himself for nothing. There would be no way he could out paddle it, even if Nikita helped.

There was slim hope they might be spotted by a ship, or a plane. Since the ocean current they were in was strong, Michael hoped that might indicate it was a popular sea-lane.

Since there was nothing more he could do about their location at the moment, Michael went on to another task. He checked the supplies in the raft. He estimated they had ample food. There was three-day's worth of combat rations aboard for four people-for the two of them, it could last a week, longer if they could catch any fish. The major concern was water. Due to its weight, not a lot was aboard. There was desalination equipment, but it took hours to make a few sips of water. Still, a few sips could be enough for one of them to survive, if the water ran out.

There was always the possibility of rain falling. But at sea, that was always a two-edged sword. Rain often meant storms that could swamp the raft.

Michael saw no point on dwelling on what he couldn't control, or the real fact that their chances for survival were small. He and Death had been close companions all of his adult life. There had been many times that he would have welcomed the dark sleep happily, if it hadn't been for the nagging feeling that Hell awaited him when he left this life. His Catholic upbringing had instilled in him strong values when he was a child-that there was a God, and that He couldn't possibly be pleased by the life that Michael had led.

The feeling that God existed became more substantial when Michael looked at Nikita's sleeping face. Even burned and bandaged, she was the most beautiful of all God's creations. For her, their survival was an imperative. For her, Michael would give his last breath.

* * * "Ni-ki-ta."

Nikita awoke to her name softly spoken and something pressed to her mouth.

"Drink."

She took a sip and swallowed.

"More," Michael ordered. She obeyed.

"Where . . . oh yeah, I remember," she said softly.

"It's time to eat something," Michael said, placing something in her hands.

She sniffed it and quipped, "Please, tell me it isn't powdered eggs." Michael smiled at her, "No, it's-he took the small can out of her hands and read the label-"chicken and noodles, with carrots."

She sniffed it again and smiled, "You wouldn't try and fool a blind person, would you?" Michael frowned, but took the spoon in the can and scooped up some of the chicken. "Open up," he ordered. She started to protest.

"Open," he said again, catching her jaw in his hand. She relented and opened her mouth and Michael fed her the spoonful of chicken and noodles.

"Mmmm, not too bad," she said, nodding her head and swallowing. She caught his hand. "I'm a big girl. I can feed myself, you know."

He placed the spoon in her hand. "I know."

Nikita ate a few bites, then asked, "What are you having?"

"Powdered eggs." He answered mildly.

She grimaced, "Ah, yuck! How can you eat that stuff? Tell me you're kidding!"

"Yes." He replied and Nikita could hear the amusement in his voice.

"No really, what are you eating?"

"Here, take a taste." Michael fed her a spoonful of his meal.

"Mmm, that's good too. Beef stew?"

"Yes." "I don't remember emergency rations tasting this good when I went through survival training," Nikita said with a contented sigh, and taking another bite of her chicken. "They must save the good stuff for the real emergencies, I guess."

Michael didn't comment. Blind or not, Nikita could see their situation was not a good one, but he was proud of her attempt at levity. Sometimes all that came between life and death was a positive attitude. He could always count on Nikita to try to cheer up those around her. It was one of the things that made her a good operative, and popular with her teammates.

"Is there dessert?" She handed him her empty can.

"Peaches or pears?" He asked.

Nikita smiled widely and cooed in a false-Georgia accent, "Ooooh pea-ches! My fav-rite!"

When they finished eating and had put things away, Nikita stretched her arms over her head and sighed, "Great meal. Best picnic I've ever been on." That it had been the only picnic she'd ever attended, she didn't mention.

"Now what?" She asked.

"We check your bandages. Come here." He pulled her back towards him, with her awkwardly trying to help.

"How do you feel?" He asked, gently touching on more ointment to her face.

"It's a little sore." She winced. "How does it look?"

"Not too bad. A little blistering here and there. I've seen worse."

"Yeah, I know, that's why I'm nervous."

"Why?" He asked softly.

"What degree of hideous is it?" There was fear in her voice, even though she was smiling.

Michael leaned over and gently kissed her mouth. His lips lingered for several moments before Nikita slipped her arms around his neck. They held each other for a moment, and Michael whispered, "We're going to be okay, Nikita."

She squeezed his neck, and then whispered back, "At least that's a step up from fine."

* * * "What is it?" Madeline asked, seeing the grim expression on Operations' face as he stepped down into her office.

"George just called. We've lost the Pacific team."

"All of them? Miller and his team too?" She asked in disbelief.

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"No one seems to know, but of course the CIA is blaming us!"

"What happens now?"

"I'm sending in another team. We've never had a total failure like this- not from someone as capable as Michael is. Something doesn't smell right and I want to know why." * * *

"Sir."

Operations paused in his travels, "What is it Birkoff?" He asked gruffly.

"Is it true that Michael and the team are lost?"

"Yes. So far as we know."

"Michael asked me to give you something, if this mission went south."

"What?"

"Michael told me, if this mission failed, I was to give you this disk."

"What's on it?"

"I don't know. I didn't figure he wanted me to know."

Operations frowned and took the small disk from Birkoff's hand. The sudden idea that Michael had been the cause of the mission failure crossed his mind. He had Nikita with him and the opportunity to disappear in a far- flung part of the world. It was a bitter thought. Michael had been his most loyal operative. He looked at the disk with great misgiving and disappointment. Could Michael betray his team and Section for the love of a woman? Part of him thought Michael was capable of doing so, but another part refused to believe it. Why wouldn't he have done so for his son? It made no sense.

Operations took the disk back to his office and played it.

* * * "Have you gotten any sleep, since all of this happened?" Nikita asked, as she rubbed sunscreen on her bare arms and legs.

Despite the small lean-to, Michael had erected to give them a little shelter from the sun, her black-scuba suit had been suffocatingly hot. She stripped down to the Section T-shirt and the black cotton shorts she had worn beneath it, to get comfortable.

"Some," he said, as he checked their position again. They were still going northeast. He watched the horizon for a moment, glad to have his sunglasses available. The glare off the water was blinding.

"Is there anything we should be doing?" Nikita asked, turning her body sideways in the raft.

"No. You can rest." He answered.

"I have rested. It's time for you to rest." She patted her lap. "Come on. I make a good pillow. It's the least I can do-especially since it's all I can do, at the present."

Michael smiled faintly at her. Her lap did look inviting, and his eyes were burning from the lack of sleep.

"All right, but only for a couple of hours."

"Why only a couple, Michael? You got plans to go out somewhere?" She tilted her head and put one hand on her hip.

"I have to check our position."

"Why? Can we change it?"

He gave a soft snort of amusement. "No," he said finally.

"Then check it after you take a nice long nap. I'll stand watch."

Michael frowned. Standing watch meant watching. If they were lucky, it meant watching for a ship. And he was suddenly reminded that he was the only one that could.

"No, I'll wait for nightfall."

"Why?"

He rubbed his weary eyes. "Because, if there is a ship out there . . ."

"I wouldn't be able to see it," Nikita sighed sadly. She was silent a moment, then argued, "But, Michael, the same would be true at night. You have to rest sometime."

She had him there. But a ship could see them better in the daytime.

"Look. Hand me the signal mirror. Even if I can't see, I can signal. I can feel the direction of the sun-I'll just keep flashing it all around. Who knows? Someone might see."

When he didn't immediately answer, she pleaded with him, "Michael, I can't do this at night-please, let me do something to help."

Another moment passed in silence, and for a brief terrible instant, Nikita was afraid he'd fallen overboard. Then she felt his head against her lap and a brief kiss against her belly.

"All right. Here's the mirror." He placed it in her hands. "Wake me up if you get tired."

* * * Nikita sat with one hand in Michael's curls, while she held up the signaling mirror with the other. There wasn't much else to do, except think, sitting there in the bobbing darkness.

It was true, what they said, about having all your other senses be more acute, if you lost one of them. The scent of the ocean, the heat of the sun on her skin, the rustling of the wind and sea-everything was so clear and pure. Even the weight of Michael's head in her lap evoked an emotional response. It made her feel protective--allowing him a chance to sleep. It was a feeling she relished. Usually, it was the other way around.

She thought she should be afraid, but she wasn't. Instead, she was oddly contented, sitting there blind in the sun. Just her and Michael and no one else. No Section. No killing. Just the sun, the sea, and the wind gently moving over her body. If she could choose her own death, this would be the way to go. With her lover in her lap, peacefully asleep. * * *

Michael slept. At first, it was a light sleep. He was still somewhat aware of the sea sounds around him. Then Nikita began to slowly stroke his hair, and he fell ever deeper.

He dreamed he was on the beach, in southern France, where his family had gone on holiday, oh so very long ago. It was the first holiday his father could ever afford. His Maman had been so happy. She sat on a blanket in the sun and held his baby sister in a yellow sun-suit. Her face was young and glorious and smiling.

His Papa had bought him a boat and together, despite the crowded surf, they sailed it up and down. For hours they laughed together. For hours. Sand castles and shells. Laughter and play . . . .

Then came the clouds across the sun, drowning out his happiness. His maman calling him-"Michel! Take care of your sister!" He saw his father fall, so very ill. His mother's worried face.

"Maman," Michael muttered softly.

'Take care of your sister!' Michael had failed in that. Had failed at so many things.

"Michael." Gentle fingers stroked his face until he opened his eyes.

It was sunset.

He sat up. "I slept all day?"

"You needed to." Nikita said. "I would have let you sleep longer, except I have a problem. My legs are numb from sitting and I, uhmmm, have to pee in the pool."

Michael laughed. Honest to God, laughed.

"This has to be the most bizarre moment of my life," Nikita said dryly, as she hung over the side of the raft with her legs the water. Michael was on his belly, with his arms under hers and wrapped tightly around her back, as she faced him. He was still amused at the situation, embarrassing as it was for Nikita. It was an intimate thing, something a man would do for his wife. The thought touched him and he leaned forward and kissed her.

"You done?" He asked afterwards.

"Oh, yeah-totally bizarre." She nodded, and he pulled her back aboard the raft.

* * * Dry and dressed, Nikita held out her hand for the evening meal.

"Is it a pretty night?" She asked.

"Yes. Lots of stars." Michael enclosed her hand around a can of food. "Michael, why do you think Miller did what he did?" She asked suddenly.

"For money. For power. For all the things terrorists want. I was a fool to trust him at all."

"But you never did, Michael. Not even at first. I saw your face in the briefing. You knew Miller before this mission, didn't you?"

"Yes. Section's worked with him before. I never liked his methods."

"Wish to God, Operations hadn't either." Nikita said softly, remembering her fallen comrades.

"It wasn't Operations choice, Nikita. The orders came from the Agency."

"Why do you stand up for him? Why do you defend him? He's made your life a living hell!" She fired back angrily.

"He gave me back my life, when I didn't deserve to live. He's given me a purpose in life. To defend the weak . . . to pay for what I did."

"At what a price to yourself, Michael? A wife, no make that two wives, a son-you've paid your debt a million times over!"

Silence fell between them for a long while. Then Michael asked, "Do you want some water?"

Nikita felt for his hand and captured it in her own.

"Michael, I'm not angry at you. I just want to understand."

She heard him sigh.

