| Subject: CHRISTMAS PAST 4 |
Author:
Rox
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Date Posted: 15:39:35 01/26/02 Sat
In reply to:
Rox
's message, "Christmas Past 1" on 15:26:51 01/22/02 Tue
It seemed Nikita had barely closed her eyes when she awoke to the shrill ring of her cell phone. Bleary-eyed, she glanced over at the clock. It was a quarter to five.
With a groan, she tossed off the blankets and fumbled in the darkness for her phone.
“Yes?”
“Josephine, come in.” It was Madeline’s voice.
“In twenty minutes,” Nikita promised sleepily. The conversation ended there as Madeline hung up and Nikita felt her way into the bathroom and turned on the light to get dressed.
Nikita was surprised to see Walter waiting for her as she entered the Section. He looked exhausted.
“What’s going on?” Nikita asked, covering a yawn with one hand.
“Operations called everyone in.”
“We have another mission?”
“Sugar,” Walter took Nikita by both arms. That, and his tone, sent a jolt of alarm through her.
“Michael?”
“Yes. His plane was shot down. We just found out half an hour ago.”
“Where?” Her voice was barely audible.
“Somewhere over Bosnia.”
“Any survivors?”
“We don’t know.”
“Walter!” Nikita’s eyes weld up with tears as the old man pulled her close.
“I know, Sugar. I know. You gotta get a hold on yourself.” He rubbed her back trying to comfort her.
“He can’t be gone--he can’t be. Not Michael.”
“Listen, Michael’s been missing before and turned up.” Walter tried to sound optimistic, but the truth was he knew the chances were slim that he was alive. NATO had confirmed no survivors, and while Michael might not have been aboard when the plane went down, he hadn’t contacted the Section either.
“Operations is going to brief what happened.” Walter said, drawing away to look at Nikita’s face. “You have to be strong, Sugar.”
Nikita wiped the tears away, as the numbness of shock set in. She nodded and allowed Walter to lead her away.
The glare of the morning sun, reflecting off the snow, sent a shard of pain through Michael’s head as he opened his eyes. He closed them again briefly, feeling each beat of his heart in the form of a throbbing ache behind his eyes and in his shoulder. He assessed the damage to himself, and concluded he had a concussion and a dislocated shoulder. He was also hung up in a tree.
At least he hadn’t frozen to death overnight, thanks to Walter’s ingenuity. Walter had expanded on the idea of the heated gloves and socks that hunter’s used, creating winter battle gear that warmed the entire body. It seemed the battery pack that kept the suit working was intact—little else was.
Taking a deep breath, Michael forced himself to open his eyes and examine his surroundings more carefully. His com gear and weapon were gone, along with his GPS locator. He’d lost them when he cut himself free from the harness of his primary chute when it had caught fire and collapsed.
His backup chute had opened, but cutting himself free from the main had left him no time to avoid crashing into a line of trees. His left shoulder had taken the entire impact, and now his left arm dangled useless at his side.
On Michael’s short list of positive findings: he was alive, he still had his knife, and he was only a ten-foot drop from the ground.
After a painful hour of struggling, Michael finally reached the ground, landing in a heap, in eight inches of newly fallen snow. It was at least fifteen minutes before he could entertain the idea of moving again. When he could, he rechecked his equipment, hoping he might have been mistaken about his losses—he wasn’t.
Being a realist, Michael didn’t worry about the things he couldn’t change and got up to do the things he could. The first order of business was to pop his shoulder back in place. Since hitting a tree had popped it out, Michael decided hitting another tree could pop it back again. The pain of doing so caused him to blackout and drop to his knees.
When he was conscious of his surroundings and could move again, he took his belt and made a makeshift sling. One problem was partially solved.
Thankful for a sunny day, Michael stripped off his watch, pointed the hour hand in the direction of the sun, drew an imaginary line between the hour hand and 1200, and knew that line pointed south. It was an old infantryman’s trick, crude but effective. His target was in a village to the north. Barring a mishap in a minefield, he might make it there. Whether he could kill his target, and escape, depended now, solely on luck. Either way, his only avenue of escape depended on arriving in the village before Section gave up on him.
