| Subject: CHRISTMAS PAST 5 |
Author:
Rox
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Date Posted: 17:27:14 01/27/02 Sun
In reply to:
Rox
's message, "Christmas Past 1" on 15:26:51 01/22/02 Tue
* * *
“Madeline!” Nikita said, dispensing with a greeting.
Madeline turned in her chair and raised her dark eyes from her computer screen.
“Nikita, I’ve been expecting you.”
“You kept me from going to Bosnia with the team!” Nikita began rebelliously.
“Yes, I did.” Madeline returned sweetly.
“Why? What if Michael is still alive?”
“What if he’s not?” Madeline folded her arms and stood up.
“I want to go!”
“No.” Madeline said firmly.
“But. . .”
“Sit down, Nikita.”
Fear that Madeline might be right, made Nikita’s defiance waver. After a moment’s hesitation, she sat down on Madeline’s couch.
“If Michael’s alive, he would have contacted us, if he could. One way or another, we won’t know anything until after Abu and Koslin meet. Either Michael will make the hit, and we will both have our answer, or he won’t, and the back-up team will have to take care of the problem at the secondary mark. You presence there won’t change the outcome, and could make it worse.”
“What do you mean, I’d make it worse?” Nikita snapped angrily.
Madeline moved to seat herself next to Nikita.
“It’s no secret that you are close to Michael, as he is to you. When you were a prisoner of Red Cell for six months, we came close to losing Michael because he had allowed himself to become too attached to you. In his grief over your supposed death, he took risks that nearly got himself and his team killed. I’m not about to place another team into that situation! This assassination is the only thing that’s stopping Markovic from breaking the peace agreement and restarting the war. You’re not going to endanger the mission because of some irrational, romantic need to die at Michael’s side!”
Nikita looked at the floor, feeling light-headed at the information Madeline had just given her. Michael had been reckless with a Section team? Michael the machine--out of kilter, because of his feelings for her? She hadn’t known.
Smiling faintly, Nikita looked over at Madeline. “I don’t think Michael’s dead.”
“I hope you’re right. But either way, you aren’t going, and that’s final.”
* * *
The house where the arms deal was to happen, was well guarded, making it easier for Michael to locate it. Hiding behind a destroyed truck, he watched and carefully timed the movement of Abu’s guards. There were two avenues of approach to the building, but only one with any hope of success--an upper floor window an arm’s length away from a heavy branch of a nearby oak tree. All Michael needed to do was climb the tree, open the window, and locate his target inside. It had begun to snow again-- heavily. He hoped the blinding whiteness would screen his attempt to scale the tree.
Michael checked to make sure his knife was secure, and watched for the moment when the guards shift changed. It would be his only chance to gain entrance to the house.
That he would kill Abu was a certainty. That he would survive to return as he had promised the girl--was doubtful. Michael looked over his shoulder, and thought of returning and settling Monique somewhere safe, but he had lost too much time. The mission had to come first.
* * *
Monique’s breath clouded the air as she ran. She’d lost sight of the man she’d followed. Looking frantically around the debris-strewn streets, she prayed for any sight of him or Michael.
While Monique didn’t know the man she followed, she knew what he was. He was one of the many who preyed on those left weak by the destruction of the war. Those that lived by stealing from others--and killing them, if that was what it took to survive. It had been obvious by Michael’s dress that he was a stranger and Monique knew well, all strangers were fair game.
Michael checked the time. The posted guards were due to be changed in a few moments. His muscles tensed, as his body prepared itself to spring forward. Adrenaline rushed his heart along, while his mind focused on his mission. He was ready. It was now or never.
“Michael!” Monique’s voice called out in warning.
Michael spun around, and unsheathing his knife as his body took an instinctive defensive stance. He was stunned to find Monique struggling with a knife-wielding attacker. Her thin arms wrapped themselves tightly around the man’s neck from behind, while she kicked and bit him at every opportunity.
The huge assailant cursed and grabbed Monique’s hands. He slashed the blade across her arm, drawing blood, and forcing her to cry out and lose her grip. A second later, he stabbed her in the side and flung her frail body to the ground.
Enraged, Michael tackled him, knocking him into the brick wall of a nearby abandoned building. In a microsecond, Michael cut his throat and stabbed him twice through the heart.
“Monique!” Michael dropped to his knees at her side, and quickly checked for a pulse in her neck. It was weak and thready, but she was still conscious. He left her side for a moment to strip the man of his coat, then wrapped her in it. She protested when he began to tear her dress.
“Lie still, Monique.” Michael whispered, folding the torn material into a bandage. He pulled his belt loose and slipped it around her to hold the bandage in place.
That accomplished, Michael looked around to see if they’d been spotted. For a moment, he was relieved to know there had been no witnesses, but the guards were being changed, and he knew he would have to go now if he was to complete the mission. But he also knew that Monique would bleed to death long before he could return.
And there it was: the impossible choice. Who should he save? The life of the one, who looked up at him with trusting, pain-filled eyes, or the thousands of faceless, nameless strangers that were just as innocent and helpless as she was?