"Nikita, this is who I am-what I am. I threw my life away years ago and I can never get it back again. I've seen things-done things, that there is no forgiveness for. The only thing left for me is to try to make some things right again. I'm damned, Nikita, for being the best at what I do. I kill, but now I kill those who deserve to be killed, instead of the innocent who didn't."

"And Operations? Is he the best at what he does, too?" She asked bitterly.

"What do you really know about him? Of his life? Of his pain?" He inquired softly. "His pain?" Nikita was astounded at the suggestion.

"Yes. His pain. The pain of losing his family-he gave them up, to keep them safe. He gave them up to do a job that needed to be done. There are evil people in the world, and Operations has managed to kill them in record numbers. He's a hard man, yes, but life made him hard. You have to be hard to survive a decade of torture and deprivation."

"You mean his time as a POW?"

"Yes. And he didn't simply survive. He made sure everyone of his men survived as well. Every one of them, Nikita. Every one of them."

"But," she said tearfully, "he's destroying you!"

Michael took her face in his hands and said tenderly, "No, I've done that all by myself."

* * * Operations looked at the information Michael left on the disk and found no betrayal, much to his relief. What Michael had left him, was a note of concern over the mission. It was less a warning, than a sense of foreboding. Miller, Michael noted, had been involved with the negotiations with the Russians for the nuclear waste in the first place. That was something Operations hadn't known. Whether it made a difference, was unclear. What was clear, was Michael's reluctance to be involved with Miller. For Operations, that was tantamount to an indictment.

Michael was a cautious man; his job demanded it. If there was something worrisome about Miller and the assignment, Michael might have sensed it, even though he would not have protested without proof. Call it a sixth sense, but Michael was usually right about most missions.

Operations popped the disk out of the reader and took it down to Birkoff.

"I want to know everything there is to know about Special Agent Miller, CIA," he ordered handing Birkoff the disk. "I want to know what missions he's been on, and who his contacts were. This has priority."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

"Michael?" Nikita lay on the floor of the raft, her head in his lap. As she had done for him, Michael stroked her hair.

"Talk to me a little while. This total darkness is getting to me a little."

"Talk to you about what?" He asked puzzled. "Anything. Where you grew up-where you went to school. What your life was like, before Section. Do you have any hobbies? Favorite foods? You know, that kind of stuff."

"I'd rather talk about you," he answered softly.

"Me later. There's not much to me. Besides, you've seen my file. I've never seen yours."

"There's not much to me either, Nikita."

"Yeah, right! That's what the iceberg said to the Titanic. Okay, I'll make this easier. I'll ask a specific question, and you answer it, okay?

He sighed. She wasn't going to let it go. "All right, but just twenty questions. You need to sleep."

"Great! Okay, here's the first-where were you born?"

"Marseilles."

"Never mind, strike that. I already knew that."

"Uh, who's the first girl you ever fell in love with?"

"Simone."

"Simone? Really? No girlfriends in high school or college?"

"Really. I had girlfriends, but none that I was in love with. That's three down."

"No-two, the first one didn't count. What did your parents do for a living?"

"My father worked for the government as a postal clerk. He didn't have a lot of education, so it was hard on him. Maman was a teacher, but she quit her job when I was born."

"Where did you learn to speak English and the rest of your languages?

"I learned English in school, and Maman spoke it fluently. Vietnamese, Jurgen and Operations taught me. From Vietnamese, I picked up Thai and Chinese. If you speak French, then Italian and Spanish aren't a problem. I took German and Latin in high school and college, the rest I've picked up in Section over the years. When you get to Level Three, you'll be sent to a language school, and again at Level Four. That's where I learned Arabic and Russian."

"Michael, I can hardly speak English! Do they cancel you if you flunk out?"

"No," he answered, sounding amused.

"What's an easy language to learn then? What do you recommend?"

"French." He said without hesitation. "I can teach you that. And that's seven."

"No five, my questions about flunking out and what language to learn, don't count."

"Why not?"

"They weren't about you-be good! What kinds of hobbies do you like to do?"

"I like to paint, to read, I enjoy music," He began.

"And playing the cello!" She smiled, remembering.

"And playing the cello, some violin too. Also flying, and skydiving."

"You paint-who's your favorite painter?"

"Jacques Louis David. I like the neo-classical period."

Nikita sighed. "I only wish I knew what that was. You know so much about everything-I feel like a complete moron most of the time."

He stroked her face, "The only difference between us, is I had the opportunity to go to university, and you haven't. You have the intelligence, Nikita. When we get back, you should enroll in school- Section will pay for it."

"School-I hated school!"

"University is different. I promise you'll love it. I did."

"You went to the University of Paris, right?"

"Yes."

"What did you major in?"

"Chemical engineering and Latin."

"Latin?"

"Papa wanted me to be an engineer-but Maman hoped I'd be a priest."

"A priest?" Nikita said, mildly surprised.

"Yeah," he said, sounding terribly sad.

"Oh, I think you would have been a wonderful priest," She said in awe of the concept.

Michael didn't comment, because he couldn't. He was glad his mother had died before she could learn what a monster he had become. A priest indeed!

Nikita took his silence as disagreement.

"No, really Michael. You would have been good at anything you set out to be. But I have to confess," she chuckled, " I'm so glad you didn't. Pity all the female parishioners, if you had. Pity me, too. I would have never met you. In fact, I wouldn't even be alive."

Nikita sobered a little. "I just realized, I never even thanked you for saving my life yesterday." She reached out and found his face, then raised up to kiss his cheek.

Michael turned into the kiss and let her mouth touch his instead. It was instant solace to the pain he was feeling. He curled himself around her and pulled her closer.

Forgiveness. Nikita always gave him forgiveness. It was something his soul sought desperately and she gave it in abundance and without price.

Here she was thanking him for saving her life, when he had all but destroyed her a hundred times over. He had no words to tell her how much it meant to him, only kisses that seemed wholly inadequate.

* * * "Birkoff has found something quite interesting. The American government paid two million dollars for the contents of the Gregor Leniov, but the Russian government insists it only received $500,000." Operations said, as he leaned over Madeline's desk and handed her a computer disk.

"Who was responsible for the transfer of funds." She asked inserting the disk and running the file.

"Special Agent Miller. He also negotiated the deal."

"I see," Madeline said, thoughtfully. Miller made the deal, then skimmed a million and a half off the top. Not a lot of money in today's market, however. He sold himself fairly cheap." She raised an eyebrow and rested her chin on her fist. "Perhaps not. My theory is, he pocketed the million and a half, sold the cargo to a terrorist group for more money, then engineered the recovery of the vessel and its cargo, using Section One, so he could resell the contents all over again." Operations tapped a cigarette absently against her desk.

"It's an interesting supposition. How do we prove it?"

"The only way we can, is to find that ship. Miller's burnt his bridges with the CIA. He can't return without a major explanation, so my guess is, the next "sale" of the vessel will be the final one. I've contacted George, and while he hasn't completely bought off on my theory, he's willing to let us check things out. We don't have the coordinates of where our team met the ship-another reason to believe things aren't kosher-but we do have an estimated location of where they might have rendezvoused with the ship. Using that data, we can put together a search area in which to locate the Gregor Leniov."

"Unless, Miller offloads the cargo onto another vessel and scuttles the Gregor Leniov."

"I'm hoping he hasn't had the time to do either. In any event, I'm going to find that cargo, if I have to board every damn ship in the Northern Pacific!"

* * * It was wonderfully strange to be kissed in the dark, in a gently bobbing raft, in the middle of an ocean, Nikita thought, as she lay in Michael's arms. She couldn't see him, but she could taste him. His mouth covered and courted hers with a velvet tongue that caressed the seam of her mouth and bargained for entrance. She surrendered, and bade him enter. He did so with the utmost gentleness and sweetest passion.

Was it his heart fiercely beating, or hers? They were so close-now lying face to face--it was hard to know where she ended and he began.

He pulled her closer, wedging his knee between her thighs, using one hand to support her head, while the other slid over the curve of her bottom and cupped her against him.

She rocked against him, wanting. He responded by suckling her neck, then kissed a sensitive spot below her ear, sending little electric currents of sensation throughout her body. She shivered and whispered his name.

He wanted her. Nikita could feel him hard against her, yet he made no attempt to go further than kissing her. It was exquisite torture, his body rubbing against hers, thrusting mockingly. It was touching and being touched, holding and being held, wanting and being wanted-but chaste, for all its eroticism.

Nikita felt hot, like she had a fever, but trembled like she was freezing.

"Michael . . ." His name was a prayer in the air.

He rolled her onto her back and covered her with his body. She luxuriated beneath his weight, then lifted her head with a gasp, as his warm mouth tasted the summit of one breast through the soft cotton of her shirt. His tongue gently twirled the material over and around the sensitive tip until Nikita was struggling to catch her breath. She almost wept, when he went on to the other.

She tried to embrace him. He refused to allow it, capturing her arms and holding them down. She was too weak to protest. He made her feel like warm honey inside. She wanted to plead to for the end of the torture, but could barely breathe.

He nudged her T-shirt up and feathered kisses down her breasts and belly. She lifted her hips.

"Ohgod, please. . ." she moaned.

"What do you want?" He whispered softly beneath her ear. "Tell me." He freed her hands.

"Y-you. I want you." She wrapped her arms tightly around him.

Michael entered her slowly, savoring the warm tightness that cradled him. He hadn't realized how much he had wanted her--no needed her. It was insane to be doing what they were doing. They were three days from death in every direction, and yet he reveled in his madness.

Michael moved in slowly and out again and felt Nikita quake beneath him. And again, to feel her muscles tighten around him pulling him deeper. He leaned down and kissed her again, drawing the breath from her mouth, and giving it back again.

Nikita pressed his back, then desperately pulled on his arms. He began to delve in a little faster, a little deeper. Still she begged in fragile whispers, "More! Oh, please, more!"

Michael reached between them, searching through satin petals for a pearl, and found it. She was as hard as he was. He had barely touched her when she exploded with a low moan of release. He managed to ride her through the peak of it before he allowed himself to follow.

* * * They lay entwined, in the gentle, rocking silence of the night; their entire world consisting of the bottom of a raft and the arms of each other. For Michael it was an island of peace. He stroked her hair, then let his fingers trail down her back, defining her in the darkness. She shivered and cuddled closer. "You asleep?" He whispered.

He heard her sniff before she answered, "No."

He moved his hand to touch her face and felt moisture on the bandages.

"You're crying."

"No, not really." She chuckled, "You're going to think I'm nuts, but I've been happier in this boat, lost at sea, than I've ever been in my entire life."

Her words saddened him. At least he had known happiness as a child, and with Simone. The words spilled out of him before he could stop them, "I'm sorry."

"Ah, Michael." She sighed, "Why are you sorry? None of this is your fault. None of it ever was. I'm the one who's sorry." She searched out and touched his face then brushed back a strand of his hair.

"I've heaped blame on you for so many things over the past four years that I later learned you had nothing to do with-you've been protecting me, all these years, without so much as a kind word to show for it."

"Don't Nikita," he said softly, "don't make me out to being a something I'm not. If I had a shred of decency left I would have found a way to get you free of Section, when I realized you were an innocent."

"Michael, you did free me. I chose to come back."

"You said you came back for me. I shouldn't have let you." He said bitterly.

"Yes, I came back for you, but there were other reasons as well. Section had become, as warped as it sounds, home for me. I missed Birkoff and Walter-they're as close as I'll ever have to having a bothersome little brother and a dirty old uncle." She chuckled then sobered a little.