He had two days.
* * *
Nikita listened, but only to her heart breaking. Operations repeated all the intel they currently had on the situation in Bosnia. There was little time to send in a secondary team, but the Agency had insisted on it. Michael, or no Michael, the mission came first--as it always did.
“Are you listening, Nikita?” Operations snapped at her.
She nodded numbly, having no idea what he had said, nor cared.
She felt Walter’s hand covering hers beneath the table. Without a word, he conveyed to her his support, and pleaded with her to hang on and reply to Operations’ question.
“Yes, sir. I’m listening.” She said finally. When the briefing was over, Walter would tell her what she was to do. She felt him pat her hand approvingly.
The briefing continued, with only partial attendance on Nikita’s part. Her thoughts drifted from joyful memories, to the depths of painful loneliness. She wanted this to be a dream and she desperately wanted to wake up!
Nikita realized the ordeal had concluded when Walter patted her hand again and reached down to pull her to her feet.
“Sugar, Madeline wants to see you in her office.”
Nikita looked over at where Madeline stood, her arms folded, her gaze piercing and grave. Too weary to fight, too discouraged to argue, Nikita nodded and followed Madeline out of the briefing room.
Upon their arrival in Madeline’s office, Madeline closed her door and ordered Nikita to sit down.
“I’ll be brief. I want you to take a week off and go home.” Madeline folded her arms and leaned against her desk.
“The mission . . . “ Nikita mumbled, “Michael . . . ”
“. . . are both irrelevant. You aren’t capable of functional thought at the moment, and we both know it,” Madeline finished for her.
Nikita’s face crumpled with distress. She attempted to cover her face to hide the tears, to no avail. In doing so, she missed the almost sympathetic expression on Madeline’s face.
Madeline watched briefly, before opening a drawer and obtaining two small tablets. She handed both to Nikita, along with a cup of tea.
“Take these, and drink the tea.”
Nikita hoped they were poison and stared at them blindly.
“Do it.” Madeline ordered again. Nikita complied without further questions or hesitation. Four minutes later, Nikita was asleep.
“Walter.” Madeline spoke at him on her computer screen. “I need you in my office, immediately.”
“Be right there,” he replied.
Two minutes later, Walter appeared. He saw Nikita, prone on the couch and blanched.
“She’s asleep.” Madeline defended, in light of his look of horror. “I want her taken to her quarters for this evening and watched. We may have lost Michael. Let’s not lose her too.”
Walter looked at Madeline as if he’d never really seen her before. Kindness? From the Dragon Lady? “Sure. I’ll get her moved--but what about the mission, Operations wants---”
“Operations can’t always have what he wants.” Madeline said firmly. “Nikita cannot function at the moment and I see no point in losing an entire team because she can’t do the job.”
* * *
It was dark, damp, and cold, but it was shelter from the wind. Michael stepped carefully down the staircase into the basement of a destroyed house. He stopped abruptly on the third step from the bottom. A sixth sense warned him; he wasn’t alone.
There was a short, terrified scream, as a small, frantic body, fought to pass him on the staircase. Years of training made Michael react offensively. He pulled his injured arm free from its sling and forcefully tackled his opponent. Both tumbled painfully down the remaining three steps, with Michael atop a screaming mass of flailing arms and legs.
Michael’s hand pulled the knife free from its scabbard, but stopped short of using it when the screams turned to sobs, then whimpers. It was a child, or a small woman, he realized. Resheathing his knife, Michael carefully released his captive.
“I won’t hurt you.” He said, quietly in Serbian. Pulling a toss-away lighter from his pocket, he flicked it. The faint light illuminated a frightened, dirty face. She was a schoolgirl, probably no older than fifteen or sixteen. She lay on her back, her chest heaving with sobs, her face streaked with tears.
