Fic: Succession, Chapter 2/31 (La Femme Nikita)
Title: Succession
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Two
The door to the shooting range squealed and slammed closed as Paul stepped inside. The range looked empty at first, but the walls reverberated with a steady thunder of shots, so he walked along the points and glanced into each as he passed. When he reached the far end, he finally found Madeline, firing rapidly at her target.
Her hearing blocked by heavy earmuffs, she didn't notice him behind her -- or, if she did, she ignored him. So he waited and observed. Her stance was right, her grip correct, her aim superb. There was nothing more she needed to work on -- at least not for target shooting. Combat shooting was another matter altogether, and yet practicing on the range would get her nowhere. So why was she doing this?
He checked his watch. Twenty after midnight. This was ridiculous. She'd been shooting for hours, using up enough ammunition to see an entire team through a mission.
Her body rocked slightly backwards with the recoil of each shot until she emptied her clip. She popped it out and was turning to reach for a new one when she spotted him. She eyed him for a moment with a slightly irritated expression. Then she set down the gun, removed her earmuffs and glasses, and ran a hand through her hair.
"Do you need something?" she asked, her voice low with fatigue.
"I think that's enough. Why don't you call it a night?"
"I'm not finished." Her expression tightened, accentuating the shadows that crossed her face.
He placed his hand on her arm. "You don't need to push yourself like this."
"The mission is only thirty-two hours from now. I have to be ready." She spoke with the bitter resolve of someone on a death march -- her eyes were clouded, looking right through him to focus on some faraway place.
"You're as ready as you're going to be on short notice. Just stay close to me and I'll look out for you."
His words seemed to take a moment to register. When they did, her reaction surprised him. Instead of relaxing, she straightened her posture, and her gaze -- so dull a moment before -- sharpened in anger.
"I beg your pardon?" she asked. "How am I going to be of any use if all I do is follow you around?"
"You won't." He shrugged. "But don't worry about it. Think of it as a real-life training run."
She pulled away and crossed her arms. "That's unacceptable."
He laughed. "I'm the team leader, remember? I'm the one who gets to decide what's acceptable or not."
Something flashed deep within her eyes: resentment, wounded pride, or maybe both. During their meeting with Adrian, she had claimed that she could adjust to being his subordinate -- but the expression on her face, the rigid way her jaw was set, belied those earlier words. He groaned inwardly. She wasn't going to make this easy.
"How will you explain to the rest of your team that you're going to be too busy babysitting me to oversee the mission properly?" Her voice was calm, but tinged with sarcasm.
So that was it. She was worried about being seen as a burden by the team. Understandable, but wrong.
"They understand," he assured her. "In fact, they think it's ridiculous that Adrian gave you this assignment."
"Do they? And why would they think that?"
As she glared at him, he found himself growing increasingly exasperated. He didn't remember her being so difficult before. When they had known each other years earlier, they rarely argued -- but now, without warning, she was getting unreasonably angry with him. And for what? For being realistic about her ability to take care of herself out in the field? That was childish.
Losing patience, he returned the glare. "Why? Because it's been at least ten years since you've had any combat training. Because you have virtually no field experience. Because you've never shot anyone, never been shot at, never had to run for your life while--"
"You don't know that."
Something in her tone caught his attention. It wasn't resentment, wasn't a fit of temper -- instead, her voice had grown deadly cold.
"What do you mean?"
"I've escaped from eight separate penal and clinical institutions," she said in a dry monotone. "I've been chased by security guards, cops, pimps, rapists, and Rottweilers. Before I was even sixteen years old, I'd been beaten unconscious, nearly run down by a car, and attacked by a lunatic with a baseball bat." Her voice lowered and grew in intensity. "So don't tell me that I don't know what's it's like to run for my life."
He stared, dumbfounded. She had always been evasive about the details of her past, limiting herself to cryptic references to a criminal history and a killing. He had always thought she was exaggerating, but now, seeing the lost look on her face, he knew she wasn't. In her own way, she did have combat experience. And she was as scarred as any veteran he'd ever met.
How had he not known this? The months they had spent together had been among the happiest and most intense of his life. With her, he had felt a deep connection, a shared understanding of life that seemed instinctual, almost preordained. Even now, in her presence, he still sensed it -- partly hidden, just out of reach, but there all the same. Yet at the same time, it appeared, she was also a complete stranger.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know. I was just trying to help you."
"I don't want any help." She looked away. "You heard Adrian. You need to treat me just like any other operative on your team."
Fighting a growing lump in his throat, he reached out to stroke her face.
"You'll never be just any operative to me."
As his fingertips grazed her cheek, he saw it. Deep within her eyes, something fought its way toward the surface: a longing, a desperation, a need. It reached out to him, begged him to free it, even as she struggled to suppress it. Determined to make her fail, to make her give in to whatever she was feeling, he continued to caress her skin, brushing his hand through her hair, then trailing his knuckles lightly along her jaw.
In the end, however, she reasserted control, although he could see that the effort had weakened her. Her anger subsided, replaced by a look of sadness.
"You're the team leader. The success of the mission is your responsibility, and that has to come first." Her voice grew resigned. "Maybe Adrian was right. I should be on another team. I'm a distraction to you."
He sighed. This was going in circles, and at such a late hour, frankly, it exhausted him.
"Maybe you are a distraction," he admitted, too tired to argue any longer. "But you'd be even more of one on another team."
She frowned. "How so?"
"I'd be too worried to concentrate on my work. At least if you're on my team, I'll know what's happening to you."
She made an exasperated face. "Paul, you can't allow--"
"Look," he interrupted, "when we first met, I saw how well we worked together. We complement each other perfectly. Don't tell me you didn't see it, too."
She said nothing, but he could tell from the way she pressed her lips together into a tight line that she knew he was right.
"As soon as you build up some field experience, we're going to be unbeatable together." He looked her straight in the eye, daring her to argue. "And so I'm going to look after you, like it or not, to make sure you live long enough to gain that experience." He gave a wry smile. "Besides, you might as well get used to it, because there's nothing you can do to stop me."