"There was also the job. After I left, I suddenly realized I missed the job. I missed knowing we were doing something important. I was finally good at doing something, something worthwhile. Being a waitress was safe and boring. It made me realize why you do the job."

"I do it, because I have to pay for what I did."

"No, maybe in the beginning you did, but now you do it because you must. You care, Michael. You see the bad and you want to stop it. You do it because it has to be done, and you're the best at doing it.

"But you've never liked what we do." Michael interrupted.

"Liked, no. I don't like the job. No one likes taking the garbage out, but we all know it has to be done. In fact, I often hate the job, because of the atmosphere of fear and mistrust that we have to operate in. But deep down, I know what we do is important. I also know, you think so too."

"Still, you would have wished for a different life," Michael said quietly.

"Sure, there are times that I wish I could live a normal life. That I could have been married, had children, watched them grow up. . . part of me will always long for that, but another part has learned to accept what I can't change. Besides, I love you, Michael. And where you are, I have to be."

There was a low moaning sound that interrupted the conversation.

"What was that?" Nikita said nervously, burrowing into his shoulder.

"A whale, I think," Michael said quietly.

Nikita listened intently to the sound, then forgot all about it when Michael said, "I love you, too."

* * * "Damn it, Birkoff! There has to be something! A ship that big, just doesn't disappear!"

Birkoff swallowed, but begged to differ. "Sir, what if they've sunk her?"

Operations' gray eyes bore into Birkoff for a moment then relented.

"Maybe they did, but they would have moved the cargo off of her first. Contact the navies of the United States and Australia. Both countries have territorial rights to islands in the search area. The more eyes we have looking the better. Go through the Agency for POCs and protocol."

"Yes sir."

* * * "Michael?"

"Shhh, sleep now." He covered Nikita's shoulders with his jacket and quickly kissed her. "I have to keep watch."

She sighed sleepily and got comfortable in his lap. "Don't forget," she said as she drifted off, "You still owe me a few questions." Michael stroked her hair and stared off at the dark horizon. The night was overcast and only a few stars peeped out at him. He hoped that it didn't mean bad weather ahead. He checked his GPS. The soft green glow told him they were moving in a more westerly direction. Whether that was good or bad, he didn't know.

He wondered what Operations was doing at the moment. By now Birkoff would have given him the disk. If Miller thought killing the Section team would be the end of his problems, he didn't know the head of Section One very well. Operations didn't like loose ends and this one was no doubt flapping in the breeze. It was Michael's hope, anyway; Miller had to be stopped, one way or another.

* * * Nikita sat in the warm sunlight as Michael took his turn at sleeping. Last night had been a sweet dream, but she couldn't help wondering how much more time they would have together. The water had to be running low, although Michael would never let her know. She sighed. 'Where was Gilligan and his stupid island, when you needed them?'

Above her head, a sea gull cried out, startling her. Another, a little farther away cried out in answer to the first. Remembering her survival training, Nikita grinned. Birds! Birds meant land nearby!

"Michael! Wake up!"

Michael instantly awoke. "What's wrong?"

"Listen! Birds!"

Michael looked up and saw the source of her excitement. He grabbed the small set of binoculars that were part of the raft emergency kit and scanned the horizon. Off to the southeast the blue sky was alive with circling birds.

He kissed her and grabbed for the paddle.

* * * "Careful," Michael said, as he helped her out of the raft. Nikita sank to her hips in warm salt water, staggered and almost fell over. He caught her before she could. She felt ridiculously weak in the knees.

"Where do you think we are?" She asked as he gently guided her forward. She heard the water slosh as they walked and the incessant noise of the birds.

"On an atoll of some kind. Be very careful, there's a lot of coral all around us. It's razor sharp."

"Is there any sign of life?" "So far, just the birds. Here, sit." Michael eased her to the ground. She felt around herself and touched sand and some kind of vine-like vegetation.

"Where you going?"

"Back to the raft to get some gear, and to make sure she's anchored well."

She sat and listened to him move away. A few minutes passed and he returned.

"Here, have a sip." He pressed a cup to her lips.

"Have you figured out where we are?" She asked after swallowing.

"Yes. Baker's Atoll."

"Inhabited?"

"No. But there is a beacon on the island, according to my PDA, and an old airstrip. This is American territory. They used it during WWII as a refueling base. Nowadays, it's off limits to the public, but open to scientists and researchers. Maybe there is something further inland. At the very least, we should check out the beacon."

"You have all that info on your PDA?"

"Yes. Before we left, I downloaded navigational charts and the CIA fact book on the Pacific islands."

As Michael helped her to her feet, she slung an arm around his neck, grinned, and kissed his cheek. "That's my Michael! Always prepared!"

"How big is this place?" Nikita asked as they plodded along.

"One point four, kilometers."

"Any palm trees? I've always wanted to try coconut milk." She said wistfully.

"Unfortunately, no. No trees at all. Just some low-lying shrubs, some spindly grass here and there. No fresh water, either, I'm afraid."

"Just my luck," she muttered.

"What?'

"Oh, here we are, stuck on a desert island together, and no place to hang a hammock." Michael smiled and shook his head. She never gave up, God love her. He looked off to the south, saw the flash of the island's beacon, and steered towards it. When they got closer, he saw two other structures next to the beacon, one a Quonset hut, its paint blistered and peeling in the hot tropical air, and a small wooden outbuilding.

When they arrived he saw that the Quonset hut was pad-locked. He moved Nikita aside and fired one round at the lock to open it. She jumped at the sound.

Michael led her to the opened door but caught her hand as she reached out.

"Careful, the metal's hot."

"Where are we now?"

Michael peered into the building. The heat was stifling and rolled out of the door in visible waves. Inside were a table, four military issue green cots, and what looked like radio equipment, covered in plastic. He described the contents of the Quonset hut as he sat her on one of the cots.

"A radio? You're sure?" She asked.

"It looks like it. Don't know if it works though." Michael pulled the plastic off and tried to turn it on. "Looks like a short wave transmitter, but it's not coming on. No power."

Nikita sighed. "Of course not. How could they get power all the way out here?"

"A generator." Michael replied, looking out a window at the smaller building. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

There was a gunshot, and then a moment passed. Nikita got to her feet.

"Michael?"

He didn't answer and the silence continued.

"Michael!"

There was a sudden loud noise like a lawn mower going full blast. Nikita shouted over it and tried to find the door, "Michael!"

He caught her in his arms as he returned, "It's okay. I just got the generator started. Let's see if the radio works."

"Sorry. I'm having a little trouble adjusting to not being able to see." Michael eased her back down on the cot again then went over to examine the radio.

"Michael?" Her voice suddenly sounded strained.

"Yes?'

"What if I don't get my eyesight back-I mean, what if I'm permanently blind? Section will have no choice except to cancel me, won't they?"

Until that moment, Michael hadn't realized the obvious. If she couldn't function in Section, then Section would have no further use for her!

He looked over at the radio, once their salvation, now a potential enemy. One call for help could be their undoing, but not to call would mean their death, absolutely. Perhaps not today, or even in a few days, but without water, it was inevitable.

Michael left the radio and knelt at her feet. He gathered her into his arms and stroked her hair.

"Do you really think that I would let that happen?" he asked her softly.

She hugged him back tightly, then shook her head. "No. I'm sorry I even brought it up. You've got enough to worry about."

Michael smiled at a memory. "It's a sin to worry."

Nikita pulled back, "Who says?"

"Jesus Christ-in the book of Matthew, I believe."

"You're kidding. You've read it?"

Michael let out a little sigh, "Cover to cover." He got to his feet. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"To turn off the generator. No point in wasting fuel."

"But I thought you were going to test the radio."

"It can wait until tonight. We can transmit further after dark. Besides it's hot and I'm hungry. How about a picnic on the beach?"

Nikita smiled broadly; she was dying for a bath, "Can we get wet?" "If we can find a spot without too much coral," He said as he left.

An hour later, Nikita sat in Michael's lap, chest deep in a small tidal pool. She relaxed as the warm surf gently buffeted them. His arms were drawn tightly around her, to keep her from floating off his lap and she had never felt so safe or secure in her entire life.

"I could stay here forever," she sighed happily.

"But you can't," he replied, "you're already turning pink." He kissed her very warm shoulder, and tasted salt and faint traces of the remaining sunscreen.

Nikita wiggled out of his arms, turned, and straddled him. "Hey, it's a sin to worry, remember?"

Using her hands to frame his face, and center his mouth, she kissed him. It was a lush, open-mouthed, oh-no-we're-not-leaving, plundering of his lips. Michael had to move his arms to brace himself, to keep them both from tumbling over backwards.

Walking on her knees, Nikita drew closer, rocking her body provocatively side to side over his.

She smiled in triumph against his mouth when she felt his body responding, then groaned in disappointment as he shifted her off-balance, picked her up in his arms and stood.

"Ah, Michael," she whined comically, "I don't want to go back yet."

He didn't answer as he carried her ashore, or as he laid her on the olive- green army blanket.

"Ow!" Nikita muttered as her reddened shoulders rubbed up against the coarse wool of the blanket. She crossed her arms, shivering as a breeze blew across her body.

She felt Michael beside her, opening her arms, then welcomed his body atop hers.

"Cold?" He asked, feeling her hardened nipples rake against his chest.

"Not now," she whispered thankfully.

"Good." He kissed her mouth, then her neck, then leisurely continued downward.

She tasted like the sea, all salty and warm. She lifted up wanting more, he pressed her back down and gave it. He closed his eyes against the sight of her; her moans of pleasure were already almost too much to bear. He wanted inside her, but not yet. Not until he felt her begin to tremble and call out to him. He brought her to the brink and retreated.

"Michael, don't stop, ohgod, please!"

He kissed her as he pushed himself inside and it was the greatest bliss in all the world to feel her come around him.

* * * Thunder woke Michael with a start. He pushed back the blanket that had sheltered him and Nikita from the afternoon sun. The sky was full of dark and angry clouds and the wind spun the sand around them into a stinging mist.

"Ni-ki-ta."

"I know, I heard." She said, sitting up. "Is it raining yet?" She put out her hand to check.

"Not yet, but soon." He shook out her T-shirt and eased it over her head, leaving her to finish pulling it down."

"We have to hurry," he said, pulling on his clothes. "Once I get you back to the quonset, I have to try to get the raft beached." "I can help," she said, pulling on her boots. "You'll never get that raft beached by yourself in this wind."

"All right. Come then," He took her hand and guided her towards the anchored raft. They made it to the raft just as the first raindrops began to fall. It was a difficult tug of war against the wind and surf, but finally they managed to beach the raft.

"Are we done?" Nikita shouted over the wind and rain. She squinted at the water dripping into her eyes from the sodden bandages, then pulled them off her face. A split second later there was an incredible clap of thunder. Michael shoved her forcefully to the ground and covered her with his body.

"That was too close," Michael said, looking up at the sky.

Nikita clutched at his jacket.

"I saw it!" Nikita said

"What?" He brushed her wet hair away from her face.

"I saw the lightning! Michael I saw it!"

"Can you see my face?" He asked, waving his hand in front of her eyes. "No." She sounded confused. "But I did see the lightning."

"Let's get back. We've got to try and catch some of this rain water." He pulled her to her feet and they both ran for cover.

