A/N: Okay, so apparently I didn't exercise all my Nikita demons like I thought. My brain latched on to one of the moments I off-handedly mentioned at the end of my last fic, "Lies, More Lies, and Assassins," so I had to run with it. I will not be switching between past and present in this fic—it's solely set in 2005, and while not a sequel per se, it's set months after the events in LMLAA, so if you haven't read it, you may want to. I promise less angst, more fun, and vintage Division teamwork. Sorry, no Alex or Owen in this one. I really wish there would be more episodes of Nikita's past missions; I find them so fascinating. I think that's where we'll be going here—the transition between rookie to all-star. Enjoy!

Dead Man's Hand

Chapter One

"You've been activated." Never a hello or a 'how are you.' Hell, he never even said her name.

The words fell on her ears as they always did, like a hammer on an anvil. Nikita had been living in her own apartment for exactly five months and twelve days—not that she'd been counting. It was a beautiful one bedroom on the third-floor, with a balcony overlooking a quaint street that had a farmer's market on Sunday mornings. She loved waking up those days to sounds of haggling and laughter and the smells of earth and vegetables.

Nikita even had two friends in the building—well, what a normal tenant would call friends. Liz and Maxine knew Nikita to be Claire Smith, a flight attendant, which gave her the perfect excuse to dodge out for days at a time. During her first week in the building, Liz had brought over an apartment-warming cactus; Max had invited her over for chai tea on her balcony. Okay, so Nikita had really only hung out with them twice, but during those two times, she had felt human again, real. It was wonderful to connect with people who weren't androids mopping up blood without so much as a grimace or hunched-back computer geeks holed up in a dank room filled with glowing monitors.

But every time Nikita heard those three loathsome words, a black velvet cord tightened around her ankles, pulling her from innocent apples and spinach down to syringes and .50 caliber bullets.

"What now?" she asked tightly as she was roused from her Saturday afternoon lounge on her sofa.

Michael's voice was much more playful. "I promise you'll like this one."

Despite her spoiled repose, Nikita couldn't resist him when he teased her. "That's what you said about the Charlotte job. I hated the Charlotte job."

"You weren't supposed to go out through the laundry chute," he deadpanned. "You would have liked it otherwise."

"You always say that."

"And yet you never follow instructions."

"I'm beginning to feel like I'm being manipulated," she volleyed back with a small smile. "Well, more than usual."

Michael sighed. "Grab a suitcase and come in. Pack something expensive to wear." He hung up—no goodbyes—and Nikita followed suit.

Packing was easy. The life of a would-be flight attendant afforded a substantial wardrobe with few other worries to stow in her suitcase. All told, it took Nikita ten minutes. On her way out the door, her eyes roved around her apartment, taking in the sun-washed chairs, the grocery-stuffed cabinets, and the staged photos of her with some recruits that made it look like she actually had friends. If she was lucky, she would be able to return to the beautiful lie after she completed the mission.

As she locked her front door, Nikita heard footsteps in the hallway, and the killer instincts ingrained in her during her two years at Division took hold of her. She whirled around, her hands close to her sides, ready to strike at any moment.

"Whoa, Bruce Lee," Max said, tossing up her hands in surrender. "It's just me."

Max was smiling, but Nikita was not. She frowned. "You startled me."

"I was just walking."

"Well, try not to do that anymore," Nikita managed to joke, though she didn't really feel like it. She could have hurt one of the only real things in her life. She'd have to get a better hold on herself in the future.

As she noticed the suitcase, Max tilted her head to the side, her auburn bob brushing against her heavily pierced ears. "Where are you jet-setting to this week?"

"Hong Kong." The fib flowed effortlessly.

Max's lips formed an impressed 'o' and then she nodded approvingly. "Exotic. Must be wonderful to see the world for free."

"It's not really all it's cracked up to be. You don't get to see the touristy stuff when you're on the job, and you don't get a whole lot of time to yourself." Plus, you could always end up at the bottom of a laundry chute along with every hotel guest's filthy sheets, Nikita added to herself.

Her spritely friend shook her head. "You are such a pessimist, Claire. Don't you realize in this scenario you're more likely to end up with the dashing pilot in a bungalow in Tahiti."

Nikita laughed. "You've been reading too many Harlequin romances."

"Whatever. Enjoy the free peanuts, neighbor," Max said cheerily, waving an arm as she walked away to her apartment.

Nikita smiled to herself, actually thankful to Division for once for giving her an opportunity to meet someone who wasn't a loser drug addict or a petty criminal. For one quick moment, she realized with some shock that if Division hadn't interceded in her previously miserable existence, she might not even be around. Not that she was going to send Percy a thank you card. Despite what he had given her, he had still trained her to be an assassin, and that was something which she could never forgive.

