Forgetting Josephine
Chapter 3: Breaking Point
Oh my goodness! Your wonderful reviews are making me blush :) I'll be honest: I never expected this story to become so popular. I feel like I've been invited to the "Cool Kid's" table of Fanfiction land.
As a thanks, here's a new chapter!
Previously:
Nikita was much stronger than he gave her credit for, but every agent had their breaking point. He just hoped this mission wouldn't be hers. No: he would do everything in his power to make sure it wouldn't be.
He wouldn't let anyone break her.
Nikita and Michael were sitting in the back of a surveillance van outside of the Embassy. Maybe it was just Nikita's wishful thinking, but Michael appeared to be dividing more attention then necessary to running a sound check with their short-range comm units. He wouldn't admit it, but the dress she had been assigned to wear- an eye-catching silver number that was tighter than saran wrap and dangerously short- was incredibly distracting. He knew it would serve its purpose- and that alone made his blood boil.
"This first encounter is the most important," he said, handing her an earbud. "Prince Tristen will be leaving the U.S. tomorrow to go back to his country, and you need to get him to bring you with him. None of the other agents have been able to get into his palace, and you're our last chance to find evidence linking him to the notorious drug trafficking circle we're sure he's involved in."
"Yeah, yeah, I know. And we can't assassinate him because there's a chance he's innocent, and that would scare off the real man behind the curtain. Anything else?"
"If something goes wrong, I'll be in the lobby with the other guests."
Nikita stared at him. "You're coming into the Embassy party, too?"
"I'm not wearing this tux for fun," Michael reminded her.
Nikita smiled. Despite the nature of this mission, she kind of liked having him there. Her very own safety net.
"And we're sure that he'll want to bring me back with him after this?"
"Not completely. But if you stick to everything we talked about last night, it could work. Ready?"
"One last question. What happened to those other agents Division has assigned to seduce Prince Tristen over the past couple of years?"
"He found out they were spies and killed them," Michael replied.
Nikita's eyes grew wide, and she took a steadying breath. No pressure.
…
The cocktail party was not the sophisticated shindig people would expect a government assemblage to be. The bustling open bar, the medley of low-cut dresses that were not much more than sparkly pieces of fabric, and the lowered lights all contributed to the gritty nightclub feel juxtaposed against the few foreign dignitaries' pressed uniforms. This event was not planned to ever appear in the public eye.
Nikita's skin crawled as she caught sight of her target, Prince Tristen of Wales, slouching against the bar with a shot of Vodka in hand, eying the fare of women like a tiger stalking his prey.
But she didn't hesitate, not for a moment. She was in mission mode, and she stuffed her trepidation and disgust into a tiny place in the back of her mind, where they would haunt her afterward, in the usual form of nightmares and flashbacks.
Tristen's eyes were glued to her the minute he caught sight of her. She slipped next to him by the bar, and ordered a martini, never meeting his gaze, shyly turning her head away from him.
He liked the innocent ones, the file had said, the ones with quiet dignity, with a veiled sexual appetite. The ones he could corrupt. The ones willing to be corrupted.
The bar tender returned with Nikita's drink, and Tristen held out a folded bill. "This one's on me."
Nikita looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time. The carnal hunger she saw in them made her heart race, dread weighing her down. She wasn't allowed to have her gun with her on these types of mission for the sake of preserving her cover, but she knew that it would also be too big of a temptation to take him down in moments like these.
"So," he said, running his fingertips across her bare arm, "where is your date? Surely such a beautiful woman such as yourself didn't come here by yourself."
She took a sip of her drink, an alluring smile gracing her lips. "You're too kind. I'm here alone."
He reached out and brushed a strand of her hair behind her ear, his hand lightly traveling down her neck and brushing across her collarbone. He leaned in close, the breath from his mouth tickling her ear: "I like an independent woman."
"I like a man who takes control," she whispered back, squeezing his arm. He choked on his drink, setting it down and turning back to her.
"You know, there's a room upstairs where we can finish this conversation," Tristen said, his eyes raking over the lines of her body in a way that made her want to throw up.
Michael watched Nikita pull Tristen in for an open-mouthed, erotic kiss, and at that point in time he was seconds away from pulling out his gun and killing the man right then and there.
"I'd like that," Nikita replied, and Tristen lead her toward the partially hidden back staircase.
"Nikita's engaged the target," Michael said, trying to keep his voice even and indifferent, "radio silence until further notice."
"Copy that, long-range communication is going offline. Give us a call with an update," Birkhoff said.
"Will do," Michael responded, and with a click, Division stopped monitoring the audio. Michael heard the sound of a door opening and then slamming shut, and the sound of heavy breathing and passionate kisses. He reached up and turns off the ear bud, desperately wanting to get a scotch just so he can't think. This is torture, having to be here. Amanda knew it would be.
But something across the room catches his eye: a figure, darting towards the hidden staircase where Nikita and Tristen had just walked up. Holding a gun.
And Michael is experienced to know that this is never a good sign. He immediately takes off, sprinting across the room, pushing through the throng of people.
But he's not fast enough. There's too many people; the staircase was too far away.
Two gunshots ring out, throwing the Embassy into perfect pandemonium.
Michael turned his comm back on. "Nikita? Nikita!"
No reply. The guests were being ushered towards the exits, but all Michael could do was stand there, frozen. Did Tristen find out who she was a spy? Did he call someone in to kill her, just like he had slaughtered the others?
Two words kept repeating in his head.
Not her. Not her.
