Chapter Five "Nikita, we need to discuss this," Michael said, grasping her arm as she attempted to walk past him. Only the two of them remained standing by the briefing table. The others had departed quickly: Quinn, sullen and alone; Walter, Jason and Jasmine in a huddled group. Nikita refused to look Michael in the face, staring at a wall instead. The days when he could ease her pain were gone. She didn�t even want him to try. Blinking rapidly, she fought back the tears welling up in her eyes and tried to adopt her businesslike Operations persona. "We can discuss it later, after I�ve put together my plans." "Nikita," he pleaded, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Let me help you." Controlling her emotions as best she could, she looked him directly in the eye. The tenderness in his gaze made her tremble briefly, but she forced herself to speak calmly, authoratively. "I think you should go and be with your son. He must be frightened out of his mind by now." With that, she broke free of his grip and walked away. Arriving at the Perch, she locked herself in and darkened the windows, shaking with grief. She had never truly come to terms with discovering who her father was, much less with his death. She had spent the past two years burying herself in her work to try to avoid thinking about it. And now, to be reminded of it again -- with such a horrible twist -- was beyond painful. It was bad enough to have thought that he sacrificed himself to the Collective. To discover that her old enemies had actually destroyed him was almost too much for her to bear. It was all so obvious now. Paul and Madeline were nothing if not cunning. They knew the value of a strategic retreat. So they feigned defeat and fled, to strike back from the shadows. They had killed her father and built their new empire; now they mocked her by attacking Section One�s targets before Section could react. Rescuing Walter was meant as an insult: You can�t even take care of your own people, they were telling her. Their next move was easy to predict. They would seek to inflict the final humiliation -- the destruction of Section One itself. But she would be ready for them. More than ready. She would bring the battle to them this time -- and on her own terms. She would not let her father's dream die without a fight. She touched the switch to lighten the Perch windows again. "Quinn?" she called. "Yes, ma�am?" Quinn�s voice was apprehensive, as if she expected to be disciplined. But that wasn�t Nikita�s priority at the moment. "What is our next scheduled mission?" "Colombia. Two days from now." "Send a team now." "I beg your pardon?" "I want a team sent there immediately. But they are not, I repeat, not, to attempt to launch the mission. Instead, I want them to wait nearby and do surveillance." "Surveillance for what?" Quinn had turned around in her seat to look up at the Perch in bewilderment. "I believe that our �friends� will once again attempt to steal the limelight by beating us to a mission. I want to let them go ahead, but capture their team on its way out." "And then?" "Bring them back here for interrogation." ****** With their business concluded early, Paul and the general had enjoyed a lavish luncheon. The conversion had centered on military readiness; the general had been particularly interested in Paul�s recommendations for his country�s security forces. Finished, the general sat back in his chair and wiped his mouth with his napkin. Dropping the napkin on his plate, he chuckled. "My doctors keep telling me to avoid salty food, but I never listen to them." "Life is too short to let yourself be ruled by those quacks," Paul agreed. "Yes, well, I am starting to follow one piece of their advice." "What�s that?" "I�m taking more time off from work. In fact, tomorrow I leave on a two-week vacation. I recently bought a private resort -- a beach, golf course, tennis -- it�s been great for my stress levels." "Sounds wonderful," Paul said politely. "You should come along sometime. It�s totally isolated, so there�s no issue with security. And you could bring your wife." "My wife?" A look of confusion crossed the general�s face. "You are married, aren�t you? At least, I see you wear a ring." "Oh, that." Paul kept his face blank. "My wife is dead." He glanced down at his hand briefly. The ring was a replacement -- the original had been left behind at Section One, abandoned along with the rest of his personal belongings. It saddened him that he had lost it, but it was unavoidable given the unexpected manner in which he had departed Section. But then again, very little about his final months in Section had gone as he expected. *** The sight of Madeline�s still form being wheeled away on the gurney after the farce that was her �review� had genuinely devastated Paul, for one simple reason. He firmly believed that he would never see her again. After agonizing over the