Michael searched her face for the answer, then stared helplessly over his shoulder at the changing of the guards. It was too late. Too late--and yet his heart felt only relief.
“Hold on,” he whispered to her, as he carried her through the building snowstorm. “Hold on.”
There was no place to go except the Section safe house. It was his only hope of help for her, and his only way home.
His damaged shoulder burned with the girl’s dead weight, but that was the least of Michael’s problems. He had failed to carry out his mission, and had no explanation that would satisfy Section’s expectations. For the first time since he had been in Section, he had failed in his mission--and he simply didn't care.
It was over an hour before Michael found the safe house. He had taken care not to be seen, and the storm had covered his tracks.
Monique had faded in and out of consciousness during the trip, but due to the cold and the constant pressure of the makeshift bandage, most of her bleeding had stopped.
Michael reached the door of the safe house and kicked it with the toe of one boot. It opened instantly. There was surprised look on the face of his Section contact, but the swung the door wide to admit him.
“I need a medic,” Michael ordered, laying the girl down on a nearby couch. The house was cluttered with garish bric-a-brac and smelled of mold and neglect.
“I’m Thoren, I am a medic--she a civilian?”
“Yes. She’s got a stab wound, lower left quadrant.” Michael said, stepping back to let the man get closer to his patient.
“We just got the word--good job!”
“What do you mean?” Michael asked, peeling off his jacket and tossing the bloodstained garment to one side.
“Abu’s dead--so’s Koslin. I just got confirmation. Did you write the profile on this one? If you did, it went as perfect as I’ve ever seen.” Thoren jabbered effusively, as he worked on the girl.
Michael’s head was swirling in confusion. “Where’s the confirmation?”
“Go check the laptop.” Thoren nodded his chin in the direction of the kitchen table. “Besides Abu and Koslin, there are about eight dead. I don’t know what you did to stir things up over there, but both sides literally wiped each other out.”
Michael went to check out the data. The mission had been accomplished just as it had been planned--but how?
“Is she going to live?” Michael asked, watching the medic sew up her wound.
“Believe it or not, they missed everything vital. She’ll be sore as hell for the next few days, but barring an infection, she should be fine. Who is she, anyway?”
“A good Samaritan--she saved my life.”
“Were you compromised?” A frown wrinkled Thoren’s brow. “I’d hate to think I just sewed her up so we could cancel her.”
“No. She doesn’t know anything--and she didn’t witness the hit.”
“What do you want to do with her now?”
“Take her out of the country. We were seen together, I’d rather not take the chance that she’ll be questioned once I’ve gone.”
“If you think you can sell that to Section, good luck. Still, if she hadn’t saved your life, the mission would have been a bust.” Thoren paused to tape gauze across Monique’s wound with Michael’s assistance.
“Thanks. . . . you know we almost wrote you off.” Thoren continued, taking the girl’s pulse. “Section thought you’d been killed. Damn French anti-aircraft battery thought your plane was a Serbian violating the no-fly zone.”
“Was a second team sent in?” Michael asked, as he looked out the nearby window.
“There was, but as soon as I had confirmation that you had completed the hit, I contacted Section. They’ve been recalled.”
“When is my exit scheduled?”
“Tonight, after midnight--if the weather doesn’t get any worse.” Thoren glanced out at the feathery flakes that continued to fall.
“Can she travel?” Michael asked softly, as he bent to pick her up.
“Sure. But where you going to take her?” Thoren waved Michael into a nearby bedroom where he placed Monique on the bed.
“I have a place in mind.”
* * *
“Where am I?” Monique gazed sleepily at her surroundings. It was a large room, painted in pale yellow. There were lacy curtains over the wood frame windows.
“Somewhere safe.” Michael assured her softly. He leaned over her and pushed a stray blonde hair off her forehead.
“Is this heaven?” The girl looked over at a nun, in a traditional white nurse’s habit who stood nearby.
“No. A hospital.” Michael rewarded her with a rare smile. “But you came close. Thanks, for saving my life.”
“What happens now?” Monique asked, her eyes growing heavy.
“You get well. There’s a family waiting for you to come live with them.”
“Are you leaving?” She asked sadly, hearing the farewell in his voice.
“Yes.”
“Will I see you again?” She asked, blinking back tears.
Michael shook his head, “Shhhh, go to sleep. I was only a dream. Just a dream.”
When Monique’s eyes closed and she drifted off to sleep, Michael gave her a final kiss goodbye. When she awoke again, he would indeed be only a dream.
* * *
“Yes!” Birkoff jumped to his feet and tossed an Oreo into the air.
From his perch on the mezzanine above, Operations planted his hands atop the railing and growled, “What is it Birkoff?”
“Michael! He made the hit!”
“How do we know?” Operations forced himself to be calm.
“We got confirmation from the contact in Bosnia! Abu’s confirmed dead and so is Koslin!”