"Now what?" Nikita asked, listening to the rain rattle like hail against the metal roof of the quonset hut.

Michael sat on the edge of the cot and took her chin in his hand. In his other hand he held a flashlight and flashed it into her eyes. Immediately, she flinched and he noticed her pupil's contract.

"What do you see?" He asked softly.

"Just light," She batted clumsily at the air trying to block it.

He clicked off the light.

"Does this mean my sight's coming back?"

"I don't know, but I think it's best to cover your eyes for a while longer."

Nikita listened to him open the medical kit.

"Are you going to try the radio?"

"Not yet. The storm's too bad. We'll get too much static." Michael said, gently wrapping the remaining gauze around her eyes.

"Did you find anything to fill with water?" Nikita asked, trying to hold the bandage in place while he worked.

"Yes. I pulled three metal drawers out of the desk. I checked them a few minutes ago. They're already full. We might get five or six liters-more, if the raft fills up as well."

"Then we've bought some time."

"Yes. A little."

The longer they delayed, the longer Nikita's eyes had to heal. If they didn't, Michael had begun to contemplate other possibilities--the "what if's" of not ever going back. If Section thought them both dead, along with the rest of the team, there might be a chance for both of them to live free. Failing that, Michael intended to find some place safe for Nikita. He would return to Section, and bargain for her life. He had the means, even though he knew the penalty would be his own demise. Operations would see to that.

Nikita heard him put the medical kit on the desk.

"Do you think Section's even looking for us?" She asked suddenly.

"I don't know. Perhaps."

"I wonder where Miller is now. Probably in Tahiti with his ill gotten gains." Nikita said despairing, suddenly feeling guilty for being so happy when the rest of their team was food for the fishes.

"Don't worry about Miller. Section will find him."

She smiled sadly, "It's a sin to worry, right?"

She felt his hand caress her cheek in answer.

"You'd better get some rest." Michael said, covering her with their remaining dry blanket.

"I'd rather finish our twenty questions," she said coyly, leaning her head on her elbow.

She heard him sigh, resignedly.

"What else do you want to know?" He asked, sitting on the floor beside her bed.

"You've told me what your father and your mother wanted you to do, but what did you want to do with your life?"

Michael didn't answer for a long moment. "I don't think I ever thought about it. I never questioned what my parents envisioned for me. They worked so hard to afford to send me to school."

Nikita rephrased the question. "What if you could do anything you wanted- be anything you wanted to be? What would have it have been?"

"It's pointless to speculate, Nikita. I am, what I am." His voice was soft, but filled with a melancholy hopelessness.

Nikita reached out towards his voice and tenderly touched his face. His three-day growth of beard was at a stage somewhere between prickly and soft. It tickled her fingertips. "Then let me tell you what I think you could have been. You could have been an engineer, a poet, a painter, a musician, a teacher, a linguist, a soldier, a wonderful father, and an adoring husband. I've seen all of them in you."

Michael tried to turn his face away, but Nikita wouldn't let him.

"When I was little, I used to pretend I was someone important. One day a movie star, another day a teacher-but all I ever really amounted to was a girl, living on the streets."

"Ni-ki-ta-" Michael stepped in to argue.

"It's the truth, Michael. That's all I ever was, until I met you. You said Operations gave you purpose. Well, you did the same for me."

"No." He said softly, shaking his head.

"Yes." She replied back earnestly. "Being blind, if you'll forgive the pun, has been quite an eye-opening experience. When I thought about the possibility of being cancelled, earlier today, I started thinking about my life in general. And it occurred to me, that if Section hadn't come along, I would have sat in prison for the rest of my life and lived and died without doing anything worthwhile. I would have never known you, or Walter, or Birkoff."

"You were an innocent. You should never have been in prison in the first place." He reminded her soberly, fingering several strands of her hair with an odd sort of reverence.

"Yes, but that wasn't your fault, Michael. Innocent or not, the point is I was in prison for life. If it weren't for Section--for you--my life would have been wasted. At least now, if I get cancelled, I can die knowing I left the world a little better than I found it."

"I won't let you die, Nikita." Michael promised softly.

Nikita sat up and looped her arms around his neck and pulled him close.

"I know you won't, Michael." She held him tightly. "I know you won't."

* * * Michael stared at the radio, then back at Nikita's sleeping face. It was his duty to contact Section to report their status. To delay any longer would violate everything he had been trained to do for the last fourteen years, and yet, the very thought stopped him. Here, he could protect her. Here, they could be together. But if he didn't, their time together would be short.

The morning sun had barely made a dent in the gloom of the overcast sky. Michael stepped quietly over to the window and watched the rain that continued to fall. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of it patter gently against the windowpane. It was as close to peaceful a sound that he had heard in years. His soul drank it in. The truth was, he didn't want to leave this place. A greater truth was that he didn't deserve to stay.

They couldn't stay. And he shouldn't want what he could never have.

"Michael?" Nikita called out softly.

"I'm here."

"Is it morning yet?"

"Yes." He watched her sit up and stretch like a graceful cat.

"We should try the radio," she said, getting to her feet and feeling her way over to where he was standing.

"Yes." He replied, but didn't move from where he stood.

"Do you need help with the generator?" She asked.

"No."

"You know you have to, Michael." She said at last. She'd heard the reluctance in his voice and knew without asking its source.

"Yes. I know." He returned quietly. "But not just now."

"You sound tired. Did you get any sleep?" Nikita suddenly felt guilty about her insistence over the "twenty questions".

"I'm fine." Came his standard answer.

"Oh, boy, we're back to fine." She sighed and looped her arms around his neck.

* * * Nikita sighed again as Michael left to restart the generator and wondered how soon 'help' would arrive. Would they have a few more days together? A few hours?

Despite Michael's assurances that he wouldn't allow Nikita to be cancelled, Nikita knew there wouldn't be much he could do to stop it. He'd only get himself cancelled in the process. She gave out a little laugh at her situation. Lost on a desert island, blind, dirty, hungry, and happier than she had ever been in her entire life. Now, at least, she had more than a few memories to savor. Whatever happened, she had Michael's love and having that, she had everything she wanted.

Michael returned a few minutes later.

"Ready?" he asked, cupping her cheek in his hand.

Nikita sucked in a deep breath and let it out again, then nodded.

He bent and kissed her before turning his attention to the radio. It was a brief, sweet touch upon her mouth.

Almost a farewell, Nikita thought sadly. And perhaps it was.

It took only a moment to make radio contact, as the radio had already been tuned into an emergency channel.

"This is Baker Atoll calling United States Coast Guard, over."

"This is the US Coast Guard Cutter Philippine Sea. How can we assist you, over?"

"We've run aground, and need retrieval, over."

"What is the name and home port of your vessel, over?"

"I'm afraid we just have a raft, over."

"Number in your party, sir? Over." The voice sounded incredulous from the previous answer.

"Two, over."

"Our ETA to your location is approximately three hours. Where are you on the island? Over."

"We are on the south-western side of the island near the day beacon, over."

"Roger. Have you pinpointed on the charts. Are there any injured? Over."

"Yes. One casualty, with minor facial burns and eye injuries. Over."

"Roger. We will contact you on this frequency in one hour to give you an updated ETA, Over." "Roger. Understood. Baker out."

"Three hours, " Nikita murmured. Three hours left in paradise.

"Shouldn't we have tried to contact Section?" She asked.

"Not over an unsecured channel. When the Coast Guard arrives, we'll be able to send a coded message over their radio."

"Who do we say we are? They're going to want to know."

"CIA." Michael replied simply.

"Well, since they got us into this mess, I guess they ought to get us out." Nikita said with a shrug. "So what do we do in the meantime?"

"We wait." Michael returned softly.

"Do you have any ideas about how we should go about waiting?" Nikita asked, running one hand through his curls, as she stood behind him. "We only have three hours left."

"Come here," he said, leaning his head back, then reaching for her hand. He took it and guided her around the chair, and pulled her down on his lap.

"Oh, Michael-just three hours. Just three." She whispered miserably, as he held her.

"I know," he said, kissing her forehead tenderly. "I know."

"I don't want to leave," Nikita started to cry and cursed herself for her weakness.

"Shhh. Don't. . . please, don't." Michael kissed her slowly, savoring her lips against his.

Nikita kissed him back, opening up like a flower and drawing him inside.

Tenderness exploded into desperate passion upon the floor, as they made love fully clothed. Nikita led the way, making love to a more passive Michael, giving to him, as he had given to her. She felt the sadness in him, the hopelessness that broke her heart.

"I love you, Michael." She whispered with tears spilling over. "I love you!" Her heart begged him to believe it.

Michael kissed her hard, like he was starved for her mouth, then rolled her onto her back, taking back the more aggressive role. He drove deeply into her body, almost frantically. Nikita felt his breath hot against her shoulder, then felt drops of something warm and wet spill upon her breast as he reached his climax.

They were tears, Nikita realized as he kissed her in apology. His tears. They mingled with hers as he kissed and continued to caress her. She trembled with emotion as he brought her to climax, but she was well beyond mere physical sensation by then. At that moment, she loved him more than life.

They lay on the floor holding on to each other, lost in the sense of touch and the sound of hearts beating, waiting while the moments fled into the past. An hour passed, then the radio crackled to life.

With one last, lingering kiss, Michael got up to answer the call.

* * *

Nikita struggled with her hair, trying to smooth it out with her fingers. She had put her wetsuit back on, feeling it would look more professionally CIA than the cotton T-shirt and shorts.

She listened as Michael reloaded their weapons.

"They're here, just off shore," he said softly, as he replaced her weapon into her shoulder holster and adjusted the strap that held it in place. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah." She said composing herself.

"Let's go." He reached out and took her hand.

They walked to the shoreline, near the raft and waited as the Coast Guard cutter launched a small skiff to pick them up.

Nikita raised her face to the warmth of the sun that had finally broken through the clouds and took a long, deep breath. "I just wish I could see this place." She sighed. "I want to keep this memory with me forever. Are they almost here?" Her tone changed to one of disappointment.

"Almost." Michael answered. He paused a beat, then asked, "Ni-ki-ta, . . . "

"Yeah?"

"When we get back, . . . will you marry me?" There was an intensity to his softly uttered question that stunned her.

Astonished, Nikita opened her mouth to say 'what? but nothing came out. Michael's fingers pressed themselves gently across her lips to prevent another attempt.

"I don't want an answer now. They're landing. Just think about it."

Just think about it? Nikita didn't know what she wanted to do more-kiss him, or slug him for asking the question when they no longer had the privacy to discuss the matter!

Marry him? Was he serious?

"Are you Michael?" The young Coast Guard Commander approached with two of his men.

"Yes."

"I'm Lt. Quinn." He said, planting his fists on his hips. "Can I ask you how you ended up here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with only a raft?"

"All I can tell you is we were part of a CIA assault team, on a mission that went awry. " Michael answered, guiding Nikita over to the boat.

"CIA?" The officer frowned, then nodded to his men.

All three men pulled 9mm pistols from their holsters and pointed them at Michael and Nikita.

"In that case, I'm afraid I'm going to need you both to put your hands on your heads."

"Michael, what's going on?" Nikita said in alarm, as the men took her weapon and began to handcuff her wrists behind her.

"I don't know." Michael looked over at the lieutenant, as the men handcuffed him. "I have identification, in the right hand pocket of my jacket."