question that had been haunting him for weeks, Paul had reached a difficult decision. He had concluded that, while one of them might be able to escape Section One undetected, for them both to die in ambiguous circumstances would simply be too suspicious. Center would realize the truth -- and they would be hunted down before they could build a power base sufficient to protect themselves. And so he made his choice. For her death to escape scrutiny, his own would have to be real. He hadn�t told her this, of course. She would have refused to go forward with her escape, and that would have ruined everything. So he bore the burden of his decision alone, tormented by the fact that his last days with her had to be spent in the absurd pretense that he was angry at her -- criticizing her, making threats and demands. In the end, she hadn�t even said goodbye to him; instead, she had merely given his hand a final, light squeeze and walked off without a single look back. But he had been determined to have his goodbye anyway, even if she had been unconscious and couldn�t feel his kiss, and even with Nikita coldly interrupting. After Housekeeping removed her tracking devices and spirited her away, he was utterly isolated for the first time in almost two decades. It was severely disorienting; he kept wandering Section in search of her, even entering her office, forgetting that she wouldn�t be there. Mornings were the worst. The empty chair across from him at the breakfast table was a harsh reminder that he now had to face his fate alone. But he still had work to do. He concentrated his efforts on making certain that Madeline avoided detection. This was not a simple task. If anyone had been paying attention, as Center most certainly had, the events surrounding her suicide would raise many questions. He knew that he might be under suspicion; as a result, his every action had to convey the impression that he was completely convinced that she was dead. It required a careful mixture of emotions -- grief, anger, guilt, and desperation. He did his best to display them all. The situation became even more dangerous once she had communicated to him a location for him to begin sending files. The destination of the transfers was untraceable, but the computer activity itself might be noticed. If caught, he would confess to being a double agent for the Collective or whatever other terrorist organization seemed expedient. He would no doubt be cancelled. But he accepted that. He knew he would die soon anyway, and took comfort in the thought that Madeline would make their enemies pay. For a time, he thought that he was succeeding in balancing all of this. But then the unexpected happened. *** The door to Paul�s quarters hissed shut, and he leaned back against it, drained of all energy and feeling. He closed his eyes and began massaging his temples, hoping he could clear his mind that way. He had been tested. And he believed that he had passed. Or had it really been a test? Perhaps it had been an attempt to manipulate him, or simply to drive him over the edge. It didn�t really matter. It was over with -- and that was all he cared about. When he first saw Madeline�s hologram-produced figure in the lab, his reaction had been a mixture of delight and horror. The delight was spontaneous; despite the fact that he knew he was viewing an illusion, she seemed so real it was breathtaking. The horror came a few moments later, after he realized why this was happening. Center must be questioning Madeline�s death -- and wanted to see his reaction to her �presence�. His every interaction with the hologram would be monitored, analyzed, and judged. But there was also another reason for the horror. He knew the whole experiment would be a disaster. Madeline, he knew, had sabotaged the very files that Quinn had used to construct the program. As a result, the profiles created by the hologram strategist would be completely -- and dangerously -- unreliable. Operatives would be placed at risk, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had to play along. So play along he did. He did his best impression of a man who was losing touch with reality, who was so overjoyed to see his �dead� partner resurrected that he ignored signs of danger. Nothing in his behavior gave away even a hint that he knew her to be alive. And when the hologram�s profiles and analysis turned out to be flawed, no one acted more surprised and disappointed than he. His final conversation with the hologram had been a bizarre form of torture. To listen to her ask him to essentially �kill� her was sickening. And when the hologram told him why she had �committed suicide�, he felt his heart breaking. He knew that the words she spoke were thanks to Quinn�s programming efforts. But the irony of the situation brought tears to his eyes. In reality, she hadn�t given up her life for him; rather, he would sacrifice his for