Chapter Three
Nikita woke to the sounds of housekeeping knocking at her door. "Come back later," she called groggily, her face still half buried in her feather pillow.
Her eyes were bleary from a long sleep, and she reached blindly for her phone. Just after eleven, damn. She'd been more exhausted than she thought. After strategizing with the boys until just before midnight, Nikita had practically stumbled into bed and apparently hadn't moved since. Her limbs were stiff, like the Tin Man craving oil.
Slowly, she eased her heavy body out of bed and slipped on her satin robe, feeling a little more human and a little less tin with each movement. She ran a hand once over her hair and realized that the boys hadn't gotten her up. They were either still sleeping or planning something without her—and she hated when others made plans for her. Nikita grabbed a glass of water and ambled out the door in her bare feet, the ties of her robe tickling the sides of her naked legs.
Her knock on her neighbors' door was answered by Birkhoff's garbled voice. "I thought you people spoke English. I told you to—"
The door jerked open, revealing a very disheveled Birkhoff. His hair was scattered like straw, and his glasses sat askew on the bridge of his nose. Not surprisingly, after the long flight they'd had, Birkhoff's usual five o'clock shadow looked more like a ten o'clock, and a toothbrush protruded between foamy lips. He wore a rumpled "I read your email" ironic t-shirt and a pair of striped boxers. At the sight of Nikita, he crinkled his forehead and gave her a disgruntled wave into the room.
Michael was still sleeping with his bare back to her on the bed, huddled at the edge like a ship teetering on the lip of the world in the old sailor maps. There was an ocean of space between his body and the wrinkled remnants of his bedmate.
Nikita turned back to the tech whiz and cocked an eyebrow. "Aw, the picture of domesticity. Did you order breakfast in bed too?"
"Witty," Birkhoff sneered through a mouthful of toothpaste.
She circled the bed, dragging a spare chair with her. Positioning it directly across from Michael's eye line, Nikita crossed her legs and leaned back against the cushion. "Good morning, sunshine," she sang in a soft lilt.
Michael opened his eyes and sat up with a start. "Where's Birkhoff?"
"Washing away last night's transgressions."
He let out a grunt as he wiped a hand over his face. Nikita smiled—the pillow had mussed his hair just enough to make him look like a little boy. She wanted to run her hand through it.
"You're never going to let me live this down, are you." It was more of a statement really.
"Not on your life," Nikita said through a laugh. She raised one perfect leg and poked his hip with her naked foot. "Now move it. I'm ravenous."
Michael got out of bed and dressed in his standard suit pants and button-up shirt. Honestly, Nikita was a little sad to see such a perfect figure disappear; it was like putting a robe on the statue of David. Not that she would ever tell Michael that—his ego hardly needed another stroke. Instead, she politely cleared her throat and said, "So who's up for family brunch?"
Michael fidgeted with the buttons at his wrists and said, "We'll order in. We don't want to attract attention."
"Dad never lets us have any fun," Nikita complained as Michael placed an order with room service.
Emerging from the bathroom with considerably tamer hair and legs now sheltered in a pair of well-loved sweatpants, Birkhoff placed his glasses on his nightstand and then rolled his eyes. Nikita didn't expect him to put up much of a fight; the nerd never liked to be far from the gentle purr of his gadgets.
Even after hanging up the phone, Michael conveniently ignored her barbs and refocused his team. "So we're all clear on the objectives today? Nikita, you'll be casing the casino, getting an idea of the movements of Brusca's guards and scouting the mark. Your primary objective is to make first contact. Birkhoff and I will be surveying the footage to assess vantage points, risks, and anomalies."
Nikita thought about stifling the yawn she felt building in her chest, but instead she let it flow full force—it was better to watch the annoyance flicker across Michael's face. Sometimes it was just so easy.
"Nikita, be serious here," he scolded.
She sat forward on her chair, her elbows resting on her knees. "I am. I just want to know why I'm the only one getting my hands dirty today."
Birkhoff took a seat on his side of the bed and trained his gaze on Nikita in a challenge. "You act like you're the only one doing any of the work around here. Fact is, this whole mission would be fruitless without my tech savvy."
She unleashed another yawn, this one targeting Birkhoff like a bullet. He sighed in response. Two for two, she congratulated herself.
At last, Michael, the eternal voice of reason, interceded. "We all have a job to do, and if we don't want a cancellation stamp on each of our files, we follow the mission instructions just as Percy outlined."
The effect was sobering; there was no arguing with his words. For the next hour it was logistics and lunch with little bickering. Actually, when they focused on the mission—and only the mission—the three of them worked exceptionally well together. Each mind had a focus and a task that picked up on something the other ones couldn't; theirs was truly a symbiotic relationship. Perhaps Percy's decision to send them together had been wiser than Nikita thought.
As time wound into the early afternoon, golden rays of sunlight pierced the windows and warmed their bodies like a heat lamp. Nikita's pulse quickened instinctively. Anticipation permeated her skin, infusing her with the first delicious samples of adrenalin. She would meet the target today, and he would meet his future reaper. Nikita thought of the little vial waiting eagerly in one of Michael's bags, the label-less glass filled with a liquid death.
