By the time Michael walked briskly, if surreptitiously, to the street, the car was gone. He couldn’t even get a license plate number for Birkoff to run. But he was suspicious. If he ever saw the car again in the neighborhood, he would definitely act right away.

Letting himself in the front door, he came face to face with Nikita. She looked definitely worried. "Michael, I watched from the window. There was a man. Standing across the street. All in black."

"Black?" Neither one of them wanted to jump to conclusions, but the fact was, the word ‘black’ had too many negative connotations for comfort.

Nikita nodded solemnly, her blue eyes almost tearful. "Michael, what’s happening?"

"I don’t know," he clipped off tersely. "But I’ll find out."

"Did you find Declan?" she asked, concerned that one of their number might be missing already.

"No." Michael kissed Nikita tenderly. His thumb captured a tear from beneath her left eye and wiped it away. "But I will, Kita."

***

Finding Declan turned out to be easier than he thought. As it happened, Declan’s early class was cancelled. Declan was using the extra time to pore over outlandishly huge amounts of research material via the computer. But his computer skills were never going to match Birkoff’s, no matter how much he tried.

Michael lounged against the open door, silently watching Declan work. Finally, he spoke. "Declan, why do you do that the hard way? Birkoff could look up what you need in what? Ten minutes?"

"Stubborn, I guess. Trying to learn to rely on myself, maybe." Declan looked tired. He rubbed his eyes and yawned.

"Speaking of needing things, did you need something, Michael?"

"Yes," he said, his troubled green eyes skittering away before locking onto Declan’s silvery-grey eyes. He was an acute observer, Declan. He would know that there was a storm brewing, if there really was one.

"Have you noticed anything unusual in the neighborhood lately? Any new people? New vehicles? That sort of thing?" His tone was matter-of-fact, but inside, Michael’s senses were tuned into Declan, searching for any intel at all that might help dispel the dark cloud gathering over them.

Declan thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, not that I can recall." His eyes sought Michael’s. "Wait, there was something the other day."

He pondered. "Nothing remarkable. Nondescript late model car. Black or dark blue. The--"

Suddenly Declan looked tense, almost agitated. "Christ, the kind of car government agencies use. Not memorable. Not traceable."

Michael nodded. All at once, Declan stood up. "You must have a bloody good reason for asking! What is it, Michael? What did you see?"

"Just what you said. And Kita saw a man. Standing across the street. Dressed in black."

The significance of the color black was not lost on Declan. He paled. "Who do you think it was?"

Michael refused to speculate. That way lay madness. "I don’t know. Yet."

Declan swallowed hard. "Emmy’s at Maddy’s. Playing with the others."

"Everyone’s over there?"

Declan could see Michael automatically shifting into mission mode. Force of habit forged over long, hard years. It didn’t disappear overnight. Or even over six years on the outside.

"Aye." Declan resisted the urge to race over to Maddy’s house and grab Emmy and the other children for safekeeping. Where would they even be safe?

"Michael," Declan said, raking a hand agitatedly through his unruly red curls. "I need to warn Sey. Bring him back here. He’s the only one of us out now. Exposed."

Michael barely moved his head. "All right. But don’t use the phone. Go to the store. In person. Don’t do anything unusual. Stay with him until he closes for the day. Then come back here with him."

"Why? Won’t it be safer to bring him back right away?"

Michael sighed. "Declan, you’ve been out of Section longer than I have, but until now, I couldn’t tell."

"If you change your routine in any obvious way, whoever is out there is going to know we suspect. We need to work every advantage we’ve got. Let him think we’ve all lost our edge."

Declan’s shoulders sagged in resignation. "Of course. I’m sorry, Michael."

"Don’t be, Declan. It’s been a long time. And if I have anything to say about it, it’s going to be a hell of a lot longer."

Declan let himself into the bookstore and casually mixed with the other customers. He could see Birkoff speaking to a couple of clerks he hired, and he imagined him giving them the management lecture they had rehearsed together only a few days before.