She looked at him for a long time, with an expression he couldn't interpret -- not angry, not resentful, but not acquiescent, either. Just thoughtful. Then she turned away, put on the earmuffs and glasses, loaded another clip into her gun, and began firing again.
***
In an attempt to convey the impression of relaxed attentiveness, Lisa crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, hands folded and perched on her knee. She had managed to obtain the best seat at the table; the farthest from the door, it was away from attention and yet situated perfectly for careful observation. If only her luck would carry over to the rest of the briefing.
One by one, the others made their way into the room. First Walter, who winked at Lisa and sat -- as he always did for Adrian's briefings -- in the chair closest to the door. Then Patrick, who sprawled somewhere in the middle, his jaw moving rhythmically as he chewed his gum. Next, one of the two new team members: Brad, the Level One op six months out of training. Brad was skinny and red-haired -- one of those people who looked like he'd turn into one giant freckle if you left him out in the sun too long. To Lisa's dismay, he plopped into the seat right next to her and fixed her with a warm smile.
Great. He thinks we're going to be buddies. Why do the puppydog new ones always latch onto me?
The answer wasn't really all that much of a mystery. Who on the team looked the most approachable? Paul, the demanding team leader, always cursing and glaring? Hardly. Patrick, who spoke in two-word sentences and looked like his hobby was crushing beer cans against his forehead? No, not quite. Or Lisa: short, thin, mousy, and unthreatening. Bingo. Cursed by looking too meek and nice. It was the story of her life.
At least Brad had some mission experience, however, which was more than she could say for the next person who entered the room: Madeline, the transfer from Section Two. She was a Level Two, supposedly, but Paul acted like she was some fragile debutante who might faint if she suffered a paper cut -- he had threatened Lisa and Patrick with all sorts of dire consequences if they didn't help him keep her out of harm's way. Although if the rumors that had started circulating about Madeline were true -- rumors about a pretty bizarre background, almost too bizarre to be believed -- it might be Lisa and Patrick who needed the protection.
Lisa sat up in her seat to give the new arrival a full appraisal. On the one hand, she did fit Paul's description. Hair perfect, full makeup -- for a briefing? Oh, please. She definitely looked to be the glamour queen type, not exactly used to scaling barbed wire fences in a torrential rain with a heavy backpack on. Then again, no one who saw Lisa would think she could do that either. Appearances didn't necessarily count for much in this place.
To Lisa's surprise, Madeline didn't take one of the several empty seats near Walter; instead, she sat between Patrick and Brad and then fastidiously smoothed out her skirt. It made the table seem somewhat lopsided.
Poor Walter! thought Lisa, smiling to herself. He's a pariah! After the briefing, I'll tease him about his aftershave being too strong.
Then she remembered. Walter knew Madeline from somewhere. And had acted quite strangely when Lisa asked him about her. Maybe those rumors were true, after all. Or maybe not, and Walter had just pissed her off with some lame come-on like he did with half the other women in Section. Good old Walter -- someone really needed to tell him he was getting a bit too old for his lady-killer routine. Not to mention that bandanas had gone out of style years ago. Lisa didn't quite have the heart to be the one to break it to him, however.
It was funny, though, how concerned Paul was about Madeline's welfare. It wasn't like him at all. He was of the school that believed new team members had to prove their worth under fire. If an operative showed some guts, then Paul would fight for him or her harder than any other team leader in Section -- but you always had to win him over first. Poor Brad, for example, hadn't merited any of Paul's attention. But then Brad didn't exactly look like Madeline, did he?
Oh, God, thought Lisa. Is that what this is about?
If so, they were in big, big trouble.
That train of thought halted abruptly as Adrian strode into the room, Paul close behind her. Hastily, Lisa returned to her 'paying rapt attention' posture. Patrick, an old hand at briefings, adopted a similar attitude, but shifted into it casually. Next to Lisa, Brad bolted up in his seat with unrestrained enthusiasm.
Down, boy. Oh, well. He'll learn.
Paul slid into the seat next to Walter, and Adrian rounded the table to stand at the podium on the other side. As always, she swept her gaze across all of them before she began to speak.
"Good morning," she said brightly, eyes sparkling.
Oh, Lord, she's got that look, thought Lisa, growing apprehensive. The one where she smells blood.
Almost invariably, that blood was Lisa's. Sitting inconspicuously at the end of the table probably wasn't going to cut it today. No, this time she would have to listen to every word and watch every nuance of Adrian's behavior. Adrian would test her when she least expected it: she always did, and Lisa always came up short somehow.
Adrian began the briefing, summarizing the highlights of the next day's mission. It seemed straightforward enough: yet another group that no one had ever heard of before, this time planning to blow up an unidentified target -- the objective was to storm their safe house and capture their leadership. Easy, except that they were lunatics who would love nothing better than to die as glorious martyrs in a gun battle. Preferably taking some imperialist pigs with them, of course. Lisa wanted to groan, although she didn't dare -- this was going to be a massacre. They'd be lucky to bring back even one of the leaders for interrogation. But Adrian wanted all of them. What fun.
Finished, Adrian yielded to Walter, who briefed the group on the properties of the new tear gas launchers they would be using. Lisa tried to listen, but found herself increasingly distracted. Adrian hadn't even looked her direction yet; instead, her focus had been almost exclusively on Paul. It was extremely disconcerting. Adrian typically studied those whose abilities she doubted -- and Paul, unlike Lisa, had always been one of her favorites. Adrian's steady examination of him sent Lisa's sense of paranoia spinning out of control. Did Paul have a problem? Was there something about the mission they weren't being told? Were they all in abeyance? The possibilities were endless, and each one worse than the last.
When Walter finished, Adrian thanked him and once more swept her gaze along the table.
"Before I dismiss you," she said, "let me introduce you to your new team members."