She felt the distinctive thump-thump of her heart, but she couldn't tell if it was excitement or nerves anymore. On more and more missions, the line between the two was blurring. Maybe she was growing up. Or maybe she was growing apathetic. It terrified her.
Thump-thump.
Nikita glanced at the clock. She had to get ready for her date with Brusca's destiny. She stood up suddenly from the bed and inhaled quickly. "Seriously? Neither of you is going to accompany me to the casino?" she blurted.
Michael gave her his best 'we've been over this' stare. "It's better that we aren't seen together, Nikita."
His stern look helped her compose herself. She crossed her arms. "No one is going to believe a girl like me would go to the casino by herself. Brusca will be suspicious."
"I think you'll be fine," he added, unconcerned.
She turned her demanding eyes on her other ally. "Birkhoff?"
"No way, Nikki," he said, raising both palms. "I'm a strictly a behind-the-scenes guy."
"Come on. I think you'd look hot all cleaned up."
His ego snapped at the bait. "Really?"
Michael shot up from seat and quickly walked between the two. "No. No. Don't think I don't know what you're doing," he said, pointing one rigid finger at the femme fatale.
"Michael, I'm just stating an opinion."
His eyes scrutinized her. "No, you're trying to flatter the dope into doing your bidding. It's not going to work."
She raised an eyebrow. "It might if you gave me some more time."
"Uh, excuse me, IQ of 132 here," Birkhoff interjected.
"Fine," Nikita huffed. "I'll be in my room getting ready to do both of your jobs for you." Halfway out the door she added, "And for the record, nerd, you would look hot in a suit."
While Nikita's departure Birkhoff with a satisfied smile, it left Michael with two very tightly crossed arms.
Nikita surveyed herself in the mirror. Everything was to Amanda's seduction specifications: long, loose tresses; perfectly painted lips; dabs of perfume behind the ears and at the wrists; short, curves-hugging dress; and silken skin. In order for her to complete the mission, Nikita had to get close enough to the rigorously-protected Brusca to poison his drink. With a mafioso, that would be no easy task. She added one extra coat of mascara as a precaution.
One last examination. She was sex in three-inch heels.
But as her dark eyes stared back at her, Nikita didn't feel attractive—she felt like a sham. Everything she was doing was an artifice. If Amanda were here, she would pat Nikita on the hand and tell her this was no different than a restorer touching up the Mona Lisa; everything would be fine, and her family would be waiting for her when she came back.
Nikita yearned for Michael or Birkhoff to accompany her to the casino today. It wasn't that she doubted her abilities to achieve her objectives—Division had programmed her to do these sorts of things with robotic precision. Truthfully, whatever else they were to her, Nikita cared about those two men. Having them around made her life as an assassin bearable for a few fleeting moments; they reminded her of her humanity. She guessed in that respect, maybe Amanda was right: they were her family, or at least some twisted rendition of it.
Not that she considered Michael her dad—no, those feelings were a lot more complex than that if Banff was any indicator. And while she could pick on Birkhoff mercilessly, he was more than just a brother-figure—after all, most sisters didn't call their brothers "hot".
She pressed her lips together one last time to even out her lipstick.
The rap at the door came right on cue.
"Perfect timing," she said to Michael without preamble. "I can't get the zipper up all the way."
Brushing her hair out of the track of the silver teeth, she presented her back to him and waited. There was an excruciating moment of hesitation. The last time his fingers had been on her zipper, they'd been pulling it down, not up.
This time Michael made sure his skin did not touch hers; the only thing Nikita felt against her skin was cool metal. She waited, not sure if she should expect something more. But nothing more came.
Nikita was glad Michael couldn't see her face—it gave her time to conceal her anxious expression. She turned to face him and found his features inscrutable. "You look lovely," he said with perfect evenness.
"You could be escorting this lovely lady to the casino you know," she volleyed back effortlessly.
"Amanda said I should stay at the hotel."
Nikita paused, not sure what to make of that statement. Was this something Amanda and he had talked about in their private meetings that Birkhoff had mentioned? What did they talk about after all?
Nikita added carefully, "I think you'd be more useful on site. You've always been a hands-on kind of guy, Michael. You don't watch things happen on a computer; you make things happen in real-time."
"So that's your assessment of me?"
"Yeah, it is." She felt the need to cross her arms.
Michael titled his face to the side slightly, studying her from the corners of his eyes, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Is this your convoluted way of asking me to be your date?"
Nikita acted offended but she was more surprised than anything. "In your dreams. Just an observation."
"Because it sounded like you were asking me out."
She popped her earpiece in and gathered her handbag. "Sorry, but my dance card's already filled, Casanova," she replied over her shoulder. "You should have taken me up on my offer earlier. Now I've got a date with Lady Luck."
Nikita held the door for Michael and then walked down the hallway without looking back, leaving him with the unforgettable image of a proud vixen on the prowl.
She knew he was watching. He'd watch her until she gave him a reason not to. In that moment, she would make him sorry that he had turned down her offer. Who said Amanda's lessons were only for targets? As the elevator door slid open, Nikita glanced at him, flashing a coy smile as she stepped out of sight. For once, an emotion found its way to Michael's face. Regret.