Early Nov. 1998
"Sir?"

The sound of Birkoff's voice broke into his concentration. "What is it Birkoff?" Operations snapped, eyes still focused on the mission profile displayed on the PDA in his hand. On his desk sat several other PDAs - with several situations ready to go volatile, the last thing he needed or wanted was another distraction.

"I've got incoming Intel from Paris - code alpha, priority one. It's coded for your eyes only, sir - from Marks."

Operations froze, then slowly lowered the PDA in his hand, contents forgotten, to his desk. John Marks. The name conjured memories and as yet unrealized nightmares. For over a month, Operations had waited anxiously for an update, the desire to know the truth about a MPEG of a beaten and battered woman growing daily, along with the dread of what the "truth" might mean. Was Nikita still alive? Was this message to confirm her elimination?

A sudden surge of jumbled and unrecognizable emotions - love, hate, fear, dread, anticipation, anger – ran through him. Images bombarded him - of Michael after the Shay's mission, at Nikita's funeral; of Birkoff, after he first received confirmation of Nikita's death, of Walter, after he entered the church where Nikita's funeral was held.

"Send it up. Then delete any record of the file." Operations said, then punched the comm button, closing contact with Birkoff. "Damn!" The words hiss through clenched teeth. Shoving his chair back from his desk, he stood and paced anxiously as the file was transferred to his local system. He was wrong. He had to be - it wasn't her in the MPEG he received a month ago. "Nikita is dead," he thought to himself, even as he felt his heart pounding in his chest.

"Get a hold of yourself," he chastised as he forced himself to stop his prowling. Operations inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled as his mind conjured the one image that always helped him find his center. He imagined Madeline's face, calm and controlled, and her eyes sparkling with mystery.

His heart rate began to slow, his love for Madeline having a calming effect on him. All the pain he had endured - the years in the POW camp, having to walk away from a son and wife he loved - all that seemed to fade in Madeline's presence. She knew him like no one else ever had. She'd seen the darkest, ugliest corners of his soul and never turned away. Her quiet understanding had been his saving grace through more years than he wanted to remember.

Sitting down, he slumped forward. Bracing his elbows on the surface of his desk, Operations lowered his head into his hands, and closed his eyes. For the thousandth time in the last month he sent thanks heavenward that Madeline was still with him - in any way. He had lost count of how many times since Michael's return to Section following Nikita's death that he had stood on his balcony watching the level five op. He wondered again, as he had those times, if he would find the strength to survive losing Madeline as Michael had survived losing Nikita. If he would be able to deal with the stress and pressures of this job without Madeline by his side.

Standing there those countless time, he had been forced to remember all that both he and Michael had lost - the wives and sons they loved to the machinations of others, the knowledge that they had each suffered and died alone - Simone to Glass Curtain and his Emily to cancer.

Madeline had seen him through that - through having to sit and wait for words to cross a computer screen, unable to go to her and Steven. She had never once made him feel awkward for loving both Emily and herself at the same time. He knew that Nikita, almost from day one, had instinctively understood what Michael had needed - and given it to him. In the back of his mind, he acknowledged how integral that had been to Michael's survival of that ordeal. Madeline had been right about her. But then, Madeline usually was.

Again, as it had for the last month, his mind conjured images of Nikita staring him down defiantly as she had when challenging him on several occasions. He couldn't shake the gnawing in the pit of his stomach whenever he thought of her. What would happen if she was the captive in the MPEG? He knew that Michael would never believe it had escaped Section, that Nikita's remains had been misidentified, or that they had never performed the DNA verification tests. No one would.

Finally, the high pitched double beep that signaled the completion of the transfer shocked him from the tormenting reverie. Quickly, he keyed up the MPEG, temporarily skipping over the report. More than ever, Operations needing to see for himself if this nightmare was happening. As it was before, the images were dark and somewhat blurred, but he could see the form of a woman lying huddled against a corner. His body shock slightly, as if warding off the damp, bitter cold that seemed to emanate straight from the screen and into his bones. A chill ran down his spine when the woman in the video moaned and the MPEG zeroed in on her, completely revealing her face. Although it was covered in the yellows and purples of old and fresh bruises, the woman was now clearly recognizable. Nikita.

