1 Chapter 2
A loud peremptory knocking on the door to her apartment awakened Nikita. Jerking upright, she stared around in confusion, then heard the persistent knuckles knocking on the door again. Groaning inwardly, she gently rubbed her throbbing temples and sighed deeply. Grabbing her peach- colored slip that hung from a porcelain hook, she walked with lazy footsteps to the door.
Michael. He stepped inside. "Birkoff's dead."
Nikita slowly closed the door, all traces of fatigue gone from her lovely blue-green eyes. Her face drained of color. Michael noticed the intensity of the reaction, but chose not to comment on it. Her hands fluttered beside her and came to rest against the wall. As soon as she connected with something solid, she slumped sideways, and he stifled the impulse to pull her against his shoulder and hold her steady while she absorbed the shock.
She pushed herself erect, tight-lipped, struggling with the turmoil of sharp, twisting emotions. She cleared her throat to compose herself and raked a hand through her hair. But, this was only her second undercover assignment since Section 1 recruited her. She had no intention of screwing up.
Operation and Madeline had filled her in the necessary details for this assignment. There has been a suspected burglary into the Senator Griffin's house in the next period of three months, with an estimated cumulative loss in the ballpark of 6.5 million dollars, which could lead to a breach in national security.
The operation's well organized and efficient. They suspected there were at least two, probably three or more people involved. They didn't want to alert anyone on the inside to the investigation, but they needed to find out who was targeting the marks, and how. That's where Nikita comes in. She was to bus tables in Storm, a club that has been the main source, owned by someone by the name of Ryan Blackwood.
Realizing that her mind has wandered away again, Nikita tried to concentrate on what Michael was saying.
"I've put you on six to two. You get a fifteen minutes break every two hours. No drinking during shifts. Any of the customers get overly friendly or out of line, you report to Blackwood," Michael instructed.
"I can handle myself."
Michael walked menacingly towards her, his cool, patient looked irked. "Some guys cross lines when they drink. The crowd starts getting thick after eight. Entertainment starts at nine. You'll be busy."
He walked to the door, stopped; shot a glance over his shoulder.
"Oh, Nikita? Waitresses at Storm's wear black. Black shirt or sweater, black skirt. Short black skirt," he added, and then let himself out.
Nikita pursed her lips, and for the first time since he'd come into the room relaxed enough to slip her hands casually into her pockets. The apartment was simple and uncluttered, mostly because she wasn't there long enough for it to be otherwise. She glanced at her watch. 4:11. She yanked open her closet door and pushed through a selection of clothes-designer dresses, tailored jackets and basketball jerseys- in search of a suitable black skirt.
If she could manage a quick change, she might actually have time to slap together a sandwich or stuff a handful of cookies into her mouth before she raced out. She pulled out a skirt, winced at the length when she held it up, then tossed that on the bed to dig through her dressed for a pair of black hose.
If she was going to wear a skirt that barely covered her butt, she would damn well cover the rest with solid, opaque black. Tonight could be the night, she thought as she stripped off her trousers. She had to stay calm about it, cool, controlled. She could use Blackwood. At 4.20, she was dressed in black- turtleneck, skirt, and hose. She shoved through the shoes on the floor of her closet and found a suitable pair of low heels.
With a nod to vanity, she dragged the clip out of her hair, brushed it, and clipped it back again. Then she closed her eyes and tried to think like a waitress in an upscale club. Lipstick, perfume, earrings. An attractive waitress made more tips, and tips had to be a goal. She took the time for them, then studied the results in the mirror.
Sexy, she supposed, certainly feminine and in a satisfactory way, practical. And there was no place to hide her weapon. Damn it. She hissed out a breath, and settled on stuffing her nine-millimeter in an oversized shoulder bag. She tossed on a black leather jacket as a concession to the brisk spring evening, then bolted for the door.
A loud peremptory knocking on the door to her apartment awakened Nikita. Jerking upright, she stared around in confusion, then heard the persistent knuckles knocking on the door again. Groaning inwardly, she gently rubbed her throbbing temples and sighed deeply. Grabbing her peach- colored slip that hung from a porcelain hook, she walked with lazy footsteps to the door.
Michael. He stepped inside. "Birkoff's dead."
Nikita slowly closed the door, all traces of fatigue gone from her lovely blue-green eyes. Her face drained of color. Michael noticed the intensity of the reaction, but chose not to comment on it. Her hands fluttered beside her and came to rest against the wall. As soon as she connected with something solid, she slumped sideways, and he stifled the impulse to pull her against his shoulder and hold her steady while she absorbed the shock.
She pushed herself erect, tight-lipped, struggling with the turmoil of sharp, twisting emotions. She cleared her throat to compose herself and raked a hand through her hair. But, this was only her second undercover assignment since Section 1 recruited her. She had no intention of screwing up.
Operation and Madeline had filled her in the necessary details for this assignment. There has been a suspected burglary into the Senator Griffin's house in the next period of three months, with an estimated cumulative loss in the ballpark of 6.5 million dollars, which could lead to a breach in national security.
The operation's well organized and efficient. They suspected there were at least two, probably three or more people involved. They didn't want to alert anyone on the inside to the investigation, but they needed to find out who was targeting the marks, and how. That's where Nikita comes in. She was to bus tables in Storm, a club that has been the main source, owned by someone by the name of Ryan Blackwood.
Realizing that her mind has wandered away again, Nikita tried to concentrate on what Michael was saying.
"I've put you on six to two. You get a fifteen minutes break every two hours. No drinking during shifts. Any of the customers get overly friendly or out of line, you report to Blackwood," Michael instructed.
"I can handle myself."
Michael walked menacingly towards her, his cool, patient looked irked. "Some guys cross lines when they drink. The crowd starts getting thick after eight. Entertainment starts at nine. You'll be busy."
He walked to the door, stopped; shot a glance over his shoulder.
"Oh, Nikita? Waitresses at Storm's wear black. Black shirt or sweater, black skirt. Short black skirt," he added, and then let himself out.
Nikita pursed her lips, and for the first time since he'd come into the room relaxed enough to slip her hands casually into her pockets. The apartment was simple and uncluttered, mostly because she wasn't there long enough for it to be otherwise. She glanced at her watch. 4:11. She yanked open her closet door and pushed through a selection of clothes-designer dresses, tailored jackets and basketball jerseys- in search of a suitable black skirt.
If she could manage a quick change, she might actually have time to slap together a sandwich or stuff a handful of cookies into her mouth before she raced out. She pulled out a skirt, winced at the length when she held it up, then tossed that on the bed to dig through her dressed for a pair of black hose.
If she was going to wear a skirt that barely covered her butt, she would damn well cover the rest with solid, opaque black. Tonight could be the night, she thought as she stripped off her trousers. She had to stay calm about it, cool, controlled. She could use Blackwood. At 4.20, she was dressed in black- turtleneck, skirt, and hose. She shoved through the shoes on the floor of her closet and found a suitable pair of low heels.
With a nod to vanity, she dragged the clip out of her hair, brushed it, and clipped it back again. Then she closed her eyes and tried to think like a waitress in an upscale club. Lipstick, perfume, earrings. An attractive waitress made more tips, and tips had to be a goal. She took the time for them, then studied the results in the mirror.
Sexy, she supposed, certainly feminine and in a satisfactory way, practical. And there was no place to hide her weapon. Damn it. She hissed out a breath, and settled on stuffing her nine-millimeter in an oversized shoulder bag. She tossed on a black leather jacket as a concession to the brisk spring evening, then bolted for the door.