The operatives shifted in their seats, turning to look at Madeline and Brad. Brad blushed and smiled; Madeline sat up attentively, but didn't change her expression.
"Brad is an expert in electronics. He'll be a great help to you, I'm sure," said Adrian.
The operatives nodded at him in acknowledgement.
"And Madeline comes to us after many successful years at Two," continued Adrian. "She has a wide range of skills that we'll be able to use." She paused, then added, "I hear her valentine expertise is particularly extraordinary. Why, she turned a senior KGB official into a double-agent just on the sheer strength of her seduction talent. Isn't that true, dear?"
As Adrian beamed, and Patrick sat up with sudden interest, Lisa watched Madeline's face go white.
Without even blinking, Madeline smiled. It looked slightly forced, but she managed to inject a surprising amount of warmth into it. "Yes, that's true," she answered.
Lisa stole a look at Paul. His face was bright red, and his jaw clenched.
Ouch! So much for that budding romance.
So that's why Adrian had been watching him so intently during the briefing. She had obviously suspected the same thing Lisa had: that Paul's uncharacteristically protective attitude toward their new team member was based on some sort of romantic attraction. Well, you could always count on Adrian to throw cold water on such things at the first opportunity -- and in the most humiliating way possible. What a lovely welcome for the new transfer.
Her slap in the face delivered, Adrian took her leave, and the room filled with the sound of chairs scraping the floor. The last to exit, Lisa hurried to catch up with Madeline. Lisa touched her shoulder, and Madeline stopped and turned.
"So, welcome to the club," said Lisa.
"I'm sorry?" Madeline's tone was excruciatingly polite -- distant, wary, like someone unused to the idea of friendly overtures.
"The Punching Bag Club," Lisa said in a low voice. "It's a select group of people Adrian likes to abuse for no particular reason."
For a moment, there was no reaction. Then the two women exchanged a long look, first of mutual assessment, but slowly turning to understanding.
Finally, Madeline arched an eyebrow and gave an amused half-smile. "Should I be honored?"
"Oh, definitely." Lisa grinned. "We're very exclusive. Not just anyone gets in."
"Then I'm flattered."
Lisa held out her hand. "I'm Lisa. Initiated into the club almost seven years ago."
"Nice to meet you, Lisa," Madeline answered, shaking her hand.
Together, they began to walk away from the briefing room, heading toward the elevators that led to the residential quarters. They entered an open elevator, each pressed a button, and they rode in silence for a few moments.
"It's funny," Lisa mused, not certain if Madeline knew Adrian's motivations, and not sure if she should tell her if she didn't. "She usually doesn't go after someone right off the bat like that. You're getting special attention." She smiled sympathetically. "Lucky you."
"Lucky me." This time, Madeline didn't smile back.
Self-consciously, Lisa studied the numbers on the elevator panel. She was dying to ask Madeline more about herself -- to ask just what the hell she did over at Section Two, to find out if any of those rumors were true -- but she knew she shouldn't. How could she even start such a conversation? So, Madeline, is it true that they called you the Voodoo Queen over at Two because your job was turning people into zombies? Oh, yeah. That would go over well.
No, she would have to contain her curiosity and wait. They had formed a bond, of sorts. Maybe, eventually, she would learn something more.
The door opened on Lisa's level. As she stepped out of the elevator, she looked back.
"You know," she said, "there's really only one way to deal with Adrian."
"Oh?"
"She plays favorites," Lisa explained. "Find one and get that person to defend you. She won't like you any better, but she might start leaving you alone."
***
Smoke billowed out thickly from the door in the cellar wall; it poured into the room, black, acrid and full of glowing embers.
"A tunnel. Jesus," said Brad. He bent over to peer inside and flapped his hand back and forth in a vain attempt to wave the smoke aside. "That's where they went. And set a fire behind them." He straightened up again with an expression of resignation. "We'll never catch them now."
According to the blueprints included with the mission profile, there was no tunnel. In fact, there was no cellar. But when the team burst into the house, guns drawn, they found no one on the ground floor. From the floor above, haphazard bursts of gunfire signaled that Patrick and Lisa had engaged their targets. The lower level, however, was strangely devoid of occupants, the only movement the swirling white clouds that sprayed from the tear gas canisters scattered across the glass-strewn floor.
It was Paul who spotted the door leading to the cellar, who led them charging downstairs, and who now took action.
"Team Two," he said into his comm unit, "hostiles made egress through an underground tunnel. Scan the perimeter in case they emerge aboveground. Team One in pursuit."
He looked at Madeline. "You stay here and guard the entrance. Once we confirm that there's an exit, go upstairs and provide backup to Lisa and Patrick."
She nodded gravely and tightened her grip around her gun.
Paul turned to Brad. "Follow me."
"In there?" Brad gaped at the dark plume that continued to flow from the entrance. "It's a barbecue!"
"Go," Paul ordered through gritted teeth.
"You're nuts!"
Paul lifted his gun and pointed it at Brad's face. "It's a barbecue or a bullet. Your choice."
As Brad hesitated, eyeing Paul as if he were a rabid animal, Madeline stepped into the tunnel. She yanked up her mask from where it had been dangling around her neck and hoped that it would filter smoke as well as the tear gas it was designed for. Once the mask was firmly in place, she began to run.
"What the hell are you doing?" Paul's voice came sharply through the transmitter in her ear.
"We don't have time to argue," she panted, her breathing muffled by the mask. "The targets are going to be long gone."
"Damn it, you wait for my order!" he shouted, causing the transmitter to squawk. There was a brief pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was still angry but more controlled. "Tell me where you are and what you see. I'll catch up as soon as I can."
Before she could proceed more than a few feet further, she heard a gunshot over her transmitter -- a burst so loud she flinched in pain. She slowed her pace to a walk, uncertain how to react.
"Paul?" she called out. "Are you under fire?"
"No."
"I heard shooting," she insisted. "Should I come back?"