His breath caught as his throat constricted; leaning closer to the screen, his eyes squinted as he scrutinized the image. She appeared at least 20, maybe 30 pounds lighter; her once luminous gold hair was chopped at odd angles, practically shaved in areas. What was left hung dull and lifeless around her face. Even with the bruising and lack of sufficient light, she looked ashen.

Adrenaline surged into his blood; he was suddenly terrified. For a moment, Operations leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, unwilling to acknowledge that any of his uncertainty and fear were for anyone other than himself or Section. Taking a deep breath, he returned his attention to his monitor and quickly pulled up the report, his hawk-sharp eyes scanning it. The profile provided was efficient, precisely according to protocol, calling for the elimination of the possible threat to Section. Two teams would go in - one to do a surgical on all captives and the second to obtain any computer files that may compromise Section. Both teams would be responsible for eliminating all hostiles present.

With a keystroke, he could approve the profile. Nikita would be eliminated and no one would ever know she hadn't died in that car jacking. Michael would go on, just as strongly as he was now, as would Walter and Birkoff. It was that simple. Operations reached out, his right hand hovering over the keys that would seal Nikita's fate.

He sat, his attention riveted to his quivering hand suspended above the keyboard. Images, memories of Nikita once again bombarded him. Memories of all the occasions that she had saved him or someone he loved - of her decoying Petrosian with the B-12 shot, of her coming through the doors to Madeline's office with the cure for the virus that nearly killed them all, of her voice saying she had recovered Madeline alive from Enquist - reverberated through him. He had even trusted her with something he couldn't trust Michael with - his son.

The air around him seemed to lose all it's heat. Where would he be right now if he had succeeded in destroying Nikita's heart, her compassion, and her soul - the very things that saved him? A fresh chill ran down his spine as he acknowledge that without Nikita's heart, he would have lost both Madeline and Steven. In losing them, he would have lost not only his reason for living, but his means of survival. Without Madeline, he would be well on his way to self-destruction, if he weren't already dead.

An image of Michael, smiling slightly as he talked quietly to Walter in his alcove sprung into his mind. He knew Michael had adapted well to Nikita's loss, somehow finding the strength to move on with his life, but how would Michael survive his tenure as Operations? It was what he was being groomed for, but could he handle it without the quiet and instinctive understanding, without the love, Nikita could provide him?

Sitting back in his chair, he allowed his hand to fall into his lap. Taking a deep breath, he turned his attention back to the report.

The informant had clearly indicated that L'Huere Sanguine was behind Nikita's kidnapping. That they had stumbled across her as they had targeted Anna Roberds and one of their men had recognized Nikita as the one responsible for Rene Dion's death. They had shifted targets then, conspired to take her in such a way as to leave her family certain of her death. The leader of L'Huere Sanguine wanted Nikita to suffer, not just physically, but emotionally. They didn't want Intel, only to inflict pain. They didn't really care who Nikita was, who she worked for or even why she had done what she did. They just wanted her to suffer.

The report went on to detail their treatment of Nikita. From the initial rapes and bullet wound, that had been treated only enough to prevent infection and death, to the days alone in cold damp cell in complete darkness. The report explained how she had only been retrieved from the torpid prison to be shown videos and pictures of her funeral, taunted with images of her grieving husband, family and friends. They were virtually starving her as well. For days on end they would only give her a glass or two of water. The image of her rail-thin, bruised and battered body was testament to that.

By the time he had reached the end of the detailed report, he could feel his body shaking with fear, rage and disgust. His heart grew bitter as his mind replayed the mpeg over and over, Nikita's moaning echoing in his ears, and conjuring the haunting moans of his men in the POW camps of Viet Nam.

L'Huere Sanguine's, or whomever the madman was running the organization now, only had one desire - to cause torment to his operatives - just as the Viet Cong had only wished to torment his men. L'Huere Sanguine had set them up, and Section - he - had fallen for it! The scurrilous phantoms of Michael's past had played them all for fools. It was unacceptable. They had tossed down the gauntlet, and it would not go unanswered. Section - he – would never bend, there was no way in hell he would allow it to continue, especially if there was a slightest chance of Michael ever discovering the truth. It would destroy him. Operations had no intention of losing his top operative - the man he intended to one day hand the reigns of Section to - because of some second-rate, twisted, would-be radicals! No, this time, he would do to them what he could never do to the Viet Cong. He would destroy them, rend them to bits with claws of fire - like a falcon in the dive!