Nikita hefted up her suitcase and strolled out to her car. Within an hour's time, she was back in the dark hole of Division's lair. The corridors were so familiar, she could have wandered them in her deepest sleep without ever missing a room. It smelled down here, not dank and wet like a basement, but like a long-sealed closet—dry, stale, and uninviting.

The Operations room thrummed with the electronic pulse of dozens of computers. Thanks to thick planes of glass, only the muffled sounds of sparring matches and speed bags being mercilessly bombarded with fists disturbed the occupants. Michael and Birkhoff waited expectantly in the center of the room while five other agents kept their noses to their monitors as their fingers ground away at keyboards.

Nikita glanced at the center screen in the room where an olive-skinned man in his early 30s stared back at her. He had a small mustache, and his shoulder-length hair was slicked back into a ponytail. One thick eyebrow was slightly raised as if in a challenge. "Who's the creep?" she asked without ceremony.

"Never misses a thing," Michael said proudly, walking up to her with a half-grin.

Birkhoff rolled his eyes. "Come on, of course he's a thug. He's plastered all over Division's monitors. It's not brain surgery."

"Shut up, nerd," Nikita barked and then slapped him with the back of her hand on his shoulder. Birkhoff winced and rubbed the soon-to-be bruise, his face in a deep scowl.

Michael pursed his lips, his eyes lighting with pleasure before returning to a more serious gaze. "This is Giacomo Brusca, a Cosa Nostra underboss in the Realmonte clan, suspected of three bombings of anti-Mafia prosecutors, racketeering, loan sharking, and at least a dozen murders. Edward Starling implicated him as one of his top investors in his diamond smuggling business, which is how we first caught wind of his activities."

"Brusca was in bed with Starling?" she asked. The mention of the Starling name sent a tingle up her spine, though whether it was because of Edward's tyranny toward his wife or because of the two days Nikita had spent trapping him with Michael while posing as an engaged couple, she wasn't sure.

Michael was silent for a moment, absently studying Brusca's photo. At last, he nodded, catching her eye. "His mafiosi provided protection for the ships importing the blood diamonds."

"When did he become our business?" Nikita asked.

"When he started immigrating his crime syndicate to New York. Not to mention, he expanded his smuggling circle to guns, drugs and terrorist threats."

Nikita inhaled slowly, her eyes narrowing as she examined Brusca. "So this is a take down?" she asked, never breaking her stare.

Michael came up behind her. He didn't touch her, but she could feel his heat radiating off of him, warming her back like the summer sun. "We need our best on this," he said.

She turned around and raised an eyebrow. "And I'm one of the best, am I?"

Michael returned her smirk. "A perfect record has its privileges." His face exhibited no small amount of pride as he watched her. "You've completed twenty missions of both counter-intel and elimination. We need both on this mission, and it's time for your reward."

"What, like a gold star or Agent of the Month?" she sassed.

Michael shrugged. "I was thinking more along the lines of a Mediterranean vacation."

Nikita wrinkled her brow and crossed her arms. "Not much of a vacation if I have to work."

"You'll think differently when you know where we're going." Her mentor took a few steps back and nudged Birkhoff in the shoulder.

On the monitor neighboring Brusca's photo, Birkhoff brought up an image of rugged coastline terraced with hundreds of high-rise buildings. An endless fleet of stark white boats dotted the surrounding azure harbor, several multi-million dollar yachts garnering all her attention. "Where is this?" she asked.

Michael pressed his lips together to squash a grin of satisfaction at her dream-like tone. "Monte Carlo."

She blinked, breaking the spell the photo had woven over her. Suddenly, she was back in the belly of Division, that stale smell mixing with the dusty heat of the computers. "So why are we going all the way to Monaco to take down this guy?"

Birkhoff's fingers hammered on some keys as he replaced the panorama of Monte Carlo with an opulent building of Baroque-inspired architecture. "Ready to be Jane Bond?" the computer tech asked, glancing at her over his injured shoulder.

"Brusca will be in town to participate in the European Poker Tour being played right there at the Monte Carlo Casino." Michael pointed at the photo and then faced Nikita. "Your job will be to get close enough to Brusca to get his room key. You'll slip it to me so I can search his room for any intel on the activities of the Realmonte clan. Once I find what we're looking for, you will slip this into Brusca's drink."

Michael produced a small container of clear liquid, and Nikita's eyes locked on it. It looked just like water, but the vial made it inherently more insidious. "What is it?"

"GChC. Odorless, colorless and tasteless, and virtually undetectable during autopsy. It's a toxin Division designed to target the liver. Brusca already has liver disease, so this will just accelerate his condition. In two hours time, he'll be dead, and we'll be gone."

"Sounds straightforward enough," she said, at last breaking her gaze from the vial.

Birkhoff scoffed. "That is if you follow directions, Nikki."

"You want another bruise to match the last one?" she threatened.