"That was Brad," he said. "I cancelled him."
"You what?" She stopped moving, astonished.
"Insubordination during a mission is grounds for immediate cancellation at the discretion of the team leader. If I can't rely on him to follow orders, then he's in the way."
For a moment, she was too stunned to think clearly. Then, once again, she began to run. There was no time to reflect on what had just happened. In fact, perhaps that was the point -- Brad had tried to think, tried to argue, when he simply should have obeyed. She pushed the realization that she, too, had disobeyed orders out of her mind. There would be time enough to worry about that later.
"I'm turning right," she announced. "I can't see the fire yet, but the smoke is getting thicker."
Instead of a reply, she heard more shooting.
"Paul?"
"I've engaged hostiles. It's under control. Keep going."
The sound of gunfire continued, growing louder and more rapid -- with each shot, she winced. When she rounded the corner, the faint light from the doorway vanished, and she found herself in complete darkness. Darkness and silence, as the noise of the gun battle cut off abruptly.
"Paul, are you there?"
She heard static, but nothing more.
She tapped the transmitter.
Still nothing.
There was no reason to worry, she reassured herself. It was only interference by the walls of the tunnel. But it meant that now, she was alone. And blind.
Without a flashlight, she felt her way along the rough dirt wall, stumbling repeatedly on the uneven floor. The mask around her face was hot and suffocating, and didn't seem to be filtering the smoke much after all; she was drenched in sweat, coughing, gasping for air.
As she tripped and cursed to herself once more, she thought back to what she had been doing just one week before: sitting on the balcony of her Paris apartment, sipping aperitifs with a charming gentleman acquaintance, oblivious to the fact that her life was about to be turned upside-down. She never would have imagined that now she would be staggering alone, through the dark, on her way to be incinerated -- or, if she escaped that, to confront a gang of armed and desperate terrorists.
The past five days had not been adequate preparation for this moment. She had spent that time in a state of complete disorientation, barely able to eat or sleep: in shock at having her world uprooted so suddenly; in terror at being thrown upon the mercy of Adrian; overjoyed -- but apprehensive -- at finding herself reunited with Paul; and, despite her attempts at bravado, petrified that, as Paul had warned, she simply wasn't ready for a real mission.
Her fingers felt the wall curve around another corner. As she followed it, her vision returned, brought back by an orange light that glowed ominously through the heavy shroud of smoke. She halted, grimacing in pain as she collided with a searing blast of heat, and stared ahead in despair. Before her was a bonfire of debris, piled several feet high, blazing across the full width of the tunnel. She inched ahead cautiously, and the heat nearly blistered her skin; under her mask, the air seemed to disappear altogether.
The fire was wide -- intimidatingly so -- but not particularly deep. Indeed, the debris pile was low enough that she could plausibly jump it.
She gazed into the fire for a few seconds -- seconds that seemed to stretch into an eternity, as the flames rippled and flared, and the air itself shimmered with their heat. The blaze seemed to melt away all her stray thoughts: Adrian, Paul, even her own mortality, none of that mattered. There was no time to be afraid, no time to do anything but concentrate on the immediate goal. She felt herself slip into a mental focus -- a clarity so intense that it was both soothing and thrilling.
She took a running start and dove, as high as she could, over the debris and through the flames. The heat was excruciating, like a furnace blast of pain, but then she landed -- hard -- on the dirt floor behind the fire and ducked into a roll. When she was upright once again, she inspected herself. Her hair and clothing were singed, the arm she had landed on most likely fractured -- but she was functional.
She scrambled up and ran, stopping several yards later when she reached a door directly ahead. Readying her gun for what might be on the other side, she grasped the doorknob -- hissing in pain at the scorch of hot metal -- and turned it.
Locked.
She twisted the doorknob harder -- then, with a sharp wave of panic, began to kick and hurl her weight against the door. Her efforts had no effect. The door remained solidly closed; the intensity of the heat, broiling from the fire only yards behind her, started to overcome her ability to reason. On instinct, she fired three shots into the door. This, finally, splintered it enough to allow her to force her way through. On the other side, the tunnel ended, but a ladder, bathed in daylight, led straight up.
She pulled herself up the ladder, the stabbing pains in her arm bringing tears to her eyes. When she reached the top, she could see the bright blue of the sky, filtered through a metal grate that she shoved impatiently aside.
She emerged through what appeared to be a storm drain alongside a road. Gasping, she tore off her mask and looked at her surroundings, just in time to see a car pull away from the roadside in front of her. She gave chase, but it quickly picked up speed -- as it did, one of its passengers stuck a gun out the window and fired in her direction.
The shots hit the ground several feet away, kicking up puffs of dust. Instinctively, she fell into a crouch and returned fire. She didn't hear it when the tire blew out, but she saw the car swerve out of control and slam into a stone wall. Still crouching, she watched for several moments, waiting for signs of movement inside the wrecked auto. When she saw nothing, she rose and began to walk toward the vehicle.
She approached the car cautiously until she saw the extent of the injuries: one passenger unconscious, blood pouring down his face; the driver and other passengers disoriented and groaning in pain. She held them there at gunpoint until members of Team Two reached her moments later.
As Team Two pulled the captives from the wreckage, she walked away unsteadily. Her heart pounded with such violence that it left her dizzy with elation. Looking at the vanquished enemy, she felt energized, as if she could sprint all the way back to Section. The sense of victory was overwhelming, addictive, like a drug. No, it was better than a drug -- no drug could possibly feel that good.
She jumped, startled, when she heard her transmitter burst back into life.
"Madeline? Report," Paul called.
She smiled. "Targets acquired."
**************
To continue to Chapter Three, click here.
If you need to go back and catch up from the beginning, here is Chapter One.
Fandom: La Femme Nikita
Rating: Probably a hard R, for sexual situations and violence.
Pairings: Contains Madeline/Paul (Operations) and Charles Sand/Madeline as well as references to Adrian/George, but this doesn't fit comfortably into "shippy" categories.