her. He opened his eyes again and moved away from the door. Walking into his quarters, he headed for his dresser. There was one last thing he could do that would convince Center beyond a doubt that he believed Madeline dead. It was something that he knew Quinn, as a woman, would notice immediately. He removed the ring from his left hand, wrapped it carefully in a handkerchief, and placed it in a drawer. ****** Quinn stopped typing for a moment and casually looked over her shoulder. There he was. Her watcher stood across the room, trying to look busy, but she knew he was observing her. Ever since her most recent confrontation with Nikita, she had been followed everywhere. No longer trusted, she would be given no opportunities to make mischief. She hoped the surveillance was merely due to her near-insubordination at their last meeting, but she feared the worst. Perhaps Nikita realized that she had been reporting Section One�s activities to Oversight. Or, more ominous, perhaps Nikita was beginning to suspect Quinn�s role in the leak of Walter and Michael�s whereabouts to the August 12 Group. Quinn hadn�t intended that anyone come to harm, and she certainly hadn�t expected a kidnapping. She simply thought that when enemy operatives started following Section One retirees, Nikita�s release program would be discredited in the eyes of Oversight -- creating one more black mark against Operations� record. Quinn swallowed nervously and tried to return to her work. The urge to call Oversight overwhelmed her, but she knew she could not do so without being discovered. It was maddening. Nikita had finally gone off the deep end, and Quinn couldn�t get word out about it. Quinn was certain that Nikita was wrong about Paul and Madeline, despite what Jason�s evidence suggested. Madeline, without a doubt, was dead. It was out of the question that she would have staged her suicide without Paul�s knowledge. Recognizing this, Mr. Jones had instructed Quinn to test Paul�s reactions thoroughly, and he had passed with flying colors. And Quinn had even better reason to know that Paul was dead. No, despite Nikita�s paranoia, it was impossible for the two former leaders of Section One to be alive, much less behind the death of Mr. Jones. And yet Nikita was now allowing this delusion to dictate the course of their missions. Something had to be done. Quinn checked the system to ascertain Nikita�s location. She was still in the White Room with the captives from Colombia. Nikita had been trying to interrogate them -- the only two taken alive -- for hours. Quinn pulled up the video feed from the White Room and watched attentively. Nikita had chosen to interrogate both captives together. The two -- a man and a woman -- were chained to the wall, battered and bleeding. They both bore the telltale slits under their eyes, but neither seemed to be breaking. "I�ll give you one more chance," Nikita said menacingly to the man. "Who do you work for?" The man stared straight ahead, refusing even to make eye contact with her. Nikita nodded to the technician, who shocked the prisoner with a taser. The spark crackled through his body, jerking him violently. The technician pulled away the taser, and the man hung limply, sweat dripping from his face onto the floor. Quinn tapped her finger on her keyboard lightly, realizing that the interrogation was failing. If these two don�t break, Operations is going to make us keep capturing more teams. We�re going to provoke a war with -- well, whoever it is. This had to stop. If Quinn couldn�t get to a phone, then she would send a message over the computer system to Oversight. She knew it was possible that Jason -- sitting only a few feet away -- might spot the outgoing transmission, but she had to take that risk. She might be exposed, but surely Oversight would protect her. Quinn looked around slowly to make sure no one was watching her closely. She then began typing: "Urgent situation at One requires immediate intervention. Am being watched and can�t call you directly. Call Operations ASAP and ask her what is going on." She then sent the message and waited, continuing to monitor the activity in the White Room. Nikita sighed. "This is going nowhere. Cancel them." The technician nodded, and Nikita exited the room. Quinn quickly called up the camera in the corridor to follow Nikita�s progress. As two gunshots sounded from inside the White Room, Quinn heard Nikita�s phone ring. Nikita stopped, withdrew her phone, and answered. "What is it?" Nikita asked impatiently. Quinn smiled. That was certainly a polite greeting. "The delay in missions was to deal with a hostage situation. One of our retirees was captured." Quinn�s smile broadened. It was Oversight on the line. This would be very interesting. "He was returned to us, but no, the situation hasn�t been resolved yet. I just finished interrogating some suspects." Nikita began pacing back and forth