"Children, settle down."

The room fell eerily silent as Percy strolled in followed by the immaculate Amanda. He smiled lightly at Nikita as he approached them. "There she is," he said, his hands outstretched toward his pupil, "our rising star. I'm not sure I told you how good of a job you did on Operation Aphrodite. We would have never had the chance to get the intel off of Marks' computer if it weren't for you, Nikita."

She didn't say anything; she couldn't. Seducing a German scientist just to get his trade secret for a chemical compound wasn't really her idea of a good mission. If Michael hadn't stormed into their hotel room at the last second, she was sure Percy would have had no problem forcing her to sleep with Marks.

"I can't emphasize enough how important taking out Brusca is. With him gone, we'll be eradicating a serious threat to our nation, not to mention crippling the terrorists and smugglers who use him for protection."

Despite how she felt about the assassinations, even Nikita had to agree with that. She nodded solemnly along with the others. "When do I leave?"

"Your team leaves tomorrow morning at 6:30."

"Brutal," she said. "I'll have a team?"

Percy smiled. "Of course."

Amanda took a step forward, her quiet power resonating throughout the room. "Michael will be joining you as tactical support." The inquisitor watched the agent very carefully, but Nikita made sure she didn't show any reaction. After their undercover mission in Banff, Amanda had been keeping close tabs on Nikita every time she stepped into Division, like she had a checklist and ticked off boxes for every interaction that occurred, especially with Michael. For all Nikita knew, the woman could have been monitoring her at her apartment.

If Percy felt the shift of power in the room, he didn't acknowledge it. "We will of course be using only the best of our operatives. Unlike their American counterparts, the Sicilian mob is known for its subtlety. Brusca keeps out of the Italian limelight by keeping all his secrets ferreted away in tightly-encrypted technology guarded by his best soldiers. Not a bad idea really," he mused, looking off into empty space. "But it's exactly why Birkhoff will be joining you on your mission."

"Birkhoff's coming too?" Nikita asked, honestly aghast. "I didn't know nerds knew how to do field work."

"Just wait until you see me in action, babe," the computer guru replied hotly. "Then you'll be the one who has to sit in Amanda's office for hours talking about your feelings instead of Michael."

Nikita glanced over to Michael whose jaw tightened like a screw. His brow furrowed, but his eyes stayed firmly fixed on the back of Birkhoff's head. She wasn't sure what the geek had meant by that, but obviously it had struck a chord with her coworker.

Amanda simpered. "Perhaps you should see me too before you leave, Seymour. We are overdue for a visit." Hearing Birkhoff's first name was like an icy dagger in the heart, and even the other agents in Operations momentarily stopped typing. Nikita actually thought she saw Birkhoff shiver.

"No, I'm good," he managed at last as he returned to the safety of his computers. Amanda's only response was a slow nod of muted pleasure.

Percy gave a half-smile. "Excellent. Oh, and I should mention that Roan will be on standby should the mission get out of hand. Not that that will happen."

Michael nodded, glad for the shift in conversation. "Of course not, sir."

"Exactly. This job has to be done cleanly and discreetly. We don't need the Cosa Nostra catching wind of our operations. That would be… unwelcome." Percy's face was stern, his mouth fixed in its usual straight line. Each member of the team knew the penalty for failure, but their boss never passed up a chance to remind them of it.

Before Percy turned to leave, he offered them all a sly grin. "And remember, this is a mission, but you can also consider it a bit of a vacation. After the job is done, feel free to stay an extra day on Division's dime. Consider it a thank you for all your hard work." He waved goodbye with two fingers, signaling for Amanda to follow.

Without the parents lording over them, the team felt free to breathe again and the room felt substantially more inhabitable. Nikita found her good humor again and turned to Michael. "Some reward. We've got to spend it with the geek squad."

Birkhoff let out a long, controlled sigh. "That's because nobody trusts you two alone anymore."

"Get over yourself, Birkhoff. It was one kiss and it was for our cover. You people really need other hobbies," Nikita growled, though she only half meant what she said. When she and Michael had returned from Banff months ago, they were floored to find just how many operatives had heard about their kiss on the dance floor—almost like it was front page gossip on a tabloid magazine. Nikita had long since convinced herself that anything she had felt on that trip had been a byproduct of their engagement cover, and she assumed Michael had as well. Why did nobody else in Division believe it too?

"That's not what it looked like from our vantage point," he taunted.

Nikita stooped over so her mouth was level with his ear. "One more word, and I'll pour maple syrup on all your keyboards. Then how will you watch the female recruits in their Bikram yoga classes?"

His eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"I think you know by now I don't make idle threats." Nikita looked over at Michael and winked; she could tell he was loving every minute of Birkhoff's torture. She patted the nerd on his wounded shoulder and watched him cringe. "You know, I think this is going to be a fun mission after all."