Warning: Michael and Nikita do not appear in this story, except as minor references at the very end.
Summary: Set during the 1980's, this story traces the events that ultimately led to the overthrow of Adrian as leader of Section One and to her replacement by Paul Wolfe (Operations).
Chapter Two
The door to the shooting range squealed and slammed closed as Paul stepped inside. The range looked empty at first, but the walls reverberated with a steady thunder of shots, so he walked along the points and glanced into each as he passed. When he reached the far end, he finally found Madeline, firing rapidly at her target.
Her hearing blocked by heavy earmuffs, she didn't notice him behind her -- or, if she did, she ignored him. So he waited and observed. Her stance was right, her grip correct, her aim superb. There was nothing more she needed to work on -- at least not for target shooting. Combat shooting was another matter altogether, and yet practicing on the range would get her nowhere. So why was she doing this?
He checked his watch. Twenty after midnight. This was ridiculous. She'd been shooting for hours, using up enough ammunition to see an entire team through a mission.
Her body rocked slightly backwards with the recoil of each shot until she emptied her clip. She popped it out and was turning to reach for a new one when she spotted him. She eyed him for a moment with a slightly irritated expression. Then she set down the gun, removed her earmuffs and glasses, and ran a hand through her hair.
"Do you need something?" she asked, her voice low with fatigue.
"I think that's enough. Why don't you call it a night?"
"I'm not finished." Her expression tightened, accentuating the shadows that crossed her face.
He placed his hand on her arm. "You don't need to push yourself like this."
"The mission is only thirty-two hours from now. I have to be ready." She spoke with the bitter resolve of someone on a death march -- her eyes were clouded, looking right through him to focus on some faraway place.
"You're as ready as you're going to be on short notice. Just stay close to me and I'll look out for you."
His words seemed to take a moment to register. When they did, her reaction surprised him. Instead of relaxing, she straightened her posture, and her gaze -- so dull a moment before -- sharpened in anger.
"I beg your pardon?" she asked. "How am I going to be of any use if all I do is follow you around?"
"You won't." He shrugged. "But don't worry about it. Think of it as a real-life training run."
She pulled away and crossed her arms. "That's unacceptable."
He laughed. "I'm the team leader, remember? I'm the one who gets to decide what's acceptable or not."
Something flashed deep within her eyes: resentment, wounded pride, or maybe both. During their meeting with Adrian, she had claimed that she could adjust to being his subordinate -- but the expression on her face, the rigid way her jaw was set, belied those earlier words. He groaned inwardly. She wasn't going to make this easy.
"How will you explain to the rest of your team that you're going to be too busy babysitting me to oversee the mission properly?" Her voice was calm, but tinged with sarcasm.
So that was it. She was worried about being seen as a burden by the team. Understandable, but wrong.
"They understand," he assured her. "In fact, they think it's ridiculous that Adrian gave you this assignment."
"Do they? And why would they think that?"
As she glared at him, he found himself growing increasingly exasperated. He didn't remember her being so difficult before. When they had known each other years earlier, they rarely argued -- but now, without warning, she was getting unreasonably angry with him. And for what? For being realistic about her ability to take care of herself out in the field? That was childish.
Losing patience, he returned the glare. "Why? Because it's been at least ten years since you've had any combat training. Because you have virtually no field experience. Because you've never shot anyone, never been shot at, never had to run for your life while--"
"You don't know that."
Something in her tone caught his attention. It wasn't resentment, wasn't a fit of temper -- instead, her voice had grown deadly cold.
"What do you mean?"
"I've escaped from eight separate penal and clinical institutions," she said in a dry monotone. "I've been chased by security guards, cops, pimps, rapists, and Rottweilers. Before I was even sixteen years old, I'd been beaten unconscious, nearly run down by a car, and attacked by a lunatic with a baseball bat." Her voice lowered and grew in intensity. "So don't tell me that I don't know what's it's like to run for my life."
He stared, dumbfounded. She had always been evasive about the details of her past, limiting herself to cryptic references to a criminal history and a killing. He had always thought she was exaggerating, but now, seeing the lost look on her face, he knew she wasn't. In her own way, she did have combat experience. And she was as scarred as any veteran he'd ever met.
How had he not known this? The months they had spent together had been among the happiest and most intense of his life. With her, he had felt a deep connection, a shared understanding of life that seemed instinctual, almost preordained. Even now, in her presence, he still sensed it -- partly hidden, just out of reach, but there all the same. Yet at the same time, it appeared, she was also a complete stranger.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know. I was just trying to help you."
"I don't want any help." She looked away. "You heard Adrian. You need to treat me just like any other operative on your team."
Fighting a growing lump in his throat, he reached out to stroke her face.
"You'll never be just any operative to me."
As his fingertips grazed her cheek, he saw it. Deep within her eyes, something fought its way toward the surface: a longing, a desperation, a need. It reached out to him, begged him to free it, even as she struggled to suppress it. Determined to make her fail, to make her give in to whatever she was feeling, he continued to caress her skin, brushing his hand through her hair, then trailing his knuckles lightly along her jaw.
In the end, however, she reasserted control, although he could see that the effort had weakened her. Her anger subsided, replaced by a look of sadness.
"You're the team leader. The success of the mission is your responsibility, and that has to come first." Her voice grew resigned. "Maybe Adrian was right. I should be on another team. I'm a distraction to you."
He sighed. This was going in circles, and at such a late hour, frankly, it exhausted him.
"Maybe you are a distraction," he admitted, too tired to argue any longer. "But you'd be even more of one on another team."
She frowned. "How so?"
"I'd be too worried to concentrate on my work. At least if you're on my team, I'll know what's happening to you."
She made an exasperated face. "Paul, you can't allow--"
"Look," he interrupted, "when we first met, I saw how well we worked together. We complement each other perfectly. Don't tell me you didn't see it, too."