in the hallway, clearly irritated by the questions. "No, they didn�t break. They�ve been cancelled." Quinn leaned forward to watch her screen more closely, trying to judge the other side of the conversation by the expression on Nikita�s face. "Well, the initial hostage-taking was done by the August 12 Group. But I no longer believe that they were the only ones involved. I think that someone else had him." Quinn�s heart began racing. The fireworks should be just about to begin. "My predecessor as Operations of Section One, and his Executive Strategist." Nikita took a deep breath. Her expression grew defiant. "Yes, them." He doesn�t believe her, Quinn thought. But then again who would? "No, I�m not joking. I have evidence that both of them are still alive. I believe that they�ve set up their own organization, and that they intend to attack Section One in revenge for their having been ousted by my father." Quinn stifled a laugh. This was going exactly as she hoped. "Of course I�ll send you the evidence. And no, I�m not going to do anything rash. I�m simply trying to track them down at this point. But when I find them, I�m going to take them down before they can do any further harm." Nikita�s stopped pacing, her expression alarmed. "I understand you want time to assess the situation, but we can�t wait that long. Do you have any idea who we�re dealing with?" Quinn watched Nikita stiffen as her face registered disgust. "I see. You don�t believe me. Fine. Yes, I understand your orders perfectly." Quinn quickly switched off the video feed and pulled up an innocuous file. But she couldn�t hide the grin on her face. Oversight no longer trusted Nikita to handle the situation. It was only a matter of time before Quinn collected her reward. ****** The news made Paul furious. An entire team set up and wiped out by Section One -- it was intolerable. If only he had succeeded in killing Nikita or getting her to run off with Michael, they wouldn�t be facing this problem. He thought back to his final weeks in Section One, when he had attempted to accomplish exactly that. When he had finished sending Madeline all of her files, he had been ready for his suffering to end. All he had to do was make one spectacular mistake, and he would be cancelled and put out of his misery. But then it happened. The real Mr. Jones -- Phillip -- dared to show up in Section, announcing to one and all that Nikita was his daughter. Suddenly, Paul had one last thing he needed to do before he died: deprive Phillip of his cherished dream of seeing Nikita take over Section One. The thought that his and Madeline�s downfall was due to the nepotistic urges of a lunatic like Phillip offended Paul�s honor. It was an insult that simply couldn�t -- and wouldn�t -- go unanswered. He had received some unexpected assistance from Quinn. Although he knew that her sexual overtures to him were strictly a valentine assignment, he had acquiesced -- in part to see if he could outmanipulate her, in part because he simply needed the physical release. But then he had seen something in her eyes: a thirst for power. He knew, then, that he could count on her to attempt to play both sides. He decided to use that to his advantage. Quinn�s role in Phillip�s attempt to blast him out of the sky, however, crossed a line. He had intended to frame her as the Collective�s mole and have her cancelled -- only Phillip�s intervention had stopped him. And yet her idea to try to encourage Nikita to run away with Michael had been brilliant. If only he had succeeded in rescuing Adam, it just might have worked. *** Paul's first sensation was a heaviness around the wrists. It puzzled him. Next, the tightness of starched sheets wrapped around him -- some sort of burial shroud? A body bag? But no, his body was covered only from the chest down. He felt himself take a breath. That was odd -- a dead man wouldn�t be doing that. I�m not dead, he thought. How is that possible? He opened his eyes. Even the dim light of the room hurt, and he blinked in pain for several moments. Then he was able to look at his surroundings. He lay on a cot in a small, otherwise empty room, dressed in a medical gown. His wrists were chained to the sides of the cot, and an IV tube dangled from his arm. His face itched from the growth of his beard, but he couldn�t move his hands to scratch. He tensed when he heard the door open, and then watched in trepidation as a man dressed in hospital scrubs -- but wearing a holster and gun -- entered the room. "Ah, so you are awake," the man said. "I�ll be right back." The man exited just as quickly as he had entered, but then returned a few minutes later bearing a tray of food. He fastened the tray in front of Paul, released him from the wrist restraints, and helped him sit up. "Go ahead. You haven�t had real food in weeks, so I bet you�re starved." Paul looked at the tray. It contained a bowl of soup and some