"Oh, I'm sure you do," The lieutenant said, unimpressed. "Yancy, check it out."

Yancy reached into Michael's jacket, pulled out the CIA identification card and handed it to the lieutenant. Quinn looked at it briefly, before stuffing it into his breast pocket.

"Okay, get them aboard the boat. Yancy, put a tow line on their raft.

"If you will allow me to use your radio, I can send a message to my headquarters to verify our identities." Michael said.

"Don't worry, we'll check out your story. In the meantime, sit tight and enjoy the boat ride. Landers, let's shove off."

Just as the skiff came along side the cutter, one of the Coast Guardsmen on the cutter shouted over to the lieutenant. "Sir! We have a mayday!"

"At what coordinates?"

"Palmyra Atoll! Sounds serious, you'd better get aboard, ASAP!"

"All right! Yancy, take these two to the brig and watch them. Landers get with Hicks and stow the boat and raft."

"Sir? Shouldn't we take the girl to sickbay first?" Yancy asked, helping Nikita aboard the cutter.

"Yeah-tell Hicks to take a look as soon as he's done with the boats."

The radio operator stuck his head out the port side hatchway. "Skipper! He's back on the radio!"

Lt. Quinn frowned, "Who's back on the radio?"

"It sounds like a little kid, scared as hell."

Quinn entered the bridge, followed by Michael, Nikita and the others.

"Let's hear it," Quinn ordered.

". . . . there's a bunch of men at our house with guns!"

Quinn grabbed the mike, "Who are you? And where are you calling from? Over."

"I'm Robby Tyson. I'm calling from my dad's boat. Please! We need help!"

"Robby, where is your Dad's boat? Over."

"We live on Palmyra. My dad works here."

"Are you someplace safe? Over."

"I don't know! They have guns and stuff!"

"Do you know where they came from? Over."

"A big ship-dad said it's a Russian ship."

"Can you tell me how many men there are? Over." Quinn continued the questioning.

"Probably no more than ten," Michael said, speaking up.

Quinn turned to face him. "What do you mean?"

"If that ship's Russian, it's probably the Gregor Leniov." "How would you know that?" Quinn asked suspiciously.

"It was our assignment to capture that ship."

Robby's voice interrupted, more panicked than before. "They're coming here!"

"Robby. I want you to turn off the radio and find a place to hide. We are on our way. Keep out of sight! Over!"

There was no reply.

"Damn!" Quinn turned to his radioman. "We're too far away to respond. We need a helicopter. Call Pearl and let them know the situation. Looks like we found the ship everyone's been looking for."

Quinn turned on Michael, "So what's on that ship that everyone's been so hot to find?"

"That's classified."

"Which means it's something someone might kill for, right?"

"Yes."

"Great. Mark, send to Pearl, that we have a possible terrorist situation with hostages. We estimate the hostile force at ten personnel."

Michael lifted his handcuffed hands in a silent request to be freed.

"Nope, sorry. Until I get a clearer picture of the situation, you remain my prisoners."

Nikita let out a sigh of disgust, "Look, you have to let us go. We know these people. We know what's going on and you don't."

"Exactly my point. I don't know how you know these people, so until I find out who you are and can verify your story, you're going into the brig. Yancy, take them below-Hicks, get her some first aid."

Yancy nudged Michael down a short flight of steps. Hicks followed with Nikita, but upon reaching the lower deck, both parties went opposite directions: Michael and Yancy, left to the brig, and Nikita and Hicks, right towards the small sickbay.

"All right. Sit here and don't move." Hicks instructed.

Nikita leaned back and wiggled up on an exam table.

As he worked to cut her bandages off, he asked, "Can you tell me how you got hurt?"

"Got too close to an exploding white phosphorus grenade."

"Hmmm," Hicks peeled the gauze away gently. "How long ago?"

"About three days ago," Nikita replied squinting.

"Can you see anything?"

Nikita struggled to open her eyes wider. "Light. . . ." she blinked several times, her eyes tearing. "A little shadow here and there."

Hicks took a small exam light and centered the beam of it into Nikita's eyes, one at a time.

"I see no infection and your eyes are responding to the light. I'm just a medic, but I think you'll have your sight back in a few days. Were you hurt anywhere else?"

"My shoulder. Can't you cuff me with my hands in front? It hurts like hell, in this position."

"Which shoulder?"

"Left," she answered, lifting it slightly.

"Okay." Hicks carefully unlocked Nikita's left hand. A second later he lay unconscious on the floor.

"Sorry," Nikita said softly. Squinting with blurred vision, she felt around for the key on the floor and unlocked her other hand. Taking a few minutes, she sought out some medical tape and bound Hicks hand and foot, then silenced him with a piece across his mouth. Her prisoner secured, Nikita stepped quietly into the hall on her way to rescue Michael.

She got four steps down the galley-way before a hand clapped over her mouth and she was pulled backwards.

She struggled for a fraction of a second, before she heard Michael's voice, whisper, "Ni-ki-ta."

Instantly she relaxed.

"You okay?" He asked.

She nodded.

"Good. Let's go." His voice told Nikita that he had rolled over into machine mode as he edged around her and led her back to the bridge.

"Please, move away from the radio," Michael said softly.

Quinn turned with a frown, then slowly put his hands into the air. "How the hell did you get free?" He asked with no little irritation.

Michael ignored the question and handed his pistol to Nikita. "If he moves, shoot him," he ordered quietly.

"Of course," Nikita returned, pointing the weapon at the young officer. Not that she would actually do it, but it didn't hurt to look "ruthless."

* * *

"Sir! It's Michael!" Birkoff panted after running the entire length of Section.

Operations frowned, then quickly followed Birkoff back to his computer station.

"Michael? What's your status?"

"Miller's turned. After my team took the ship, he fired upon us. Nikita's alive but injured, the rest of my team was lost. We've been picked up by the United States Coast Guard-we were prisoners-they are somewhat suspicious of our motives. It seems the CIA has a bad reputation out here."

Operations smiled, "Somewhat," he replied.

"Be advised the Gregor Leniov may have been sighted at the Palmrya Atoll. There may be innocents involved."

"How far are you from Palmrya?"

"Too far-almost eight hundred miles," Quinn interrupted dryly.

"Who's that?" Operations asked.

"Lt. Quinn, our host." Michael explained.

"Send your coordinates and we'll have you picked up. I have Navy seaplanes and helicopters in the area."

Michael looked over at the lieutenant, who nodded, and gave out the current coordinates.

"Can I put my hands down, now?" He asked wearily.

"Sure," Nikita said with a little smile. "We tried to tell you we weren't the bad guys."

"Are my men okay?"

"They might have a slight headache, but they should be fine." Nikita continued. "If you'll come with me, we can let them loose."

Michael caught her arm as she passed, "How are your eyes?"

"Better. Still blurry, but I can manage."

He nodded looking a little relieved, and let her proceed.

* * *

It had been two hours since they had landed aboard the aircraft carrier on their way to link up with a Section team. Nikita sighed under the hot water of the shower. It had to be a quick one, being aboard ship, but it was so good to get squeaky clean again. It was also the first private moment she'd had since leaving Baker Island to think about the question Michael had posed to her.

'Marriage.' The more Nikita thought about it, the stranger it sounded. The only time she had ever considered marriage was when she was a little girl. It had been the familiar, trite dream-the white knight, the castle, the happily ever after. The idea was almost foreign now.

Marriage, within Section? It was possible-Michael had done it twice before, but could she cope with what it would mean?

Nikita stepped out of the shower and began to rub her hair dry with the towel.

'But what would it mean, and would the Section even allow it?'

She closed her eyes at the happy thought of sleeping next to Michael every night, then had a sickening vision of the both of them doing so under the watchful eye of Section. She shivered, and hurried to get dressed. They had a lot to talk about, but it all had to wait. They had a mission to complete first.

* * * "Hi," Nikita said shyly, meeting Michael on the bridge of the Nimitz.

"Hi," he replied softly, his eyes hungrily raking over her.

Nikita noticed that he had bathed and shaved as well and was wearing a camouflaged combat uniform.

"So, what's the plan?" She asked, looking around them briefly.

"It seems this mission has been spread out to the regulars. I'm going in with a team of Navy SEALs. We'll link up with a Section team posing as CIA. We leave in fifteen minutes."

"I'd better go get ready then," Nikita began, turning to leave.

"No," Michael caught her arm gently, "you're not going."

"What? Why not?"

"Ni-ki-ta," he said her name like a caress. "You've been injured, besides, I need someone back here in contact with Operations."

"I'd be a tactical liability," Nikita agreed sadly.

Michael looked around the bridge. It was no place for a private discussion.

"Come," he said, taking her by the wrist.

She followed him down a short hallway and into a room nearby. Michael shut the door behind them.

"I wish I could take you with me," Michael continued, "but I need you here."

He stroked her hair away from her face and filled her in on the entire scope of the mission.

"I have to go." He said finally.

"Michael, about that question you asked me," Nikita said.

"Yes?" His eyes went green, then shuttered themselves, as if expecting a refusal.

"You have to get back alive to find out the answer. Please, be careful."

* * * Michael chafed at the slowness of the naval operation. While he respected the need to be thorough in planning, it had now been almost five hours since Robby Tyson's frantic call. Miller was no fool. If he were at Palmrya, he would make use of the island's runway to move the stolen nuclear material elsewhere as quickly as possible.

"Hey! CIA!"

Michael looked up at the man standing over him, as he sat in the belly of the plane.

"You going with us?"

"Yes."

"It's last call, then." He thumbed the open doorway of the plane, where the other SEALs were hooking up their static lines. "You jump after me. I sure hope you've done this before."

Michael gave him the SEAL hand signals meaning, "hell, yes" and "let's go".

The other man smiled knowingly then turned to his teammates, "Okay SEALS, let's go suck some water! First team-Go!"

The teams parachuted in a mile off shore from the Palmyra Atoll, and linked up with a waiting Section team in a small landing craft.

"What's our status, " Michael asked as he climbed aboard the boat and shrugged out of his dripping scuba gear.

"We sent in a recon team-that is the Gregor Leniov." The Section operative, Michael recognized as Colucci, handed him a set of binoculars and pointed towards the distant ship before continuing.

"There hasn't been any movement aboard her since we arrived."

"What about on the island?"

Colucci lowered his voice so that only Michael could hear. "None that we can see from the water. The real CIA is still running this-we were told to stand fast until the SEALs arrived."

"All right, pull your team back and keep them in reserve until I join up with them." Michael said. "The SEALs are here, so we'll go in and see what's going on."

"It's a cluster f-k, if you ask me." Colucci said beneath his breath.
Nikita paced the bridge of the Nimitz oblivious to the looks of admiration being cast her way by the bridge crew. Her thoughts were on Michael and how the mission was going. So far, she'd heard nothing as the SEALS remained on radio silence.

Was she more worried because she and Michael were closer now, or was it because the earlier mission had gone so wrong? She insanely wished she was back at Section, at least with Birkoff running comm, she'd know what was going on!

"Nikita." A faint voice came across her headphones.

Nikita straightened up, "Michael," she said in relief. "What's your status?"

There was some static, then she heard him reply, ". . . approaching island, no target visible. Tell Birkoff to check satellite view for outgoing aircraft anytime during the last five hours."