She said nothing, but he could tell from the way she pressed her lips together into a tight line that she knew he was right.
"As soon as you build up some field experience, we're going to be unbeatable together." He looked her straight in the eye, daring her to argue. "And so I'm going to look after you, like it or not, to make sure you live long enough to gain that experience." He gave a wry smile. "Besides, you might as well get used to it, because there's nothing you can do to stop me."
She looked at him for a long time, with an expression he couldn't interpret -- not angry, not resentful, but not acquiescent, either. Just thoughtful. Then she turned away, put on the earmuffs and glasses, loaded another clip into her gun, and began firing again.
***
In an attempt to convey the impression of relaxed attentiveness, Lisa crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair, hands folded and perched on her knee. She had managed to obtain the best seat at the table; the farthest from the door, it was away from attention and yet situated perfectly for careful observation. If only her luck would carry over to the rest of the briefing.
One by one, the others made their way into the room. First Walter, who winked at Lisa and sat -- as he always did for Adrian's briefings -- in the chair closest to the door. Then Patrick, who sprawled somewhere in the middle, his jaw moving rhythmically as he chewed his gum. Next, one of the two new team members: Brad, the Level One op six months out of training. Brad was skinny and red-haired -- one of those people who looked like he'd turn into one giant freckle if you left him out in the sun too long. To Lisa's dismay, he plopped into the seat right next to her and fixed her with a warm smile.
Great. He thinks we're going to be buddies. Why do the puppydog new ones always latch onto me?
The answer wasn't really all that much of a mystery. Who on the team looked the most approachable? Paul, the demanding team leader, always cursing and glaring? Hardly. Patrick, who spoke in two-word sentences and looked like his hobby was crushing beer cans against his forehead? No, not quite. Or Lisa: short, thin, mousy, and unthreatening. Bingo. Cursed by looking too meek and nice. It was the story of her life.
At least Brad had some mission experience, however, which was more than she could say for the next person who entered the room: Madeline, the transfer from Section Two. She was a Level Two, supposedly, but Paul acted like she was some fragile debutante who might faint if she suffered a paper cut -- he had threatened Lisa and Patrick with all sorts of dire consequences if they didn't help him keep her out of harm's way. Although if the rumors that had started circulating about Madeline were true -- rumors about a pretty bizarre background, almost too bizarre to be believed -- it might be Lisa and Patrick who needed the protection.
Lisa sat up in her seat to give the new arrival a full appraisal. On the one hand, she did fit Paul's description. Hair perfect, full makeup -- for a briefing? Oh, please. She definitely looked to be the glamour queen type, not exactly used to scaling barbed wire fences in a torrential rain with a heavy backpack on. Then again, no one who saw Lisa would think she could do that either. Appearances didn't necessarily count for much in this place.
To Lisa's surprise, Madeline didn't take one of the several empty seats near Walter; instead, she sat between Patrick and Brad and then fastidiously smoothed out her skirt. It made the table seem somewhat lopsided.
Poor Walter! thought Lisa, smiling to herself. He's a pariah! After the briefing, I'll tease him about his aftershave being too strong.
Then she remembered. Walter knew Madeline from somewhere. And had acted quite strangely when Lisa asked him about her. Maybe those rumors were true, after all. Or maybe not, and Walter had just pissed her off with some lame come-on like he did with half the other women in Section. Good old Walter -- someone really needed to tell him he was getting a bit too old for his lady-killer routine. Not to mention that bandanas had gone out of style years ago. Lisa didn't quite have the heart to be the one to break it to him, however.
It was funny, though, how concerned Paul was about Madeline's welfare. It wasn't like him at all. He was of the school that believed new team members had to prove their worth under fire. If an operative showed some guts, then Paul would fight for him or her harder than any other team leader in Section -- but you always had to win him over first. Poor Brad, for example, hadn't merited any of Paul's attention. But then Brad didn't exactly look like Madeline, did he?
Oh, God, thought Lisa. Is that what this is about?
If so, they were in big, big trouble.
That train of thought halted abruptly as Adrian strode into the room, Paul close behind her. Hastily, Lisa returned to her 'paying rapt attention' posture. Patrick, an old hand at briefings, adopted a similar attitude, but shifted into it casually. Next to Lisa, Brad bolted up in his seat with unrestrained enthusiasm.
Down, boy. Oh, well. He'll learn.
Paul slid into the seat next to Walter, and Adrian rounded the table to stand at the podium on the other side. As always, she swept her gaze across all of them before she began to speak.
"Good morning," she said brightly, eyes sparkling.
Oh, Lord, she's got that look, thought Lisa, growing apprehensive. The one where she smells blood.
Almost invariably, that blood was Lisa's. Sitting inconspicuously at the end of the table probably wasn't going to cut it today. No, this time she would have to listen to every word and watch every nuance of Adrian's behavior. Adrian would test her when she least expected it: she always did, and Lisa always came up short somehow.
Adrian began the briefing, summarizing the highlights of the next day's mission. It seemed straightforward enough: yet another group that no one had ever heard of before, this time planning to blow up an unidentified target -- the objective was to storm their safe house and capture their leadership. Easy, except that they were lunatics who would love nothing better than to die as glorious martyrs in a gun battle. Preferably taking some imperialist pigs with them, of course. Lisa wanted to groan, although she didn't dare -- this was going to be a massacre. They'd be lucky to bring back even one of the leaders for interrogation. But Adrian wanted all of them. What fun.
Finished, Adrian yielded to Walter, who briefed the group on the properties of the new tear gas launchers they would be using. Lisa tried to listen, but found herself increasingly distracted. Adrian hadn't even looked her direction yet; instead, her focus had been almost exclusively on Paul. It was extremely disconcerting. Adrian typically studied those whose abilities she doubted -- and Paul, unlike Lisa, had always been one of her favorites. Adrian's steady examination of him sent Lisa's sense of paranoia spinning out of control. Did Paul have a problem? Was there something about the mission they weren't being told? Were they all in abeyance? The possibilities were endless, and each one worse than the last.