He couldn’t tell him anything now. If he did, Birkoff wouldn’t be able to prevent himself from reacting. Quite the emotional being, his Sey. But Declan wouldn’t change a thing about him. Now if he could only keep both of them alive to live out their golden years together.

He stalked his lover, quietly moving around the store as if he were his shadow. Unobtrusive. Despite the long red hair. When Declan was in stealth mode, no one could beat him. Except Michael.

Birkoff was completely unaware that Declan was even in the store until much later in the day. He turned towards the cash register, and suddenly Declan was there. Standing in his way. "Dec! What are you doing here?"

Declan leaned over and kissed him lightly, whispering, "Just act like I come by the store every day, love."

Birkoff smiled nervously. His dark chocolate eyes grew huge in his face. "Is something wrong with one of the kids?"

Declan could see it was futile, warning Birkoff to be circumspect. Declan shook his head slowly. "The kids are fine, baby," he said in a normal tone of voice. "Now chase all these nice people away, so we can lock up and get some dinner," he added, his voice as warm and friendly as could be.

"We’re going out to dinner?" Birkoff asked, clearly not convinced that nothing was wrong.

"Aye, love." Declan’s voice sounded affectionate, but his fingers clenched tightly on Birkoff’s arm, conveying a sense of urgency. Now Birkoff knew there was something wrong. "Move, baby," Declan whispered.

Birkoff fumbled with the key in the cash register, eventually managing to lock it. Together, he and Declan shooed the remaining customers and employees out of the store without too much fuss. Birkoff’s nostrils flared as he struggled to catch his breath. The underlying anxiety in Declan was contagious. Unfortunately, Birkoff didn’t deal with anxiety nearly as well as his lover. But he was trying.

When they reached the door, which needed to be locked, Birkoff inserted the key. Before he could turn it all the way, Declan put his hand over Birkoff’s. Birkoff looked up at Declan, vaguely startled by his gesture. They stared at each other for what seemed like a long time. Finally, Declan buried his face against Birkoff’s hair, whispering, "I love you."

Declan knew that Michael’s instruction to do nothing out of the ordinary was both logical and necessary, but he couldn’t stop feeling that somehow, whatever was going on, it was going to lead to him and Birkoff being separated. He had been in Section a long time, and old habits did die hard, just as they had with Michael. But when there was a crisis in Section, when missions went bad, when people died, left and right, Declan never worried. He had no one and nothing to come back to.

Now he did. It made a hell of a difference to him.

Declan wrapped his arms around Birkoff and kissed him fervently. "Let’s go," he said hoarsely.

The door locked, they walked away from the store, their arms around each other. Suddenly Birkoff stopped and broke away from Declan. "Oh, damn, I forgot. My jacket’s inside, Dec."

"Forget it, Sey."

"But I--"

Declan’s eyes widened, focused on something behind Birkoff. Pushing his lover out of the way, Declan dove forward, connecting with something hard. He rolled over and back up into a crouch, his gun drawn.

It was dark. The street was deserted. Except for Declan, Birkoff, and one other person. Declan couldn’t tell whether this was related to the incident Michael described or just a routine mugging. But it didn’t matter who it was. Declan would kill anyone who threatened either of them. Without thinking twice.

Birkoff watched the other man approach Declan. He wasn’t as tall as Declan. His clothing was ordinary, off-the-rack, and casual. Yet there was something familiar in the way he moved. Something frightening lurked at the back of Birkoff’s subconscious. Something evil niggled at his brain. His dark eyes flickered back and forth, between the two men, his mind working furiously.

Declan was totally preoccupied with the man in front of him. He hadn’t lost his edge. But something was wrong. Anyone facing the wrong end of a gun should be afraid. Anyone facing Declan at the other end of that gun should be terrified. This man was neither.

Declan shivered in anticipation as the man came closer. "Stop or I’ll shoot." God, had that actually come out of his mouth? He sounded like a rookie cop on his first bust.

The man never spoke. That bothered Declan. Was he wrong or was there something vaguely familiar about the man? Was he afraid that Declan would recognize his voice, taking away the element of surprise?