Slamming his hand on the intercom, he demanded, "Birkoff, Get me Paris now. And have a plane ready to take me there in 30 minutes."

Rising from his desk, he prepared to leave his office. He had to talk to Madeline, inform her of his plans to go to Paris.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Birkoff didn't think twice. He automatically went about connecting Operations directly to the head of the Paris substation and then arranged with Transport for Operations' trip to Paris. With those orders complete, Birkoff set about preparing a complete file purge of the transmission from Paris. The program set, the final "Are you sure?" warning flashed on his screen. Leaning back in his seat, he stared at the yet to be deleted file. He had a sinking uneasy feeling. He had only seen Operations in such a state on a few occasions, and two of them had Madeline in direct danger. Checking the proximity signals, he verified that Madeline was indeed safe within Section's wall. His unease increasing, he found himself tempted to open the file, see what it contained that had Operations so unnerved. Reaching out, he held his hand over the confirm key. He could feel his hand shaking, something telling him that the information contained in the file could be vitally important. Twin voices called to him, one desperately asking him to open the file - it was important, he needed to know; the other telling him to leave it alone - to let Operations deal with it. Closing his eyes, he pressed the confirm key and felt his heart sink, like something valuable had just slipped away from him again. It left him shaken and he wished he understood. And he wished Nikita were here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Operations strode through the egress of the Paris substation, stopping directly in front of the substation director. She was a tall, elegant woman, with dark hair and empty, green eyes. Her navy pantsuit was tailored and stylish. "Good afternoon, Elise." He responded perfunctorily, even as he turned his attention to the American Level 5 op that stood beside her. Focusing his iciest gaze on the brown haired man, he extended his hand for the PDA. Scrolling throughout the information, Operations was forced to contain a biting rage at the audacity of the man to ignore his orders. "I ordered a retrieval."

"Yes sir, I worked it into the profile. If at all possible, we will retrieve the operative."

"You fail to understand. This operative is not acceptable collateral. Nor is she a secondary consideration. She is to be retrieved. I want her and the leader of this organization alive. Destroy everything else. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir. It's clear." The man standing opposite Operations glared back at him, doing little to hide his resentment of being put down in front of others. Operations didn't care. His mind was focused on one goal - retrieving Nikita.