When Walter finished, Adrian thanked him and once more swept her gaze along the table.
"Before I dismiss you," she said, "let me introduce you to your new team members."
The operatives shifted in their seats, turning to look at Madeline and Brad. Brad blushed and smiled; Madeline sat up attentively, but didn't change her expression.
"Brad is an expert in electronics. He'll be a great help to you, I'm sure," said Adrian.
The operatives nodded at him in acknowledgement.
"And Madeline comes to us after many successful years at Two," continued Adrian. "She has a wide range of skills that we'll be able to use." She paused, then added, "I hear her valentine expertise is particularly extraordinary. Why, she turned a senior KGB official into a double-agent just on the sheer strength of her seduction talent. Isn't that true, dear?"
As Adrian beamed, and Patrick sat up with sudden interest, Lisa watched Madeline's face go white.
Without even blinking, Madeline smiled. It looked slightly forced, but she managed to inject a surprising amount of warmth into it. "Yes, that's true," she answered.
Lisa stole a look at Paul. His face was bright red, and his jaw clenched.
Ouch! So much for that budding romance.
So that's why Adrian had been watching him so intently during the briefing. She had obviously suspected the same thing Lisa had: that Paul's uncharacteristically protective attitude toward their new team member was based on some sort of romantic attraction. Well, you could always count on Adrian to throw cold water on such things at the first opportunity -- and in the most humiliating way possible. What a lovely welcome for the new transfer.
Her slap in the face delivered, Adrian took her leave, and the room filled with the sound of chairs scraping the floor. The last to exit, Lisa hurried to catch up with Madeline. Lisa touched her shoulder, and Madeline stopped and turned.
"So, welcome to the club," said Lisa.
"I'm sorry?" Madeline's tone was excruciatingly polite -- distant, wary, like someone unused to the idea of friendly overtures.
"The Punching Bag Club," Lisa said in a low voice. "It's a select group of people Adrian likes to abuse for no particular reason."
For a moment, there was no reaction. Then the two women exchanged a long look, first of mutual assessment, but slowly turning to understanding.
Finally, Madeline arched an eyebrow and gave an amused half-smile. "Should I be honored?"
"Oh, definitely." Lisa grinned. "We're very exclusive. Not just anyone gets in."
"Then I'm flattered."
Lisa held out her hand. "I'm Lisa. Initiated into the club almost seven years ago."
"Nice to meet you, Lisa," Madeline answered, shaking her hand.
Together, they began to walk away from the briefing room, heading toward the elevators that led to the residential quarters. They entered an open elevator, each pressed a button, and they rode in silence for a few moments.
"It's funny," Lisa mused, not certain if Madeline knew Adrian's motivations, and not sure if she should tell her if she didn't. "She usually doesn't go after someone right off the bat like that. You're getting special attention." She smiled sympathetically. "Lucky you."
"Lucky me." This time, Madeline didn't smile back.
Self-consciously, Lisa studied the numbers on the elevator panel. She was dying to ask Madeline more about herself -- to ask just what the hell she did over at Section Two, to find out if any of those rumors were true -- but she knew she shouldn't. How could she even start such a conversation? So, Madeline, is it true that they called you the Voodoo Queen over at Two because your job was turning people into zombies? Oh, yeah. That would go over well.
No, she would have to contain her curiosity and wait. They had formed a bond, of sorts. Maybe, eventually, she would learn something more.
The door opened on Lisa's level. As she stepped out of the elevator, she looked back.
"You know," she said, "there's really only one way to deal with Adrian."
"Oh?"
"She plays favorites," Lisa explained. "Find one and get that person to defend you. She won't like you any better, but she might start leaving you alone."
***
Smoke billowed out thickly from the door in the cellar wall; it poured into the room, black, acrid and full of glowing embers.
"A tunnel. Jesus," said Brad. He bent over to peer inside and flapped his hand back and forth in a vain attempt to wave the smoke aside. "That's where they went. And set a fire behind them." He straightened up again with an expression of resignation. "We'll never catch them now."
According to the blueprints included with the mission profile, there was no tunnel. In fact, there was no cellar. But when the team burst into the house, guns drawn, they found no one on the ground floor. From the floor above, haphazard bursts of gunfire signaled that Patrick and Lisa had engaged their targets. The lower level, however, was strangely devoid of occupants, the only movement the swirling white clouds that sprayed from the tear gas canisters scattered across the glass-strewn floor.
It was Paul who spotted the door leading to the cellar, who led them charging downstairs, and who now took action.
"Team Two," he said into his comm unit, "hostiles made egress through an underground tunnel. Scan the perimeter in case they emerge aboveground. Team One in pursuit."
He looked at Madeline. "You stay here and guard the entrance. Once we confirm that there's an exit, go upstairs and provide backup to Lisa and Patrick."
She nodded gravely and tightened her grip around her gun.
Paul turned to Brad. "Follow me."
"In there?" Brad gaped at the dark plume that continued to flow from the entrance. "It's a barbecue!"
"Go," Paul ordered through gritted teeth.
"You're nuts!"
Paul lifted his gun and pointed it at Brad's face. "It's a barbecue or a bullet. Your choice."
As Brad hesitated, eyeing Paul as if he were a rabid animal, Madeline stepped into the tunnel. She yanked up her mask from where it had been dangling around her neck and hoped that it would filter smoke as well as the tear gas it was designed for. Once the mask was firmly in place, she began to run.
"What the hell are you doing?" Paul's voice came sharply through the transmitter in her ear.
"We don't have time to argue," she panted, her breathing muffled by the mask. "The targets are going to be long gone."
"Damn it, you wait for my order!" he shouted, causing the transmitter to squawk. There was a brief pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was still angry but more controlled. "Tell me where you are and what you see. I'll catch up as soon as I can."