Operations envied Birkoff’s youthful exuberance, but experience was a bitter teacher. “Michael made the hit--but did he survive it? Have we heard from him yet?”
Birkoff’s face fell in an instant. It hadn’t occurred to him that Michael could survive a plane crash, take out his objective, then not live to come back.
“N-no, sir. Not yet.” He sat back down at his console, completely deflated.
“Not yet.” Operations muttered beneath his breath. He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Keep me posted.” With that he left to consult with Madeline.
* * *
Nikita slipped inside Michael’s house and quietly shut the door. It was late, but she had been unable to sleep at her apartment. Now, all she wanted was to be near her memories of Michael.
She lit a fire in the fireplace, then dropped listlessly in front of the darkened Christmas tree. A few needles had fallen upon the still unopened packages, a sad reminder of a Christmas they had not been allowed to share.
Michael had been missing for nearly three days. The time for the hit had come and gone, but so far there had been no word. She left the Section, wanting to be alone when the word finally did come--for good or ill. There would be no way to suppress her joy or grief in front of the others, and she was thoroughly weary of hiding her feelings.
With a tiny click, she turned on the tree’s diminutive lights. They winked cheerfully as they encircled the tree. She inhaled the fresh smell of evergreen and tried to remember the happiness of only a few short days ago.
Picking up a tiny package, she played absently with the ribbon, then read the attached card. It read: To My Heart, Love Michael.
A corner of her mouth lifted. Not “to Kita” or ”Nikita” lest someone else happen upon the card. Even here, his every thought was guarded--to keep her safe from Section. She pulled off the ribbon and opened the small box. Inside she found an ornament and read the inscription through gathering tears: Our First Christmas.
“Oh, Michael.” Nikita held the keepsake against her breast, curled her body around it and had a good hiccuping cry.
* * *
Michael stood in the shadows a long while, watching her sleep. Somehow, he had known Nikita would be here, waiting for him. He painfully peeled off his clothes and crawled onto bed.
Operations had delayed the debrief for later in the day when he saw how exhausted Michael had been on his return. But Michael had been more than exhausted, he had been desperate--desperate to see Nikita again.
She was warm and soft as he drew her against him.
"Kita," Michael kissed her name against the tender skin on the back of her neck.
“Michael!” Nikita came awake in a rush and turned to face him. She started to hug him then noticed his left arm was cradled in a sling. Instead, she eased him back upon the pillows and leaned over him. He sank into their soft warmth with a sigh of bone-weary relief.
“Are you all right?” She bent low and kissed him passionately before he could answer, turning his exhaustion into momentary exhilaration.
“I was so worried. I’ve missed you.” Nikita whispered, brushing her fingers through his soft curls.
“Missed you too,” he said, his voice wistful.
“What happened? We thought. . . “ Nikita couldn’t complete the sentence.
“Do you believe in miracles?” Michael asked, seriously as his fingers played in her hair.
“What do you mean?” She stroked his cheek, as if to reassure herself he was real and not a dream. His three-day growth of beard tickled her fingertips.
“The mission was a complete success, but I never made the hit.”
“What?” Nikita’s blue eyes went wide in surprise.
“It’s a long story--but it seems Abu and Koslin took each other out without any help from Section.”
“Does Operations know this?”
“Not yet. I told him I was too tired to debrief--I’ll tell him in the morning,” Michael whispered with half-closed eyes.
“Your shoulder?” She lightly stroked him there. “Are you all right?”
“I had a small encounter with a tree.” Michael said absently, tracing her lips with the edge of this thumb. “I love you.”
‘I love you,’ Michael thought. ‘I love the worry in your face because it’s for me. I love you warm in my bed. I love having someone to come home to.’
“Oh, Michael--I love you, too. I was so afraid. . . I’ve never been so afraid.“ Nikita buried her face against his chest and held him close.
”Sorry, I missed Christmas.” He drew her face up to his and kissed her again, so tenderly that Nikita almost wept.
"Shhhh, Michael-you're exhausted . . . " Nikita ordered softly, as she gently brushed stray curls off his brow. "Go to sleep . . . "
She watched as his eyes drifted closed and was happy to know he could trust himself to her care.
"You're home safely, Michael. That beats Christmas any day." She whispered against the beat of his heart.
EPILOGUE
"Let me get this straight---you didn't make the hit?" Operations stood at the head of the conference table with actual surprise on his face.
"No. It seems Abu and Koslin had a serious disagreement before I arrived." Michael replied, with a trace of humor in his voice.
Operations smiled an evil, little smile. "Sometimes, . . . we get lucky. Too bad our intel couldn't have predicted this. It seems we risked you for nothing."
Michael thought of Monique and smiled faintly.
'For nothing? Hardly.' For once Michael had risked it all for someone important to him and not the Section.
"As long as we have closure." Michael replied diplomatically, "It doesn't matter."
Operations chuckled, as he lit a cigarette. "George is going to love this!"
Michael nodded and stood to leave.
'Merry Christmas, Monique.' he thought with rare contentment. 'Merry Christmas.'
The End
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