Suddenly there was a second man. Behind Declan. He hit Declan over the head with the butt of his gun, knocking him out. Birkoff gasped. Up until now, he’d been content to let Declan handle things. This was his area of expertise. But he couldn’t stand there and let Declan be taken, or worse, killed.

Leaping forward with a yell, Birkoff grabbed Declan’s gun from his outstretched hand and held it on the man behind Declan. "Don’t move," he commanded.

The man behind Declan was big. Huge, even. He laughed at the sight of Birkoff holding a gun on him. "What are you going to do, threaten me to death, you little fag?"

Birkoff was sweating, but he never took his eyes off the big man. "I think the gun more or less evens out the playing field, don’t you?"

The big man smiled. An evil smile, made even more so, in the darkness. He reached down and grabbed Declan by his long red hair. Declan’s eyes were closed. Birkoff couldn’t tell if he were still unconscious or faking it. He couldn’t wait to find out. The big man took the decision out of Birkoff’s trembling hands.

The big man held Declan’s head up, exposing his neck. When Birkoff saw the glint of metal in the man’s hand, he didn’t think, he reacted. He didn’t know who was more stunned. Him or the man he shot dead.

The big man flopped to the ground, letting go of Declan.

There was the sound of clapping. Slow, even clapping. Then the voice. The voice of nightmare. "Well done, Birkoff. I never would have guessed you were capable."

Birkoff immediately shifted the gun in the direction of the other man, the source of the voice. "You don’t belong here!" Birkoff shouted.

"Oh? And you do, I suppose?" There was that sardonic grin. The one that reached into Birkoff’s brain and squeezed until it hurt.

Suddenly the man in black stopped smiling. Baring his teeth in what seemed a feral grimace, the man said coldly, "Let’s stop playing games. Put the gun down. You won’t use it on me."

Declan sprung to life, his foot sweeping the man’s leg, taking him down easily. This was not a man used to physical contact. This was a man whose main preoccupations were cerebral. Too bad, he would have welcomed the chance to work out his hatred on that body.

Jumping to his feet, Declan soon stood over the man on the ground, kicking him with the sharp toe of his boot. "Maybe he won’t. But I will. Give me the gun, Sey."

Before Birkoff could move, the man spoke. "Kill me and you’ll never see your daughter again."

"That’s a bluff," Declan declared.

"Is it? Can you afford to take that risk?"

There was a long pause as each side considered the odds. Declan held out his hand for the gun, and Birkoff gave it to him, his eyes somber but strangely clear.

"Kill him, Dec. Kill him anyway," Birkoff urged, faintly aware of just how bloodthirsty that made him sound. "Then it’ll be over. Forever. He can’t touch us again."

The man on the ground laughed uproariously for a few moments, then stopped abruptly, his pale blue eyes coldly assessing. "If he really thought that, he would have pulled the trigger already."

Declan glanced at Birkoff, very briefly, unwilling to take his eyes off his prey for long. Cocking the gun again, he aimed carefully at the man. "That’s true, but I can slow you down."

With that, Declan calmly shot the man in the knee, effectively disabling him. At the man’s cry of pain, Declan’s eyes narrowed.

"You’re a lucky bastard. Now if you’d like to be smart, too, you’ll grab what’s left of your ass and leave."

Declan grabbed his cell phone as soon as he and Birkoff reached Declan’s car. He tossed the gun to Birkoff, who sat there, morosely contemplating the fact that he had just killed someone. He didn’t know which was worse. That he killed a man. Or that he would do it again. In a heartbeat.

Declan spun the car out of the parking lot with a whine of the tires. Birkoff stared out the window at the spot where they had left the lone survivor. He gasped. He was gone.

"Declan..." he said with real trepidation.

Declan hit the speaker button on the phone, leaving his hands free to drive. "Michael...we’ve got trouble. Big...trouble."

The fact that Michael never asked what kind of trouble told Declan something.