Before she could proceed more than a few feet further, she heard a gunshot over her transmitter -- a burst so loud she flinched in pain. She slowed her pace to a walk, uncertain how to react.
"Paul?" she called out. "Are you under fire?"
"No."
"I heard shooting," she insisted. "Should I come back?"
"That was Brad," he said. "I cancelled him."
"You what?" She stopped moving, astonished.
"Insubordination during a mission is grounds for immediate cancellation at the discretion of the team leader. If I can't rely on him to follow orders, then he's in the way."
For a moment, she was too stunned to think clearly. Then, once again, she began to run. There was no time to reflect on what had just happened. In fact, perhaps that was the point -- Brad had tried to think, tried to argue, when he simply should have obeyed. She pushed the realization that she, too, had disobeyed orders out of her mind. There would be time enough to worry about that later.
"I'm turning right," she announced. "I can't see the fire yet, but the smoke is getting thicker."
Instead of a reply, she heard more shooting.
"Paul?"
"I've engaged hostiles. It's under control. Keep going."
The sound of gunfire continued, growing louder and more rapid -- with each shot, she winced. When she rounded the corner, the faint light from the doorway vanished, and she found herself in complete darkness. Darkness and silence, as the noise of the gun battle cut off abruptly.
"Paul, are you there?"
She heard static, but nothing more.
She tapped the transmitter.
Still nothing.
There was no reason to worry, she reassured herself. It was only interference by the walls of the tunnel. But it meant that now, she was alone. And blind.
Without a flashlight, she felt her way along the rough dirt wall, stumbling repeatedly on the uneven floor. The mask around her face was hot and suffocating, and didn't seem to be filtering the smoke much after all; she was drenched in sweat, coughing, gasping for air.
As she tripped and cursed to herself once more, she thought back to what she had been doing just one week before: sitting on the balcony of her Paris apartment, sipping aperitifs with a charming gentleman acquaintance, oblivious to the fact that her life was about to be turned upside-down. She never would have imagined that now she would be staggering alone, through the dark, on her way to be incinerated -- or, if she escaped that, to confront a gang of armed and desperate terrorists.
The past five days had not been adequate preparation for this moment. She had spent that time in a state of complete disorientation, barely able to eat or sleep: in shock at having her world uprooted so suddenly; in terror at being thrown upon the mercy of Adrian; overjoyed -- but apprehensive -- at finding herself reunited with Paul; and, despite her attempts at bravado, petrified that, as Paul had warned, she simply wasn't ready for a real mission.
Her fingers felt the wall curve around another corner. As she followed it, her vision returned, brought back by an orange light that glowed ominously through the heavy shroud of smoke. She halted, grimacing in pain as she collided with a searing blast of heat, and stared ahead in despair. Before her was a bonfire of debris, piled several feet high, blazing across the full width of the tunnel. She inched ahead cautiously, and the heat nearly blistered her skin; under her mask, the air seemed to disappear altogether.
The fire was wide -- intimidatingly so -- but not particularly deep. Indeed, the debris pile was low enough that she could plausibly jump it.
She gazed into the fire for a few seconds -- seconds that seemed to stretch into an eternity, as the flames rippled and flared, and the air itself shimmered with their heat. The blaze seemed to melt away all her stray thoughts: Adrian, Paul, even her own mortality, none of that mattered. There was no time to be afraid, no time to do anything but concentrate on the immediate goal. She felt herself slip into a mental focus -- a clarity so intense that it was both soothing and thrilling.
She took a running start and dove, as high as she could, over the debris and through the flames. The heat was excruciating, like a furnace blast of pain, but then she landed -- hard -- on the dirt floor behind the fire and ducked into a roll. When she was upright once again, she inspected herself. Her hair and clothing were singed, the arm she had landed on most likely fractured -- but she was functional.
She scrambled up and ran, stopping several yards later when she reached a door directly ahead. Readying her gun for what might be on the other side, she grasped the doorknob -- hissing in pain at the scorch of hot metal -- and turned it.
Locked.
She twisted the doorknob harder -- then, with a sharp wave of panic, began to kick and hurl her weight against the door. Her efforts had no effect. The door remained solidly closed; the intensity of the heat, broiling from the fire only yards behind her, started to overcome her ability to reason. On instinct, she fired three shots into the door. This, finally, splintered it enough to allow her to force her way through. On the other side, the tunnel ended, but a ladder, bathed in daylight, led straight up.
She pulled herself up the ladder, the stabbing pains in her arm bringing tears to her eyes. When she reached the top, she could see the bright blue of the sky, filtered through a metal grate that she shoved impatiently aside.
She emerged through what appeared to be a storm drain alongside a road. Gasping, she tore off her mask and looked at her surroundings, just in time to see a car pull away from the roadside in front of her. She gave chase, but it quickly picked up speed -- as it did, one of its passengers stuck a gun out the window and fired in her direction.
The shots hit the ground several feet away, kicking up puffs of dust. Instinctively, she fell into a crouch and returned fire. She didn't hear it when the tire blew out, but she saw the car swerve out of control and slam into a stone wall. Still crouching, she watched for several moments, waiting for signs of movement inside the wrecked auto. When she saw nothing, she rose and began to walk toward the vehicle.
She approached the car cautiously until she saw the extent of the injuries: one passenger unconscious, blood pouring down his face; the driver and other passengers disoriented and groaning in pain. She held them there at gunpoint until members of Team Two reached her moments later.
As Team Two pulled the captives from the wreckage, she walked away unsteadily. Her heart pounded with such violence that it left her dizzy with elation. Looking at the vanquished enemy, she felt energized, as if she could sprint all the way back to Section. The sense of victory was overwhelming, addictive, like a drug. No, it was better than a drug -- no drug could possibly feel that good.
She jumped, startled, when she heard her transmitter burst back into life.
"Madeline? Report," Paul called.
She smiled. "Targets acquired."
**************
To continue to Chapter Three, click here.
If you need to go back and catch up from the beginning, here is Chapter One.