“Are you alone?” Michael asked, as he scanned the room around them.
She lay there, wide-eyed, too afraid to answer or move.
Michael found some paper, shredded it onto the concrete floor and set it aflame. It gave him the light to investigate the room. There was a small bed in a corner, a desk or table next to it. From top to bottom, it was a room filled with odds and ends, the pitiable remains of a war torn present and a destroyed future.
“Are you all alone here?” Michael repeated.
The girl cried harder and tried to scoot away from him on the floor.
Michael bent and dragged her to her feet. She screamed and he slapped her across the face. “Quiet--and I won’t hurt you!”
The girl fainted.
“Damn.” Michael said softly, dipping his body to catch her over his uninjured shoulder. He carried her to the bed, dumped her on it and covered her with the tattered blanket.
A quick search found some stale bread and cheese. Michael took a small piece of each and ate it before continuing his search of the room for anything he might be able to use to light or heat the room for the night.
He found a metal trashcan, a stack of old newspapers, and two candles. Twenty minutes later, he had a small fire burning in the trashcan. Venting the smoke out of the room had been accomplished by setting the fire near the broken basement window and allowing a cross draft to do its work.
Having accomplished all he could, Michael sat on some newspapers, with his back against the far wall, so he could have a clear view of anyone who might enter using the staircase. He wondered if he dared sleep. Would the girl try to escape and bring others back? In the end, he decided it didn’t matter. He had to sleep, if only for a while. Trusting in her fear to keep her silent, he closed his eyes.
When Michael opened them again, it was morning. He awoke alarmed at the brightness of the morning sun streaming into the room and quickly checked for the girl. She remained as he had put her, asleep on the bed. Relaxing, he studied her. She had a thin face, worn, as if exhausted by life. She reminded him of someone, and Michael was startled to realize it was Nikita. Though not as blonde, or as pretty, there was the air of a waif about both women.
Nikita. Not warm in bed, he was sure. Was she thinking of him?
He shook his head, as if he could shake loose his thoughts. He had no business thinking about anything but the mission, and yet, thoughts of Nikita remained. He missed her--so much.
Michael noticed the girl had awakened. She didn’t move, only watched him carefully.
“Sorry, about slapping you.” Michael offered, somewhat surprised that he actually meant it.
She lifted her head and nodded, then hesitantly pointed up the stairs. A few more subtle gestures made him realize she needed to go to the bathroom.
He nodded and remained seated as she timidly left the bed.
Michael waited until she was safely out of sight to get to his feet. He’d wait for a few moments, then follow her outside. If she would give him information, so much the better--either way, he had to be on his way.
He heard her cry out before he saw her running helter-skelter down the stairs. She was being chased. Michael ducked into a shadowed corner, to keep from being seen.
Two men, both of them young, laughed as they ran down after her. One carried his belt in his hand. It was clear he had removed it as a prelude to rape, and Michael realized the source of the young girl’s terror from the night before.
His training demanded he stay out of sight so as not to jeopardize the mission. War was war, his training reminded him, full of tragedies, large and small. Rape was an expected byproduct. He couldn’t afford to get involved.
But she had wide, blue eyes. As blue as cornflowers. As blue as Nikita’s and filled with tears that silently pleaded.
And Michael the man, tossed Michael the Machine, to one side.
For Nikita’s sake--for her love and faith in him, he could not stand by and allow what was surely to happen. As silent as death personified, Michael cut the throat of the nearest man, and broke the neck of the second, dropping them both at the feet of the terrified girl.
She ran into his arms and cleansed his soul with her tears, as Nikita would have done, if she’d been there.
Michael held her close while she cried, sitting with her on the bed, feeling ashamed, and proud, lost, and comforted by turns. He knew he had to do something with the bodies before anyone came looking, but for some reason, it didn’t seem as important as comforting the girl.
“What’s your name?” He asked, when she had calmed some.
“Monique.”
It was his sister’s name!
“Where is your family, Monique?” Michael said gently, his thoughts of his sister softening his words.