"Is Emmy okay?" Declan asked, unable to keep an anxious quaver out of his voice.

"Yes," Michael responded tersely. "Come in. Now."

"I didn’t miss him, Sey. I know I didn’t." Declan muttered as he drove. Fast. Towards home. Towards Emmy.

"I know you didn’t, Dec. I saw the blood." Birkoff gulped as his lunch threatened to come back up the hard way.

"So how do you explain something like that? What is he, a bloody vampire?"

Birkoff turned away, pressing his flushed cheek against the window. Undead. That image fit the man all too well. His fingers reached for the handle of the door and tightened on it.

"Declan...stop the car." Birkoff couldn’t breathe. He had to get out. Outside. Even if he had to jump out.

"Sey, what are you doing?" Declan glanced anxiously back and forth, between the road and his lover, trying to determine whether he should be worried about him.

"Stop...the car." Birkoff pushed open the door at the same time that Declan decided to stop, all four tires squealing in protest. He more or less fell out of the car, rolling onto the grass shoulder. He clambered to his knees, retching over and over again, tears mixing with what little food was left in his stomach.

Declan raced to his side, taking him in his arms. Birkoff struggled briefly, attempting to avert his face, but Declan wouldn’t let him go. "Sey, you’ve got to get hold of yourself."

Birkoff stared at Declan, tears streaming down his anguished face. "Declan, I just killed somebody."

"He deserved it, baby."

"Yeah. But how do I live with it? Does it get any easier?"

"It never gets easier, baby. Never. And it shouldn’t. It should never be easy to take a life."

"But how do you stand it, Declan? How?"

"Some days I can’t, Sey." Declan’s silvery eyes glistened with tears. "That’s when I thank God for giving me you. To make those days bearable."

Birkoff sighed and nestled his head in the hollow of Declan’s neck. "I love you, Dec. Tell me we’re going to get through this."

"We are going to get through this, Sey. Cause Emmy is depending on both of us." Declan slowly stood up, taking his unsteady lover with him. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his lover’s mouth, throwing the handkerchief away afterwards.

His fingers gently rubbed Birkoff’s face, smearing away what was left of his tears. "And I’m depending on you, Sey. To watch my back. Just like you did before. Can you do that for me, baby?"

Birkoff kissed Declan’s fingertips before grasping his hand and pressing it to his cheek. "Yes," he managed to choke out.

Declan separated from his lover in preparation for returning to the car. Birkoff reached out and tugged on Declan’s long red hair. "Declan...is this going to tear us apart?"

Declan closed his eyes for a second. "God, I hope not."

They walked back to the car in silence.

***

Michael never paced. He was not a nervous man. No matter what inner qualms he might have about anything, he simply was not the restless type. That was why everyone gathered in the living room worried.

Michael was pacing.

"Dammit, they should have been here by now!"

Walter stood up and approached Michael cautiously. "Michael...they’re on their way. Maybe they were held up--"

Michael glared at Walter. Walter actually backed up a half step before he realized what he was doing. "Okay, okay, bad choice of words."

Nikita sat on the floor, her long legs stretched out in front of her. Chewing on her fingernails with what appeared to be real ferocity, Nikita tried not to imagine the worst. Everyone was accounted for. Except for Declan...and Birkoff.

Nikita finished chewing on her last viable fingernail and stood up, one hand resting on the middle of her back. "Let’s do another head count," she suggested.

Everyone present groaned in protest. Including the kids. "Mommm...," Faith complained, "when are we gonna eat dinner? I’m hungry..."

Now there was an idea. Dinner. Only problem was, Declan wasn’t here, and Nikita didn’t feel like braving the kitchen. Actually, Faith was probably the only one who was hungry. Everyone else had lost their appetite at the news that someone was keeping them under surveillance.

Michael paced a bit more.

Suddenly the front door creaked a warning that it was being opened. Michael’s gun was drawn before he crept towards the arched entrance to the living room. Seconds later, he was face to face with...

...Declan.