"Good. You have one hour to rework the profile. I want medical and the air ambulance on standby." Pulling a data pad from the breast pocket of his black blazer, he extended it to Marks. "Have them meet us at these coordinates." Turning then, his eyes meet Elise's once again. With a single curt nod, she acknowledged his unspoken command and turned to lead him through the subterranean complex to an office prepared for him.

~~~~~~*~~~~~~
Two hours later:

Operations repressed the urge to pace, not that the mission van would have provided him the space to do so, had he chosen to. Instead he refocused his attention to the teams' communications as they neared their target. He listened intently to every word, every sound, waiting for them to find her.

Finally, a disembodied voice came across t the system. "Team one to leader, We've got her. She conscious, but barely." In the background, he could hear a second, female voice whispering in a somewhat soothing tone. "It's okay. We here to take you home."

"Home?" a soft, garbled, horse voice whispered, the words laced with awe and confusion. Somehow it was not the response Operations had expected. Silently, he noted the rustling sounds caused by the operative helping Nikita stand, and wrapping a thermal blanket from the field kit around her body. He tracked their progress on the monitor, inwardly cringing at each moan or cry that drifted across the comlinks from Nikita. He barely registered team two's comments about the leader not being found.

As the operatives approached the van, Operations flung the door open, prepared to assist Nikita into the van. The sight before him shocked him to his core. Somehow, even after the MPEGS and the reports, he had convinced himself that Nikita would to be moving under her own power. That she would come through this as she had come through so many other trials: scathed and battered but still vital and defiant. Seeing her, totally supported by the two operatives rushing toward him, an emaciated being only vaguely resembling the valkryie he had expected, caused a familiar fear to rear its head.

Shoving the fear aside, he reached out and pulled Nikita into his arms. Hoisting her into the van, he carried her to the back and gently set her down in the area prepared for her medical care. Gingerly, he began to remove the thermal blanket he had insisted each team carry, then the wet and soiled remnants of her cloths. He scanned her body mechanically, noticing immediately how her skin had become pale, thin, and dry to his touch. Everywhere, her bones protruded through the skin. Unable to look at the destruction wrought on the once beautiful woman, he helped the medics wrap her gently in clean blankets. Sitting back, he watched the medic momentarily as he prepared to insert the IV that would provide Nikita with live saving liquids.

Then, for the first time, looked up into her face and found his eyes unexpectedly locked with her tearing, blue ones. Something in her eyes pierced through him and he reached out, taking one of her hands in his, extending his free hand to gently brush a few strands of hair away from her face. He was horrified to find that the quick, small motion had caused quite a clump of her hair to fall out in his hands. Quickly, he turned startled eyes up to the medic, who calmly nodded his head, indicating he had seen.

"I expected as much, sir." The medic whispered, not wanting to draw more attention to what had occurred.

Bewildered, Operations stared at the man, his attention finally drawn away by a small squeeze on his hand. He steeled his face to hide his horror as he turned his attention back to Nikita. He watched as her lips formed words her failing voice could give no sound to.

"Michael?"

"He's fine, Ni-kita." Seeing the disbelief in her face, he continued, "He wasn't at first, but he is now. Thanks to Walter." He paused, knowing, somehow his words were wrong.

He watched as Nikita slowly nodded - her body tense and shaking. "Thank you." she whispered.

A sudden jarring of the van shocked Operations. He had been so intent on Nikita that he hadn't realized the van was even moving. Looking back down at Nikita, he was the first to notice the slow and total exhale of breath. He waited, time seeming impossible slow, - she didn't inhale. "Nikita!" He grabbed for her arms, instinctively wanting to shake her.

A pair of strong arms pulled him back, as the Medic and a second operative moved over Nikita, and began the precisely timed movements of CPR. He felt like he had waited an eternity before he heard the Medic breathe the words, "Got her back."

The grasp on his arms lessened and turned around to face John Marks. From behind him he heard the Medic continue, "She's stabilized - for now. She is in pretty bad shape, sir." Operations turned back, Marks forgotten, and stared at the young medic.

Finally he turned his attention back to the woman who lay before him and took her hand in his once again. In a stone cold voice, speaking to no one in particular, he said, "No one says a word about what has happened. No mention of the objective of this mission, who was retrieved or anything that has transpired here. If so much as a rumor gets out, you are all canceled. Is that clear?" He didn't wait for or even expect a response. Sitting back against the side of the van, he drew Nikita's cold form against him. Focusing on the shallow cadence of her breathing, he offered her what comfort and reassurance he could, bidding his time until they reached the air ambulance.


****

Hunt for the man!
Comb the city!
Ev'ry street! Ev'ry Grate!
Set a Guard at ev'ry gate!
Drag him out!
Shout the moment that you find him!
Damn!
. . .How the devil do I
ever prevail when I am only a man?
But I'll never be duped by this scurrilous phantom again . . .
I wasn't born to walk on water
I wasn't born to sack and slaughter
but on my sould I wasn't born
to stoop to scorn and knuckle under.
A man can learn to steal some thunder
A man can learn to work some wonder
and when the gauntlets down, it's time
rise and climb the sky.
. . .yes a man grows older
but his soul remains alive
and those tremulous stars still glitter
and I will survive
Let my heart grow colder
and as bitter as a falcon in the dive
There was a dream - a dying ember
There was a dream - I don't remember. . .
But I will resurrect that dream
Though rivers stream and hill grow steeper
For here in hell, where life gets cheaper
oh, here in hell, the blood runs deeper
and when the final duel is near,
I'll lift my spear and fly
Piercing into the sky and higher!
And the strong will thrive!
Yes, the weak will cower
Will the fittest will survive
. . .These are the days!
Yes!
Days of glory! Days of rage!
And the dream -
and the dream of Paris preys
on my bones -
gnawing night and day and -
clawing through my brain . . .
-Experts of Falcon in the Diveby Frank Wildhorn and Nan Knighton. (and performed by T. Mann)