crackers. When the aroma reached his nostrils he realized that the man was right -- he was famished. But when he tried to dip his spoon into the soup his arm got tangled in the IV tube. "Hold still," the man said, removing the tube. "You don�t need that anymore anyway." Paul took a few sips of soup. He looked over at the man suspiciously. "So when is the interrogation going to start?" The man laughed. "We�d normally give a celebrity like you VIP treatment -- electroshock, chemicals, the works. But this time we�re not going to be the ones giving you the third degree. Someone else paid us a tidy sum of money to hand you over to them. We just had to let you recover from the bullet wounds before we could transfer you safely. I�m afraid our men got a little carried away in making your death look realistic." A noise sounded at the door. "Oh, here they are now," the man said, turning toward the door as it swung open. Three figures strode into the room: a woman flanked by two large men. Seeing the woman, Paul was ecstatic. It was, of course, Madeline. She looked at him impersonally and walked back and forth as if to inspect him. She looked years younger than he remembered her, perhaps because her hair was down, or perhaps because of her clothes: jeans, a plain t-shirt, and a short leather jacket. The heels of her boots clicked on the floor as she walked. Some things never change, he thought, smiling inwardly. But what was she up to? She was regarding him with a cold stare usually reserved for the most uncooperative guests in the White Room. "As you requested, we�re delivering him healthy enough for interrogation," the man in the hospital scrubs said. "Good. After what I paid, he�d better be in one piece." "What are you going to do with him?" "Let�s just say I have a score to settle with him. A personal score." She flashed Paul the cruelest smile he had ever seen her bestow on anyone, and he felt his stomach contract involuntarily in fear. You�re a damned good actress, he thought. If I didn�t know better, I�d think you were going to kill me. She turned to her two companions, whom he recognized as recently �deceased� Housekeeping personnel. "Take him," she commanded. Deciding to play along with her game, whatever it was, he smiled coyly. "I�d like to finish my meal first." She arched an eyebrow, stepped toward him, picked up his tray of food, and then violently flung it across the room. "You�re finished," she said sweetly. The two men seized him by the arms, yanked him up, and began dragging him roughly out of the room. He struggled to place his feet on the ground so that he could at least walk with some measure of dignity, but the men hauled him along suspended in midair between them. After manhandling him through the building, they passed through a doorway and into an alley, where a black Rolls Royce was idling. "Put him in the trunk," Madeline ordered. One of the men popped the trunk open. They dumped him inside and slammed the trunk closed. He heard doors open and shut, and the car pulled off with a jerk. He curled up in the darkness, shaking with cold in the medical gown, as he bounced painfully against the metal floor of the trunk with every bump in the road. After what seemed like hours, the car finally stopped. His hands and feet were numb and his body felt bruised everywhere. As the trunk opened, he looked out warily. Madeline stood there, arms crossed, her expression aloof. One of the men pulled him out of the trunk and helped him stand unsteadily. The other man handed him a long coat, which Paul donned hastily. The two men then walked away and climbed into the front of the car. "We�re no longer being followed," Madeline announced, still standing stiffly. "It�s safe for you to ride in the car now. You�d probably find it more comfortable." Paul stared at her in confusion. This wasn�t exactly the reunion he would have expected. But he slowly moved toward the car door and got into the back seat. She followed and closed the door, and the car pulled off again. A partition in between the front and rear of the car provided them with privacy, but they rode in silence. Madeline stared straight ahead, stone-faced and motionless. Paul looked at her beseechingly, but she was utterly unmoved. Finally, he couldn�t stand it anymore. "What�s wrong?" Paul asked, his voice nearly breaking. She turned her head to look at him. Her features were tight, as if every muscle in her face was clenched. "Do you have any idea what trouble you caused?" Her voice was clipped with fury. "What were you thinking?" "What do you mean?" "I had an extraction plan in place, ready to go as soon as I could get word to you. But then, out of some petty desire for revenge, you decided to try to kill Nikita. You virtually begged Jones to retaliate against you. I was powerless to help you when your plane was shot down." She looked away again. Staring out the window beside her