"Will do. You think the bird has flown?"

"Unknown. Will contact you when we've done a sweep. Out."

Nikita nodded to herself, then switched channels to contact Birkoff and relay the message.

"Nikita!" Came Birkoff's enthusiastic greeting. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." She felt pleased he cared enough to ask. "I'm aboard the Nimitz. Michael is approaching the target, but he seems to think we're too late. He wants you to check the satellite view over the island for the past five hours for any indication of outgoing aircraft. You got that?"

"Got it. It might take a while to download the data and run it through intel. I'll contact you as soon as I know anything."

"Thanks, Birkoff."

Michael sat in the bow of the boat as the SEALs paddled it towards the island. Off to the right of the island, he spotted a small cabin cruiser. It seemed to be the only vessel near the island besides the darkened and quiet Gregor Leniov. Robby's father's boat. He wondered about the boy's welfare. The child had sounded young, perhaps no more than nine or ten over the radio. He couldn't help but think of Adam, alone and terrified. . .

Michael turned his attention to the Leniov, more sure than ever that Miller had already moved the cargo. There was no movement anywhere around the ship, or visible on the island itself.

Unlike the Baker Atoll, Palmyra was covered in tropical vegetation, making it difficult to spot movement inland. Once the teams landed, most would have to hack their way through dense forest to reach the airstrip in the middle of the island. The SEALS were already targeting the Leniov, which Michael felt was a waste of time. He decided to take his team inland by way of the small cabin cruiser. If Miller still lingered on the island, the airstrip would be where he would be found. If not, saving the boy would at least salvage something of the mission.

"Nikita!"

"I'm here. What is it Birkoff?" She replied.

"Satellite infrared has located a large aircraft parked in the center of the island. Engines appear to be cold, so it's been there several hours at least."

"Thanks! I'll relay it to Michael."

"Michael."

"Yes."

"Birkoff says there is a large plane located in the center of the island and it appears to have been there several hours."

"Understood."

"Be careful." She added softly. One good thing about being on this channel, no one from Section was listening in.

That he didn't respond to her plea for caution, wasn't a surprise. She could hear the "machine mode" in his voice. She even smiled. Being in "machine mode" was the safest place he could be. It meant Michael was at his most dangerous and most efficient mode of operation. She almost felt sorry for Miller-almost.

Michael divided his team in two, and sent one half of it on a mission to recon the far side of the landing strip, while he and his team circled around the near side of the strip by way of the small boat. Hopefully, they could position themselves in such a way to prevent the plane from taking off.

Sending a brief message to the SEALs of his intentions, Michael carefully boarded the small cabin cruiser. A quick search turned up nothing. The boy had either been captured, or was hiding elsewhere on the island. Michael closed his eyes in bitter disappointment. Miller would kill the boy, if he hadn't already. In his mind's eye, Robby wasn't a faceless stranger. He was an older version of Adam.

"Let's go." Michael said somberly. His team silently regarded the side trip to the boat as strange, but most of them knew Michael's reputation. If it had been necessary to go there, Michael had his reasons-even if they weren't at all apparent.

The team threaded their way silently beneath the thick jungle canopy with Michael in the lead. They found the airfield and the plane, still being loaded. Michael used the treeline to shield his team from discovery. They stayed in the shelter of the trees, close enough to keep an eye on the plane, but deep enough to keep from being seen. When they reached the edge of the airfield, Michael instructed his teams to fan out parallel with the runway and signaled his other team to do the same on the other side. Trapping the plane between his teams, Michael called for the SEALs to stand by as their back up.

The SEAL leader acknowledged the plan. They had found nothing aboard the ship and were already on their way.

Michael panned the runway with his binoculars, counting the number of personnel around the plane. There were eight visible, and possibly more aboard the cargo plane.

"Nikita."

"I'm here."

"Tell Birkoff to paint the area-I need a body count in and outside of the airplane."

"Hang on---" There was a long pause, then Nikita returned with, "Birkoff says there are twelve bodies on the runway and plane, and five more in the house, about two hundred meters west of your location. They aren't our people."

Michael scanned the field once more then motioned to Colucci. "You're with me. The rest of you," he said to the rest of the team, "stand fast. Under no circumstances is that plane to leave the ground. Disable it or destroy it, if necessary. Kimbrough, you're in charge until I return." With that, Michael turned and ran off in the direction of the house, with Colucci in his wake.

When they got to the house, Michael pulled out his binoculars and scanned the area. In front of the house were four adults and one child. A man stood, clinging to a woman and little boy-no doubt, they were the Tyson family. The other two men were facing them, and were deep in an animated discussion.

"Look Miller, stealing the cargo is one thing, killing these people is another! There is no need for it." A dark-haired man argued.

"I don't want witnesses." Miller responded firmly. "Do it."

The dark-haired man heaved a sigh and pulled out a pistol.

Michael watched as the husband desperately tried to shield his wife and child. "Don't! We won't say anything. We don't even know who you people are. . . .please, don't hurt my family!"

Reluctantly, the man took aim. The woman buried her head against her husband's shoulder, sobbing.

"Take him out," ordered Michael, still watching through his binoculars. Colucci responded instantaneously, taking aim with his rifle and dropping the man with one shot to the head.

Miller reacted defensively, grabbing up the boy and putting a gun to his head. Then carrying the struggling, shrieking child as a shield, he walked briskly towards the jungle that separated the house from the airfield.

When the boy's father tried to pursue, Michael took aim and shot him in the leg to disable him. Miller, he knew, would not have been so lenient. He ordered Colucci to attend to the innocents, then went in pursuit of Miller.

"I told you to shut up!" Miller cuffed the boy across the face, momentarily stunning him. Michael watched, hidden from view, his hand clenching around his pistol. Miller was aware that someone was following him and kept moving the boy, keeping him between himself and anyone in pursuit.

Quietly, Michael contacted Kimbrough. "When I send you two pulses-commence the attack on the plane. Relay this message to the SEALs. They will provide backup."

"Affirmative. Both teams are in position. We'll be ready."

Michael pulled a second pistol out of his shoulder holster, chambered a round, and then tucked it behind him, in the waistband of his pants. With his other pistol in hand, he stepped out of the entangling jungle and called out to Miller.

"You?" Miller exclaimed with surprise, before firing and hitting Michael in the chest. Michael dropped his pistol and fell to the ground. Reeling from the pain, he managed to send his team two pulses. Miller pivoted towards the airfield at the sudden outburst of automatic weapons fire, dragging Robby around with him.

In a blur of motion, Michael drew his second pistol and fired, hitting Miller in the back of the head. Even as he fired, Michael knew he was violating Section orders. Operations had wanted Miller alive. But the sense of satisfaction of seeing Miller dropping where he stood, blunted any concerns over disobeying Section.

Trembling and wide-eyed, Robby stood unharmed but too frightened to move.

Michael got painfully to his feet, cradling his left arm across his chest.

"Robby," he said gently. "It's all over now. I'm here to take you home."

Robby watched Michael approach with huge brown eyes.

"Come," Michael said, holding out his hand to the boy.

Robby took one step in Michael's direction, before flinging himself into Michael's arms.

Man and boy held tightly to each other. Both desperately needing to be held. Michael, in remembrance of his son, relished the slender arms around his neck that held him close. For once a mission's outcome gave him some personal satisfaction. For once, an innocent was saved, rather than being a nameless bit of acceptable collateral.

"It's okay, now," Michael whispered, hugging the boy in his arms. "Let's go home."

Almost at the moment he spoke the words, the firefight in the background ended.

"Mission accomplished. No friendly casualties," Kimbrough reported proudly, over Michael communication link.

"Good job," Michael returned quietly. "Mop up and secure the material."

* * *

"Geeeee, that musta hurt," commented the Navy corpsman as he gingerly examined the platter-sized bruise on Michael's chest. "Good thing you were wearing a flak jacket!"

Michael didn't comment or flinch when the corpsman injected medication into the bruised area to help it to heal.

"I'd take it easy for a few days. With a bruise that severe, there's always the chance of a blood clot breaking loose and that could be fatal." He added sternly, watching Michael pulling down his shirt to cover the injury.

There was a brief knock at the sickbay door.

"It's open," the corpsman called over his shoulder.

A familiar head of bright blond hair peeped in through the crack in the door. "Can I come in?"

The corpsman looked at Michael and raised an eyebrow, as to ask if it was all right with him.

"She's a colleague," Michael replied in answer, and nodded. "Are we done?"

"All done." The corpsman turned and nodded at Nikita, who smiled and entered the tiny exam room. "Just remember what I said," he reiterated. "Take it easy for the next few days. That's a serious injury." With that, the corpsman smiled at Nikita and left the two alone.

Frowning, Nikita pushed the door closed. "What injury?" She demanded to know.

"Just a bruise. I'm fine." Michael answered."

Nikita's brow furrowed deeper, "Where? I want to see just how 'fine'."

"I took a direct hit to the vest," he explained casually, feasting his eyes on her.

Nikita stepped in between his legs as he sat on the exam table. With gentle hands she seesawed his black T-shirt upwards, exposing the damage.

"Oh, Michael!" She said with a groan of despair. The bruise was wine-red and purple in color, from his clavicle to his abdomen on the right side of his chest.

Michael leaned into her, his left hand rising to touch her hair. He treaded his fingers through the silky texture of it. "I've had worse," he said softly, kissing her cheek.

"Next time, dodge out of the way, will you?" She said half-amused, half- upset. "I don't want to be a widow before I'm a wife." She stroked a strand of his unruly curls away from his eyes.

Michael's eyes grew vividly green and he nearly stopped breathing entirely. He stared at her, not sure if she were joking or giving him the answer to his question.

Nikita saw his mental debate and smiled at him tenderly.

"Yes, Michael. I want to marry you."

He caught her face between his hands, "They won't make it easy," he warned solemnly, searching her face for any reluctance.

"I know," she whispered with a faint smile on her lips, "but things have never been easy in Section, have they? You told me once that we should take what we can get. If I only have an hour, or a day to be with you, I'm grabbing it with both hands."

Michael pulled her into a tight embrace and tenderly kissed her to seal their bargain.

After several breathless moments, Nikita asked, "So when and how are we going to do this?" "Is when we get back, too soon?" He asked, quietly.

"Not unless you can get the Captain to marry us tonight," she quipped brightly, tucking a lock of his cinnamon brown hair behind one ear.

"I can make all the arrangements, if you'd like." Michael asked.

"You'll have to. I have no idea how we are going to pull this off! Do I get to wear a dress and everything?" Nikita returned happily.

He smiled, "If you wish. You pick your dress and leave the rest to me."

Nikita put her arms around his neck and pulled him close, "I'm so happy, and so scared. I want forever after, Michael. That's crazy even in a normal world-but I still want it."

Michael heard her sniff, and pulled back to look at her face. She had her heart in her eyes and it made him falter a little. She wanted forever-he could only give her "until death do we part". He couldn't even promise her happiness. All he had to offer was his love and his undying gratefulness that she returned it.

"Ni-ki-ta," he began carefully. His olive-colored eyes dropped their gaze from hers.

"Shhh," she stopped his words with the palm of her hand pressed against his mouth. "You don't have to say it. I know. No promises we can't keep. Just love me, Michael. Just love me, and it will be enough."

Two Days Later in Section One:

Operations paced angrily as he reamed his top operative. "I told you I wanted Miller alive!"