"Jesus, Michael!" Declan swore, reluctant to admit that seeing Michael draw a gun on him had given him the shivers.

Ignoring Declan’s comment, Michael searched the area carefully. "So, where’s Birkoff?"

Declan dropped his eyes to the floor before replying softly, "He’s in the kitchen."

"In the kitchen?" Michael was incredulous. "At a time like--"

"Throwing up." Declan wasn’t embarrassed. Birkoff’s humanity was what drew Declan to him in the first place. He was glad he could still feel things that strongly. He was thawing out Declan’s frozen heart. Bit by bit.

"What happened?"

Declan brought Michael up to date on everything that transpired since he left the house earlier that day. When he finished, Michael looked impressed with the way Birkoff performed.

"He killed somebody?"

"Aye," Declan replied, feeling a pang in his heart for the burden his lover now carried, thanks to him. "He’s having trouble dealing with it."

Michael nodded. He thought it was ironic that what they admired, the ability to kill someone, for example, actually demonstrated a certain lack of morality. Michael knew, from personal experience, that every time he killed someone, another chunk of his soul was ripped away. Thanks to Nikita, thanks to the wisdom that came with all that experience, and thanks to a growing insight into who he really was...he was able to survive Section. No, not just survive. Surmount.

Declan sighed. "Where are the kids?"

Michael shoved the gun in the back waistband of his pants. "In the living room with everybody else."

"Everybody?" Declan looked surprised.

"Well, almost." Michael shrugged. "When you left, I thought the kids should come home, where I could keep an eye on them. But Connor’s with Maddy and Neil at their house."

Declan raised an eyebrow. "We don’t care about that part of the family anymore?" he asked dryly.

Michael blinked. "Their choice, not mine. Maddy thinks that whoever it is...they’re watching us. Not them. She thinks they’ll be safer over there."

"I hope she’s right," Declan said, a frown creasing his fine features.

Birkoff trod unsteadily towards them, several tendrils of his long dark hair curling wetly around the edges of his pale face. Declan reached out an arm to steady him. "You okay, love?"

Birkoff looked blearily at them. "I guess."

Leaning heavily on Declan, Birkoff allowed himself to be petted and caressed. It was as if Declan needed to reassure himself that his lover was indeed all right.

"Let’s go find Emmy," Declan told his partner, pressing a kiss to his temple. He glanced at Michael, who nodded and said, "Just don’t go far."

That was good advice. It was a pity that the kids didn’t heed it.

Faith chewed her lip, not unlike her mother, trying to decide which way to go. Striding confidently towards the front of the house, she was stopped by Walter. "Where you headed to in such a rush, little Sugar?"

"The kitchen, Grandpa." She tried to look innocent, but she wasn’t quite sure what that looked like.

Since Walter had heard Faith say that she was hungry, he didn’t think twice about her trotting off to the kitchen. "What did you have in mind?"

Faith would have looked guilty, but she was momentarily confused. "Ummm...a sandwich?"

"Good idea. You mind if I join you?"

She shook her head, knowing that to do otherwise would surely raise suspicion. Walter laughed. "Just checking. You go on now and get your lil belly filled, little Sugar."

She waved and resumed her brisk pace towards the front of the house. When she reached the front door, she did hesitate. Daddy told them that a bad man was out there. Somewhere. She didn’t want to meet the bad man. But she was worried about Connor.

Connor shouldn’t be alone.

He wasn’t.

***

Connor wanted to see Faith, too. That was how he escaped Madeline’s clutches, ending up outside. He walked across the grass for a long time before he came to the low stone wall that separated the two properties. It wasn’t meant to keep out anyone over the age of 5. Actually, it didn’t keep out anyone. The twins regularly climbed over its meager defenses enroute to Madeline’s house, and now Connor was old enough to do the same, on his way to the Samuelles.

Just as Connor climbed on top of the low wall, preparing to make his way down the other side, a voice called out to him in the dark. He blinked curiously, not knowing quite what to make of it. His mother had told him never to talk to strangers. Was this what she meant?

"You there, little boy. What’s your name?"