“All dead. All dead.” She chanted through her grief.
“Who were those men?”
“Village men.” She said, her voice bitter with loathing.
“Did they come here often?” He held her tighter, knowing the answer would be hard.
“Yes.” There were fresh tears, but no hysterics.
“What is the name of the village?”
She bit out the word--”Kolonik”.
Michael was relieved. The town was the location of the arms deal.
“How far is the village?”
“Five kilometers.” The girl said wearily.
“Can you take me there?”
“What is your name?” She asked.
“Michael.”
“Yes, Michael. I know the way.”
“Then let’s go. You can’t stay here--there is no time to hide the blood or the bodies. You might be questioned for this, if you stay.”
She nodded numbly and began to gather a few meager articles of clothing. Michael stayed her hands, grasping her gently around the wrists. “Leave it. You won’t need them. I promise.”
* * *
Nikita awoke in her Section quarters feeling drugged and headachy from the medication Madeline had given her. She realized in a moment that she wasn’t alone. Birkoff was seated on the foot of her bed regarding her with a serious expression.
She sat up, holding her head, and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Nothing, just seeing if you were going to be okay,” he said nervously, popping off the bed and starting to leave.
“Birkoff, wait!” Nikita said quickly, through a groan. Her head was splitting.
Birkoff halted at the door but didn’t turn around.
“Has there been any news?”
Birkoff lowered his head slightly, then turned to face her. “No,” he said softly. “Operations is doing all he can--the secondary teams left two hours ago. He blames himself for sending Michael in alone.”
“Who profiled the mission?” Nikita asked still groggy. She gestured to Birkoff to sit back down.
“Michael did.” He said simply.
Nikita nodded remembering, her eyes suddenly flooding angry tears. Michael had left her behind to protect her again. No matter the danger to himself. Didn't he know she preferred a live man to a dead hero?
“You going to be okay?” Birkoff asked.
“Yeah.” Nikita answered quickly, angrily wiping away the tears and swinging her legs off the bed to get to her feet. “I have to go see Madeline.”
* * *
Monique clung to Michael’s hand as they traversed the snowy, wooded landscape. For the first time in six months, she felt safe and almost happy. This stranger, this man with the beautiful eyes had saved her. But who was he? And how did he come to be there? She was too afraid to ask. He spoke so little, she was sure questions would annoy him.
They made their way into the village, careful to stay out of sight of the inhabitants. Instinctively, Monique understood that Michael didn’t want to be discovered. She knew it was not out of fear--he seemed to fear nothing--and he seemed to be looking for something.
“Monique, is there a place in the village where you can go and be safe, for a little while?” Michael asked, as they stopped in the shadows behind a bombed out building.
Monique’s hand tightened on Michael’s, “Please, don’t leave me here!” She begged.
“Monique, you must listen to me.” Michael said softly, his voice calming her. “I have something I must do and I can’t take you with me. It’s too dangerous. I want you to wait for me, somewhere safe. I promise, I won’t leave you here.” He touched her cheek, then kissed it, hating himself for manipulating her, even though he knew it was necessary to do so. She hugged him with gentle innocence. Trusting him, as Nikita had, to return. Because of it, he kissed Monique’s forehead, pledging himself to them both.
“Is there a place?” Michael asked again.
“That building over there. It’s empty. I can wait there.”
“Then go. I’ll be back before dark.”
Monique waved to him from the upper-story window to indicate she was safe, then watched as he turned, slipped down the alleyway and disappeared around the corner of a building. Part of her cried out, as he was lost from view. Trust was a hard thing for her to do, but another part of her knew, knew beyond doubt, that he would keep his word.
Suddenly, a man stood up in the alley. Until that moment, his presence had been concealed by large pieces of fallen debris. He trotted to the edge of the building, behind which Michael had just disappeared, peered around it, and hurried to follow.
With fear like a dagger in her heart, Monique bolted out of her hiding place to follow. Michael was in danger! She had to warn him!
* * *
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