so he couldn�t see her face, she spoke bitterly. "I almost didn�t get to you in time. I concluded my deal with the Collective only hours before you went on that fool�s errand after Adam." "But, I --" he started. "You know, you may not place any value on your life, but I do," she interrupted. "And I resent the fact that you were willing to make a unilateral decision to leave me to do this by myself." Her voice was bitingly cold, and she still refused to look at him. He couldn�t possibly tell her that, in order to protect her, he had made exactly such a decision. She would never forgive him. But he did have an alternate explanation he could give her. An explanation that had the advantage of also being true, even if it hadn�t been his primary motivation. "Madeline, I�m so sorry. I just couldn�t help myself." He reached for her face and turned it back, forcing her to look at him. It was clear that she was engaged in a colossal struggle to maintain control of herself. "When I found out who Jones really was, and that Nikita was his daughter, I realized that his plan had been to replace us all along. It didn�t matter what we did -- we could have run Section exactly the way he wanted, we could have capitulated to Nikita�s every whim, and that still wouldn�t have been enough. To him, we were expendable. We had always been expendable. We had never been anything more than placeholders until he could put her in charge. That thought made me so angry, I had to strike back. To do whatever it took to make sure that Jones didn�t get his wish -- whether it meant killing Nikita or encouraging her to run away with Michael and Adam. And I didn�t care what happened to me as a consequence. It was a matter of honor. "It was the same as when Stephen died. I had to have justice, and I was willing to die to get it." At the mention of Stephen�s name, a look of shock crossed her face. The shock turned to guilt, and then sadness. She took a deep breath. "I�m sorry." He withdrew his hand from her face and scrutinized her expression. She seemed calm. "So how did you manage to rescue me?" "After the incident when your plane was shot down, I contacted the Collective through a mutual acquaintance. I offered to pay them a generous finder�s fee if, the next time they came across you, they would pretend to kill you and bring you back alive. Of course, they don�t know who I really am. They think they�ve handed you over to one of their allies." They looked at each other quietly for a moment. He then spoke softly. "I should have thought about how my actions would affect you. But you�ve always seemed so strong that I guess I took it for granted that you could go on just fine without me." "If you die for a reason, I will go on." Her eyes locked onto his, her voice low and solemn. "But I assure you, if you throw your life away needlessly, I�ll kill myself." He blinked in shock. "Because you wouldn�t be able to live without --" "No." She glared at him. "Because I would want to join you in Hell to be personally in charge of your eternal torment." After a few seconds of speechlessness, he began to laugh. "I�m sure you would." She finally smiled. His expression turned serious again. "I missed you. Terribly." She said nothing, but looked at him tenderly. She took his hand in hers and, as their fingers intertwined, leaned over to kiss his cheek and his forehead, and then embraced him tightly. *** Paul sighed. Remembering the past wouldn�t help him solve the current problem. To make matters worse, he realized that it was his own fault -- his insistence on helping Walter had been the catalyst that caused Nikita to discover them. Now -- before they were truly ready -- they would have to take extreme measures. He stepped out onto the patio and breathed in the crisp morning air. Madeline�s back was to him as she trimmed a small branch on one of her bonsai. He saw from the way that she stiffened that she had heard him approach, but she did nothing to acknowledge his presence. "You warned me. I should have listened to you." His voice was apologetic. "No. You did what you thought was right." She continued to snip at the plant with her scissors. He stood, silent, watching her. She would not be hurried. Slowly, carefully, she made her way down the row of pots, inspecting each tree in turn. Finally, she turned and looked at him. Her dark eyes met his. "This was going to happen sooner or later," she said matter-of-factly. "It just turned out to be sooner." He nodded slowly. "Well, then, perhaps it�s time. We can eliminate the Sections and solve this problem once and for all." Madeline set down the scissors and walked slowly toward him. She stopped to stand by his side, crossed her arms, and looked back out across the patio. He watched her face, trying to look beneath her placid expression for hints of the analysis he knew was going on. "The Sections are still too useful," she said, finally. "We