Connor pondered. That was another thing. Mommy told him not to tell anybody anything about himself. Except if he was lost. Then he could tell a policeman to take him home.

"Who are you?" he demanded of the man standing ominously over him.

"I’m a friend of your mommy and daddy, son."

Connor was a smart little boy. He had the presence of mind to keep silent about his name, and now, he didn’t for one moment believe that this man with the light hair and the dark voice was a friend of his mother and father.

"What’s your name?"

The man bent down, close enough to see Connor’s face. "My name’s Paul. What’s yours?"

"Mommy said I shouldn’t tell," he said, his blue eyes focused completely on the man. This wasn’t a friend of anyone. This was a bad man. He didn’t know how he knew. He just knew he was right.

"Your mommy’s a smart woman." The man gnashed his teeth together at this turn of events. Oh, well, there were several children in the Samuelle family. This had to be Michael’s son.

Faith came around the corner of the house at that moment, immediately sensing danger as though it were part of her birthright. Connor! Connor was with the bad man!

Faith ran to the wall, ready to defend her best friend. Even against this evil stranger.

She kicked him in the leg, making him double over with pain. Faith inadvertently kicked the man in the leg that Declan shot. As it turned out, he was not disabled by the bullet. But it was not for lack of trying on Declan’s part. The pants he was wearing were ill-fitting and cheap, not at all the custom fit he was used to. But that was what saved his knee. The bullet did graze his skin. The wound did bleed. But it was hardly life-threatening. And he was more than capable of walking on it.

"You little--" The man cursed wildly and fluently, words that Faith did not recognize.

He reached for the little girl, but she was too quick. She grabbed his wrist and bit down. Hard.

That was the last straw. Connor could have made his escape while the man was otherwise preoccupied. But he didn’t. He was afraid that something bad would happen to Faith. He couldn’t leave her behind.

The little boy stood on the wall and pounded on the man with his fists. "You’re a bad man!"

All at once, the man who formerly headed Section One stopped and stared at the children. "Yes, I am. I’m a very bad man. And you’d better do as I say...or I’ll have to hurt your mommy and daddy. Real bad."

Connor gasped and promptly sat down on his backside. The man who should have been dead long ago watched the boy carefully, anticipating another trap. But there was none. A malicious grin curving his lips, the man who refused to die grabbed hold of Connor, unable to resist exclaiming, "Gotcha!"

The man who used to be Operations glared at the little girl. Belatedly noting her coloring, he started to smile. A wicked smile. "Why, you must be Michael’s daughter. You look just like your daddy."

"And you? You must be Michael’s son. You look just like...her." The man who was forced to relinquish Section One to his most bitter enemy stared at the little boy. He couldn’t even bring himself to mention her name. Nikita. Just the thought of it made him ill. She was responsible for his downfall. His loss of face. The debacle that wrested the power away from him. For good.

But now...armed with Michael’s son, he would storm Section One’s gates and gain admittance at last. For he knew that where Michael’s son went, Michael would follow. Right into his trap. Once he brought Michael back to Section, and to Oversight, he would be restored to his former glory. He would be Operations once more. No, he was aiming too low. For retrieving a prize like Michael, he should gain a perch at Oversight. Wouldn’t that be the final irony, taking over George’s old spot at the Agency?

Maybe he should take both children. The girl looked more than capable of keeping her head and being able to identify him. He reached for Faith, but she slipped through his grasp, running for the house, screaming at the top of her lungs. "Mommy! Daddy! He’s here! He’s here! The bad man is here!"

The man cursed under his breath, regretting the time spent, no, wasted, in pursuing something he couldn’t have. His grip on the little boy tightened. Wrapping his arms around the child, he sprinted for the car he had hidden around the block.

Declan appeared in the doorway, his pale eyes searching, sifting through the darkness for anything, a silhouette, a figure... There! He spied Connor’s pale blond head, gleaming like a beacon in the night.