Michael stood quietly, having no defense that would soothe the ire of his superior.

"Well? Do I get an explanation?" Operations growled.

"I weighed the outcome and decided that Miller would never allow himself to be captured by Section-he knows our methods too well. Does it matter that I pulled the trigger?" He replied, his face an expressionless mask.

"I wanted him alive! Damn it! He had information . . . " Ops continued to rant.

"His information would have been redundant. We captured almost his entire team alive and Madeline has been quite successful in prying it loose from them." Michael replied with quiet firmness.

"You disobeyed orders, Michael. That matters to me!"

"There was an innocent involved," Madeline interrupted as she entered the melee in Operations' office. She flashed Michael a faint smile of approval before continuing. "Saving the boy's life was the best choice. Miller wouldn't have allowed himself to be captured, and I've already gotten everything we wanted to know from his people."

Operations watched Michael's face closely, expecting a smug smile or an "I told you so" comment, but didn't get any. Damn Madeline! She always seemed to back Michael up, one way or another!

"All right," Operations gestured in disgust, "it seems your decision is moot now anyway. You're dismissed."

"Nikita," Walter admonished gently, "if you don't stop chewing on your finger, you're going to gnaw down to the bone."

"What?" She asked, still eyeing the conversation between Operations and Michael going on above their heads.

"Operations can't afford to cancel Michael, so stop worrying about it." The elder op continued dryly, watching her trying to pace a hole in the concrete floor.

"Oh, God! Now Madeline's in there! They're always ganging up on him!" She raged helplessly.

Walter smiled, put down the clipboard he was holding, and took her by the arms.

"Sugar. Hey! Look at me." He ordered.

"What?" Nikita could barely drag her eyes from the confrontation above them.

"It's going to be all right. Calm down, okay?" He gave her a reassuring grin.

Nikita took a deep breath. "Yeah, you're right. It's just Operations is so damned unreasonable."

"You just noticed that?" He chided jokingly.

"It's over-Michael just left!" Nikita spun on her heel and headed towards Michael's office.

She waited, but Michael didn't immediately return.

"You wanted to see me?" Madeline asked as Michael stepped into her office.

"Yes."

"About the mission?"

"No. A personal matter."

"Have a seat," Madeline gestured to a nearby chair. A personal matter? Michael? Her curiosity grew by the second.

Michael hesitated, then seated himself.

"I want to marry Nikita," he said simply.

Madeline couldn't say she was surprised at his request, but she was stunned that he told her point blank.

"Marriage? Michael have you forgotten how painful it was for you and Simone?"

"No."

"You know how Section feels about long-term relationships between Operatives," she needlessly reminded. "If you want her, just sleep with her. If you're discrete . . ."

"No. I'm going to marry Nikita. I'm not here to ask your permission. I only felt I owed it to you to inform you of our plans."

"I see." Madeline said with a frown. "You know Operations will not approve."

"I didn't expect that he would, so I haven't told him. You can if you'd like. It won't change my decision." Michael returned calmly.

Madeline huffed out a deep sigh. "I can't say that I wasn't expecting this sometime or another. All right. Marry her-but expect flak from above and limitations on the relationship like you had with Simone. You won't get any leniency in any valentine missions, and if your mission performance suffers at all, we will take steps to end the relationship. Is that understood?"

Michael nodded.

"And for the time being, I suggest you take some time off and assume a low profile. I can authorize you both two weeks and no more. Hopefully, by the time you return, Operations will have cooled down some."

"Thank you, Madeline." Michael returned softly. He gave her a faint smile, a nod of thanks and took his leave. * * *

Nikita was seated in Michael's office, gnawing frantically on the side of her finger, when he arrived.

She bolted up out of the chair, then paused until Michael casually closed the blinds and secured the room.

"What happened?" She blurted out when he had finished.

"Nothing. Operations was a little upset that Miller wasn't returned alive, but everything's fine now."

Nikita shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. "I wish you wouldn't use that word-it scares me to death!"

Michael walked over to her but made no attempt to touch her. Instead, he reached into his right breast pocket, pulled out a small white envelope, and handed it to her.

"What's this?" She asked, taking it from his hand.

"Open it and see," he replied, seating himself on the corner of his desk to watch.

Nikita examined the envelope. It was made of expensive, creamy parchment, sealed with red wax. Carefully breaking the seal, she opened the missive and read:

You are invited to a wedding, this evening, to be held at midnight, at the St Michael's and All Saints Catholic Church. An address to the church followed.

"I hope you have found a dress," he added with a soft smile. "You might want to pack a few things too. We're leaving on a trip afterwards."

Nikita let out with a shout of joy, before clamping a hand over her own mouth.

"Sorry," she whispered, hugging him tightly.

"We'll have to go separately," he said apologetically. Nikita shook her head in indicate it didn't matter in the least. "I'll meet you inside," Michael continued. "Father Duprey is performing the rite. There will be someone there to tell you where to go."

* * * Nikita entered the church on rubber legs, with knees that knocked. Upon entering the vestibule, she stopped to ask directions of a young woman standing just inside the door. The young woman turned and smiled. It was Gail, Birkoff's assistant and sometimes love.

"You ready?" Gail asked, beaming at Nikita. "God, you're gorgeous!"

Nikita was still too stunned at Gail's presence to respond.

"Hey, this is a wedding, right? I was voted the girl most likely to be a bridesmaid-here's your bouquet. Make sure you aim for me. Birkoff needs the fear of God put into him." She laughed gaily as she guided Nikita into a nearby room.

Gail helped Nikita off with her floor-length, blue velvet cape and uncovered a modest, floor-length, eggshell colored, satin sheathe. The dress was backless, but tastefully so. Gail sighed at how beautiful she looked.

Nikita's hair was upswept and threaded with tiny seed pearls. Her only jewelry was two pearl earrings that matched the luster of her gown.

There was a quick rap on the door and Nikita jumped nervously. She kept expecting to wake up, or find this was all some Section scenario.

"You decent?" Came a familiar voice.

"Walter?" Nikita said with a gasp when he entered. He was formally dressed in a black tux, complete with diamond earrings and a gray-silk bandana.

"You were expecting maybe, Bogart?" He quipped as he shut the door.

Giving her an elongated wolf-whistle, Walter walked around to admire her in detail.

"To hell with Michael, let's elope!" He said with a wicked grin.

Nikita actually blushed, and Walter roared with laughter.

"Then again, maybe not. I don't think I could stand the consequences. Seriously, Sugar, you're beautiful." He bent at the waist and gallantly kissed her hand, before tucking it through his arm.

"It's time to go and give the bride away."

Nikita suddenly burst into tears and flung her arms around Walter's neck.

"Sugar? What's wrong?" He asked hugging her with great concern.

"Nothing---I'm just so happy!" When she lifted her head again, she was tearful but smiling.

"Well, hell, don't DO that! You nearly made me soil the monkey-suit!"

Everyone laughed at Walter's nonsense.

"Thanks Walter," Nikita said, taking his arm in earnest.

"Any time, . . . " he sighed, "any position would be out of the question now, wouldn't it?"

Nikita leaned over and kissed him gently on the mouth.

"Okay! Let's go before things get really dangerous in here!" Walter grinned. "You first Gail-let's do it!"

"Wait!" Nikita jerked to a halt.

"What now?" Walter asked.

"Oh-the ring-Gail, hold it for me, will you?"

Gail took it out of Nikita's hand and pranced over to the door in her bottle-green satin dress.

"Now! Let's go!" Gail said, pushing open the door.

Nikita glanced up at the vaulted ceiling of the chapel as Walter drew her down the isle. The graceful arches were softly aglow from the dozens of scented candles that flickered and blazed throughout the sanctuary.

Then she spied Birkoff and at his side, stood Michael and the priest.

Michael was a dream, dressed in black tux, and a white satin shirt. The candles behind him brought out red-gold highlights in his hair and his eyes glowed green, even at a distance.

Nikita's eyes filled with tears and sniffed, which made Walter glance in her direction and give her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Be happy, Sugar," he said, handing her over to Michael's care.

Birkoff winked at her before stepping to one side.

Michael knelt and Nikita followed, unsure of the custom of the church.

The priest prayed in Latin, and Nikita smiled as she bowed her head, knowing Michael understood every word.

". . . with my body, I thee worship . . ." Michael's soft voice caressed her ear.

He slipped a slender gold ring on her finger, then Nikita did the same to him.

"I now pronounce you man and wife. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder. Michael, you may kiss your bride."

Nikita closed her eyes and received a kiss she would always remember as being the gentlest, softest one Michael had ever bestowed on her.

She hugged him close, "I love you," she whispered to him alone.

"I love you, too." Michael returned just as softly.

The priest beamed at the beautiful couple and announced to the witnesses. "May I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Samuelle."

* * *

Michael watched his bride sleeping against his shoulder. They had spent their first night of married life aboard an airplane heading to Hawaii. He chafed at the time that passed, but wanted everything to be perfect. He had kept their final destination a secret, and hoped she wouldn't be disappointed.

Tomorrow they would reach Hawaii and spend the night. There, Michael would pick up the plane he had rented. Then they would be alone for two whole weeks.

* * *

Nikita opened her eyes, yawned and stretched prettily. The movement raised her dress hem up enough to reveal pale French stockings and a garter belt. Michael closed his eyes with a groan and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"How much longer?" She asked, looking out of the darkened window on her right.

"Maybe another hour," he said with a grimace, then muttered, "Too much, longer." He unbuckled his seatbelt, then hers, then drew her to her feet.

"Where are we going?" She whispered, following him down the isle past sleeping first-class passengers.

He led her to the second level lounge, and finally into the first-class bathroom. It was larger than a normal aircraft bathroom, but not by much. At the moment, Michael didn't care.

"In here," he said, pulling her inside with him and locking the door.

"What are---" Nikita never got a chance to finish. Michael covered her mouth with his. He kissed her like she was dessert and this might be his last meal.

"Michael," she moaned as he kissed her neck and peeled down the top of her dress to her waist, exposing her breasts. He tugged on one pink peak with his mouth, then moved to take the other. Nikita trembled against him like an aspen in the wind and Michael silently cursed the small size of the lavatory.

He'd slipped one hand beneath her dress and found her already wet and ready for him-but there was no way to take advantage of the invitation.

He closed his eyes over his stupidity. Instead of getting relief from his desires, he'd only stoked them hotter.

"Hello?"

Both of them froze at a small knock on the door.

"The pilot has just announced we are landing in fifteen minutes. You'll need to be in your seats shortly. Sorry to bother you."

Nikita bit her lip not to laugh at Michael's pained expression. "Better zip me back up."

Michael kissed her through the entire operation, then reluctantly straightened.

"Should we leave together or separately?" Nikita asked, brushing a blond hair off of his shoulder, and pressing her lips together to keep from laughing at their situation.

"Sorry," Michael said, suddenly chagrined.

"What for?"

"For nearly consummating our marriage in a latrine." He stroked her hair gently in apology.

Nikita smiled and leaned towards him. "Well, there's always the backseat of the taxi going to the hotel or in the elevator on the way to our rooms." She whispered impishly, then kissed his nose before straightening up.

Michael groaned at the erotic pictures in his head then turned her to face the door, "Go. I'll be along in a moment."