need a less drastic solution." "We could remove Nikita," he suggested. "With Michael there? No. That would make things worse." She thought for a few moments longer and then turned to look at him. "Let me speak with her." "Speak with her? How could that possibly help?" Madeline gave him a small smile. "I might be able to convince her that we pose no danger. She might drop her pursuit." Paul laughed. "That would require her to listen to reason. Remember, this is Nikita we�re talking about." Madeline�s smile widened. "I know. But at least let me try." ****** Michael stood in the doorway of the Perch, watching with increasing concern as Nikita paced back and forth distractedly. She hadn�t noticed him, so he continued to observe. It pained him to see her like this, hurt and vengeful. This was not his Nikita. No, this was Operations: the person he was afraid she would become -- bitter, angry, capable of brutal violence. He took a deep breath. He couldn�t allow this to happen to her. "Nikita." She glanced over at him in surprise. "Michael, I�m very busy." "I won�t leave until we speak." "Fine," she sighed. "What, then?" He walked into the room and stood next to her. "We need to discuss my status here." "What status? You�re a guest until we can find a safe place to send you." "You know that won�t work." "Why not?" "Adam has been exposed. He won�t be safe anywhere -- but here. He should be trained, and I can be reinstated." Nikita�s face registered dismay at the suggestion. "I won�t allow that. I will not have Adam become a part of this place." "There is no other choice." Michael reached for her hand. "Nikita, if he has to stay here, at least we can be together again." She shook her head, horrified. "Not at that price." She stared into his eyes, the pain tormenting her obvious, but then suppressed her emotion to become Operations once again. "Besides, it won�t be safe here. We�re about to engage in a war with Paul and Madeline. Section will be the worst place to be." "Don�t destroy the Section over this," Michael warned. But it wasn't Section One he was afraid for. It was the destruction of her spirit that he feared. If she fought a war with those two, she might become them in the process -- and that was a fate he would do anything to prevent. "Don�t tell me," she laughed bitterly. "Tell them. They�re the ones trying to destroy us." "I disagree. The fact that they rescued Walter was a show of good faith." "No, it was a show of arrogance." Nikita abruptly pulled her hand away from his grasp, and walked away to stand by the window overlooking the main floor of Section. Michael followed her. "Nikita, their organization must be powerful. But they have not attacked you. Don�t make them an enemy." "They became an enemy a long time ago, Michael. And I can�t believe that you, of all people, can�t see that." "I see that they�re dangerous. Dangerous people should be avoided, not provoked." "It�s too late to worry about that." Her voice was tired but determined. "I�m going to stop them, Michael. I�ll do whatever it takes." "But Oversight forbid you from taking any action." "There are ways around that." She stared at him coldly. The look, so unlike his Nikita, chilled him. Nikita�s phone rang. She answered hastily. "Yes? Now? I see. I�ll be right there." She turned to Michael. "Speaking of the devil, I�ve been called to a meeting at Oversight. We�ll discuss this again when I get back." ****** Nikita stared blankly at the back of her driver�s head as he guided the Mercedes through the traffic. The conversation with Michael had wounded her more than she could ever let him know. Despite her protests, she knew he was right. Adam would have to stay in Section. She could have him trained in computers -- at least that would provide him with a limited amount of protection. But it wasn�t really Adam�s role in Section that upset her. Rather, what disturbed her was the prospect of Michael�s return to duty. Things can never be the same between us, she thought. Not now that I�ve become who I am. How could she possibly interact with him without it breaking her heart? She pushed this thought aside. First, she had Oversight to deal with. The last thing she wanted to spend her time doing at the moment was explaining her recent actions. It would be an unpleasant meeting, to say the least. Her thoughts were interrupted as she noticed that the car had stopped. Several other cars -- in back, in front, and on the sides -- had pinned them in place. "What�s going on?" she asked the driver. As the driver reached for his gun, a red beam started to shine against the bulletproof glass of the window beside her. She stared in amazement as the beam melted a prick-sized hole in the window and switched off. Before she could react, a small tube inserted through the hole and hissed as gas began pumping inside. It smelled faintly sweet. She grew dizzy, disoriented, and then very drowsy.