He ran like the wind. It was as if God had given him wings. To fly. To find Connor. But wait...the man they all feared made it to his car safely. Cackling maniacally, the man waved at Declan as he sped away. Declan was a hairsbreadth away from being able to pound a fist on the car in frustration. It was that close.

Out of breath, Declan swore all the way back to the house. He couldn’t draw his gun. He wouldn’t have minded killing Operations, but he could have hit Connor. He couldn’t take that chance.

When he came up the walkway, it was clear that Michael was fighting a losing battle with staying calm. Before Michael could say a word, Declan took full responsibility. "It’s my fault, I should have been out walking the perimeters sooner."

"Your fault?" Michael shook off Nikita’s restraining arm. "It’s my fault! I should have insisted all the children stay here!"

Nikita wrestled for control of her husband’s uneven temper. "Look, you two don’t have time to argue over who gets the blame, he’s getting away!"

Michael knelt down, holding his suddenly weeping daughter in his arms. "Fee, Fee, ma pauvre petite."

"Daddy," she sobbed, completely undone. "I was s’posed to protect Connor. I promised..."

"Oh, no, sweetie, it wasn’t your fault," Nikita said in an effort to assuage her daughter’s guilt.

Faith sniffled. "I could draw you a picture of the bad man, Daddy. Would that help?"

Michael nodded slowly, unsure just how deeply he wanted his daughter involved in all of this. Still, they could use any information they could get.

"The bad man wanted Connor to tell him his name, but he wouldn’t." Everyone looked reassured. That was a good thing. Faith frowned. "He said you were Connor’s daddy. But that’s not right."

Michael exchanged worried glances with Declan and Nikita. Whoever this was wanted Michael’s child. Mentioned Michael by name. That made revenge a strong candidate for motive.

"Did he say anything else, Fee?" Michael asked softly, trying desperately not to betray how very bad this was.

"Yep," she nodded, looking strangely like her father in that instant. "That was when he said his name was Paul."

Suddenly Madeline ran up the steps to stand breathlessly on the front porch. Neil followed closely behind. "Michael! Michael! Connor’s missing!"

"We know," Michael said quietly, feeling a new layer of guilt weave its way around his frayed heartstrings.

"You know?" she asked quizzically.

"He was on his way over to see Fee when someone took him."

"Took him? You mean he was kidnapped? Oh, Michael, no!"

Michael took a deep breath and held it. "The man who took him claims to be the man we knew as Operations. He told Connor his name was Paul."

Madeline became almost hysterical. Neil wrapped his arms around his wife and rocked her gently back and forth.

Michael sighed. "He thinks that Connor is my son. If Connor tells him who he really is...."

No one needed him to finish that sentence.

"Acceptable collateral." Those words kept reverberating in his brain. Endlessly. How many times had he and Nikita argued over those very words? It was different when the collateral was a friend or a close relative. Michael felt everything Faith felt. But he couldn’t give in to the feelings that threatened to overwhelm him. How could he help anyone if he couldn’t see past his own grief?

Yet he was glad it was difficult to put on the mission mask again. Damn glad. His life outside of Section was a godsend. His Nikita, as always, was responsible. She had changed him. Then helped him change himself. He thought of himself sometimes as a work in progress. Never quite reaching the end. And now, he had to reach inside himself and pull out something he never thought he would need again. His mission persona.

He had to. They were all depending on him.

***

Michael addressed the family, now gathered anxiously together in the living room. His voice soft but strong, he let them know he was in charge of the situation. For better or worse. He was all they had.

"There’ll be no ransom note. No phone call. Operations doesn’t work that way. He knows where he’s going. And...he knows we’ll follow him there."

Walter called out, "You mean he took Connor to Section One?"

Michael nodded. Madeline buried her face in her hands, Neil’s arm tightly fastened around her shoulder. There was a saying: People who felt the most guilt were the ones who cried the most. There was no question that Madeline’s grief was real and heartfelt. But the frequency and intensity of her tears was a clear indication that she felt she had failed her son in some vital way.

"He’s just a little boy," she said, her voice muffled against her husband’s chest.