* * *

'Husband,' what a beautiful concept, Nikita decided as Michael pushed his impassioned body into hers. She arched against him, drawing him deeper. He responded in French, words muttered in a delirium of desire.

Advance and withdrawal. Michael rocked into her, lost to everything around him except the soft flesh beneath him. Suddenly, her body clenched around his, as she exploded with pleasure. Michael immediately followed, spilling into her what seemed like his life force. Exhausted, he buried his face against her neck, with a whispered endearment.

Nikita ran her fingers through his curls before they both fell asleep, completely contented.
Nikita awoke to a warm body pressed against the length of hers and a hand stroking her arm. She rolled over to face Michael.

"Morning," she said sleepily. She glanced at the clock, it was barely morning-only six o'clock.

"Morning." He looked down at her with a serious expression on his face, his head balanced on his elbow.

Too many years in Section had made her attuned to even the faintest undercurrents of stress. She levered up on her elbow and asked, "Is there something wrong?"

"Yes."

For a moment Nikita's heart nearly stopped beating. A million things ran through her mind, from Operations calling them back in, to Vizcano's warning about Michael enjoying the quest for a woman's heart, but not the capture of it.

"Is it something I've done. . ."

"No, not you. Me." He interrupted to assure.

Nikita closed her eyes to Vizcano's mocking smile. "Told you so," the vision said.

"Can you forgive me for yesterday?" He asked suddenly.

Nikita opened her eyes more puzzled than before. "Forgive you? For what?"

He sighed and looked-Nikita was surprised--embarrassed?

"For what happened on the plane. I acted like an over-sexed adolescent."

'Is that all?' Nikita wanted to laugh with relief, but didn't. Michael was totally serious. Oddly enough, Nikita thought she understood why it upset him so much. For once, he had acted without restraint. He had lost control and had thrown caution to the winds-a fatal attitude to take, given their line of work

'Was he worried that marrying her had been a mistake?' Nikita had to know. She took a deep breath to fortify herself, but before she could ask, Michael explained further.

"Worse than that. You must have felt I was treating you like a mark."

Nikita shook her head and gave him a tender smile. "Never that, Michael. You made me feel special. Special enough to toss caution aside for. And I think that's what's really bothering you."

"What do you mean?" He asked, lying back on the pillows and pulling her atop his chest.

"I made you lose your head for a moment-which, by the way was extremely flattering-but in other circumstances, it could have been extremely dangerous. If you're worried it might happen on the job, don't be. You wouldn't have dreamed of doing that on a mission-but this is our honeymoon. It's a different set of rules."

Michael looked up at her with a faint smile of amusement. "You think I never dreamed of doing that while on a mission?"

"Did you?" She asked with growing surprise.

Michael nodded and caressed her back with both hands. "Every day since I've known you, I think." He admitted.

"But you never did it."

"No."

"Why didn't you?"

"Many reasons." He said briefly, as if to avoid the subject.

"Hey, it seems like you still owe me some questions from when we were shipwrecked. I'm calling them due-tell me. What reasons? I really need to know, Michael."

"For one, I wasn't free to."

"Elena?"

"Yes." He continued reluctantly. "I know the marriage wasn't real, but it was to her, and it was to Adam."

"And you didn't want to hurt them." Nikita replied, stroking his face.

"No."

"But Elena wouldn't have known."

"I would have known, Nikita. It was bad enough I was using her to find her father. . ." he began grimly.

". . . without betraying her as well." Nikita finished for him. "Know what? When I finally learned about your marriage to Elena, I was actually proud of you for not continuing what we started on the boat that night in Lyons. In fact, that's when I really started to trust you."

He looked at her a little hurt.

She smiled to reassure him. "I think I've always loved you, Michael. But for a long time, I didn't trust you at all."

"And now?"

She reached for his left hand, held it up, and pointed to the gold band that encircled his finger. "I wouldn't have married you if I couldn't trust you. Love only goes so far you know." She laughed and kissed his hand.

"In fact, your marriage to Elena opened my eyes to a lot of things. It was guilt, wasn't it?-the morning after we slept together on the mission."

Michael nodded. "But not the way you think," he added. "It wasn't just about hurting Elena, it was about hurting you."

"It was a mission, Michael." Nikita shrugged. "I understood that."

"I could have found a way around it, but I didn't."

"Then why didn't you?"

He let loose with a comical sigh. "Because I had been sleeping with you in the same bed for over a week! Do you know you cuddle in your sleep?" Michael's hands rubbed the roundest part of Nikita's derriere and pressed her closer.

"That's because you're so nice and warm." She smiled playfully at him.

Michael groaned and closed his eyes. "Believe me, I was much more than warm those nights!"

"Real-ly?" Nikita grinned at him. "I thought I was the only one about to melt through the bed. You hid it well."

"Until you stripped down to the skin and told me in no uncertain terms that you weren't tired."

"It was Madeline's suggestion," she admitted guiltily.

"Everybody was watching," he answered bitterly. "I should have stopped it."

"Hey, no one's watching now," she kissed his chin and wagged her eyebrows to cheer him out of the momentary bit of anger. "Do you think you could help me to relax?"

"I thought you'd never ask." Michael rolled over with her and proceeded to do just that.

* * *

Nikita gazed over at Michael as he prepared to land their small plane on the tiny island below. She'd bought him a green shirt the exact color of his eyes. In it, he looked boyish, or perhaps it was because he was smiling.

Nikita loved his smile. She thought back to the pictures she had seen of him and Elena. She'd been so jealous-jealous that Michael was smiling and happy with another woman. But mostly, because she herself had rarely seen him smile. Now she couldn't get enough.

It was a rough landing, on the old deserted field, but Michael brought the small jet safely to a stop.

"This is Baker's Island!" Nikita said sudden realization.

"Yes. You said you wanted to see it."

She took his outstretched hand and they disembarked from the plane.

"Now I know what they mean when they say 'desert island'!" She laughed at the barrenness of the place. She closed her eyes, and listened to the wind and the sounds of the gulls that hovered in waves over the shoreline.

"Desert or not, I love it here, Michael." She leaned back against him, and breathed in the sea air.

"Would you like to stay here for a few days?" He asked quietly.

"Could we?" Nikita returned with a delighted smile.

"We'd be roughing it," he warned with a smile.

She turned in his arms and hugged him. "It would be like a camping trip. We'd be alone-no one but us! Where's the hut?"

He took her by the hand. "This way."

"Michael!" Nikita's eyes were wide in amazement as they entered the hut.

"Did you do all of this?"

"Actually, Walter and Birkoff did. They said to tell you it was a wedding gift."

The hut had been transformed from an oven with dirt floors, to a romantic bedroom, complete with carpeting, a double bed, a refrigerator, and an air conditioner. The far end of the room had been sectioned off. Upon exploration, Nikita found a shower stall and a water closet. They had thought of everything.

"They did the work, but this was your idea." Nikita said, hugging him happily.

"You gave me the idea."

"Oh, I wish we could stay here forever," She said wistfully.

"Me too." He hugged her closer.

But both of them knew it wasn't a possibility.

* * *
Nikita lay in Michael's arms on the beach, staring up at the late night sky. She smiled recalling how he had pointed out all the prominent stars and told her their names. Was there anything he didn't know about? Maybe she would go back to school like he suggested. She wanted to please him and she wanted him to be proud of her, as she was proud of him.

It suddenly dawned on her that she now had a family. The sudden insight brought tears to her eyes. Michael was her family and she was his. Her only sadness was that she could never give him a child. Section might endure a marriage, but not a baby. But the thought of watching Michael with their child-if only, if only. . ." A tear fell, then another.

"You asleep?" Michael whispered against her ear.

"No." She sniffed.

"You're crying?" He asked in concern.

"A little. I keep thinking about Section. What will we find when we go back, Michael? Will they leave us alone? Will we be allowed to live together? How did you and Simone manage?"

He sighed, "As best as we could. Simone was strong-stronger than I was. You're a lot like her in that aspect. Strong and brave."

"Me? Brave?" She laughed sarcastically.

"Courageous people never think that they are. But you are Ni-ki-ta. It's the second thing I noticed about you."

"The second? What was the first?"

He smiled, "That you were beautiful, what else?"

"When did you know that you loved me?" She asked suddenly.

"Twenty questions again?" He teased gently.

"Yeah, you still owe me a few."

"I think I realized it when you were spending time with Alec Chandler," he answered, shifting through her hair with his fingers.

She let out a snort of disgust. "Him! I still wish you had told me the truth, Michael."

"Don't you think I wanted to? The idea you might have to sleep with him nearly drove me crazy."

"Now you know how I felt when you had to sleep with Lisa Fanning," she retorted bitterly.

"Ni-ki-ta," His voice had an odd quality about it, almost fearful. "Sooner or later, you know it will happen again. When it does, will you be able to forgive me?"

"Oh, of course Michael," she pulled him into a tight embrace. "I'll hate it, but I'll know you had no choice."

"They will try to use it to separate us," Michael warned sadly.

"They won't succeed," Nikita said firmly. "We won't let them."

"No, we won't." Michael promised softly. They sealed the vow with a kiss.

* * *
Nikita cried out in her sleep. Michael, who had been unable to sleep, pulled her closer and held her through the dark dreams, whispering endearments.

In a matter of hours they would leave paradise to return to hell. He gazed down at her sleeping, tear-stained face and grieved. Grieved for the children he could never share with her, for the shame both of them would have to face in the line of duty, for the indignities they would have to bear, just to be together. But as long as they could be together, he could stand it. She was his strength, and he was hers.

* * *

Nikita wanted to beg. She wanted to scream. She wanted to plead. But it was over. The magical sands had fallen through the hourglass never to return.

Michael handed her up into the plane and she obediently took her seat next to his.

In silence, the two bade their island home farewell. Back to prison. Back to hell.

But they were going back, hand in hand. Come what may, they would face it together
EPILOGUE:

"They're back?" Growled Operations.

"Yes," Madeline answered calmly from behind her desk.

"It's about damned time!" He paced the floor and lit his cigarette. "Have you explained the ground rules to them?"

"Yes. They understand." She said quietly.

"They'd better!"

"Paul, we've been through this before. Michael is at his best when he has someone to protect. He excelled when we allowed him to be paired with Simone. You already know he will move heaven and earth to protect Nikita. He'll do his job, because in doing it, he'll be ensuring they'll have a life together, and the double benefit is that Nikita will do the same."

"I don't like carrots when sticks work just as well!"

"Neither works well, if the donkey has bolted and you know it." Madeline retorted. "Trust me on this. We can't keep them separated; both of them are too strong and too motivated. Michael is the best asset Section has and you have already mentioned you'd like to see him take over when you retire. If it doesn't work out to our advantage, there are always arrangements that can be made." She reminded him calmly.

Operations grimaced, ground out his barely smoked cigarette and left.

* * * "Well, we're still alive," Nikita said dryly against Michael bare shoulder. She kissed him there and chuckled. "I thought Operations was going to explode when I explained that we'd be saving Section money by one of us giving up our apartment."

Michael smiled and kissed her forehead. "I love my clever, thrifty wife."

"Hmmmmm," Nikita said puckering her lips, "more please."

"Ah, oui, madame." He kissed her mouth, then her neck.

The shrill ring of a phone suddenly interrupted the evening. Both of them groaned and reluctantly rolled out of bed.

The honeymoon was over. It was time to earn their keep.

The End