Neil struggled to control his own fears by offering his wife reassurance. But it was evidently not what she wanted to hear. "Neil, you don’t understand! Do you know what Section does to little boys? What *I* did...to little boys?"

Her dark eyes met Michael’s. A spasm crossed his face briefly, and Madeline knew somehow he was thinking of Adam. "Michael, no! I never touched Adam! I swear to you!"

Michael broke eye contact with Madeline, seeking out his wife’s warmth. He felt a sudden compulsion to touch her, be with her. Nikita, always tuned into her husband, shifted her attention away from Faith for a moment. Walking slowly to where he stood, she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face against his neck. They didn’t kiss or touch in any other way. They just drew strength from each other.

When she released him, Michael’s green eyes thanked her for being his rock in time of crisis. Holding onto her hand, Michael resumed what was starting to sound more and more like a mission briefing. "This isn’t about Adam," he said tersely. "This is about Connor."

"We need to prepare carefully in order to rescue Connor. Connor won’t be able to help us as far as contacting us or letting us know where he’s being held. We’ll need someone with computer expertise to breach Section. Then, once we have access, we’ll need someone who can locate him. Without alerting anyone."

Michael looked at Birkoff meaningfully. "I hope you understand where this is going, Birkoff."

Birkoff swallowed, his heart suddenly in his mouth. "Y-you want m-me to come with you back to Section One?"

"Yes."

Birkoff glanced at Declan. Declan was trying very hard to keep what he was feeling off his face. It had never been this much of an effort back in the old days. Some things did change.

"D-declan?" Birkoff turned back to face Michael. "Is D-declan g-going, too?"

"No," Michael said softly, realizing what it might mean to the two of them to be separated. He couldn’t guarantee anyone’s safety at this point. Not even his own. How could he tell them not to worry, that they would soon be together again?

"N-no?" Birkoff quavered. "Shit, if I’m going to die, I want Declan there."

Michael winced. Declan gathered Birkoff into his arms and held him. "Ssh, nobody’s going to die, baby."

Emmy looked from one father to the other, not quite comprehending everything that was going on. But she knew the word ‘die’. That was a terrible word. "Daddy’s gonna die?" she said, her lower lip trembling on the verge of tears.

"NO!" Birkoff and Declan said at the same time, provoking Emmy to real tears at last.

Michael waved at Miranda. "Could you take the kids upstairs, please? All of them?"

Faith protested being forced to leave her mother, but Nikita helped Miranda shepherd the children together. Emmy, in particular, was still upset. When her daddy cried, it felt like her world was falling apart.

"I’m sorry, Michael," Birkoff said, after the last of the children followed Miranda out. He rubbed at his eyes. "You sure you want a liability like me tagging along on this?"

"There’s no one I’d trust more to do this, Birkoff."

"When are we leaving?" Birkoff was regaining control. Slowly but surely, he shifted into mission mode, a place in his head where he could function under pressure.

"There’ll just be the two of us. Me and you. Walter is getting the inventory together. Shouldn’t be more than what? A couple of hours, Walter?"

"That soon?" Birkoff breathed.

Nikita glanced at her husband. "I know you don’t want to take me, Michael. But why don’t you take Declan? Give yourself the edge you need?"

"No," Michael replied, his voice sharper than he intended. "I want him here. Guarding you and the others."

"But Michael, I’m perfectly capable--"

"I said no, Kita. This is not a discussion." He could have wept at the wounded look in her eyes. He reached for her, but she pulled away, shaking her head.

"Kita, you are capable," Michael tried to explain. "But if I can’t be here with you...I need to know that you’re...safe." For the first time since he had regained control, Michael began to lose ground again. Looking into his wife’s anguished face did that to him.

His eyes begged hers for understanding. "Please, doucette..."

She started to cry, then abruptly threw herself into his arms. He closed his eyes, feeling like he was holding onto her for dear life. He was. She was his life.

"Michael, you are coming back to me," she all but commanded.

I pray you’re right, he answered silently.