I. BAD MOON RISING

I see the bad moon arising, I see trouble on the way
I see earthquakes and lightning, I see bad times today
There's a bad moon on the rise.

Colliding directly into a full-grown man and collapsing heavily to the ground might be just another typical day for a toddler but for Nikita, it would only be one of the many tender aches and bruises she would nurse the next day.

Heaving a deadweight Michael off the pavement and back onto his feet was as arduous as trying to lift a potato sack with no leverage whatsoever. Lucky for her, there really was no drug like adrenaline.

"Come on," she panted, wrapping an arm around his waist and ignoring Michael's labored gasp of pain at the sudden weight on his injured leg, "we need to go!"

A steady round of gunfire doubled with the acrid smell of metal as the bullets whizzed dangerously close overhead was enough to prove her point, and Nikita mentally cursed herself for not packing enough extra magazine clips.

"Go!" she shouted, giving him another shove. "Go, go, go!"

Most of the pedestrians crowding downtown Shanghai knew enough to scramble out of the way as the pair of them barreled their way through the busy streets and for that, she was grateful. But if the sight of her and an ashen and blood-soaked Michael didn't send people running, the next pop! pop! pop! of gunfire did the trick magnificently.

People screamed and dropped to the floor in terror at the piercing gunshots, and even Nikita felt the hairs on the nape of her neck rising expectedly as if at any moment the next bullet would find its way through the back of her skull.

Michael suddenly grabbed her arm, stopping her. "Here! Turn here!" he breathed heavily, pointing.

"What, this next street?"

"Yes, the alley!"

Nikita hurried down the isolated side street as fast and best she could, but even several years of Division training hadn't equipped her to make good time while simultaneously dragging a half-drugged and wounded man around with her. It was like hauling around the ultimate stitch in one's side.

As if on cue, Michael tripped and stumbled blindly to the pavement, nearly bringing her down with him again.

"Come on, we're almost there!" she grunted with the effort of tugging him to his feet.

"I can't see," he wheezed feverishly, holding a shaking hand to his face. "I can barely see!"

"I know. Your captors used metachlorozine on you—it's a photoreactive acid. Just shield your eyes from the light!"

Not usually one to frequent the nightclub scene, this was surely one of the first times that she more than welcomed the inconspicuous cover the nauseating strobe lights afforded the two of them as they elbowed their way through the dance floor. As she glanced over her shoulder through the swarm of bodies, she saw four of their assailants burst through the very same back door she and Michael had entered not moments before.

"Come on, this way." She tightened her hold around his waist and steered him toward the women's restroom.

Per usual, the line for the washroom stretched far out the door. When she forced her way past the front of the line, one of the girls cried out angrily, "Hey! There's a line!"

Nikita whirled, gun leveled to the girl's chest. "What was that?"

Even the girls inside the restroom tripped over each other in their panicked scramble to flee the area. Satisfied, she deadbolted the door behind her and whirled around, subsequently almost falling over from shock to see Michael's glowering face almost inches from hers.

"All right, Nikita. At the very least, I deserve answers."

She carefully angled away and hurried to try the windows, disappointed to find they were too small to escape through. "Your mission was compromised," she murmured distractedly. "The Red Circle Triad got a tip that Division was on their tail. Your team was killed, you were captured, and I extracted you."

"You know that's not the kind of answers I meant!"

"You're welcome, by the way, for saving your ass."

"It's been almost three years since you were last seen by Division!"

"Watch the door, please," she said shortly, tossing him her gun as she kneeled to the ground to pry in vain at the lower ventilation shaft.

"You were free! You had gotten out! You were gone—what the hell are you doing back here?"

"Can we save the debrief for the flight back?" She proceeded to tug the ragged and blood-soaked sports coat from his shoulders.

"Whoa!" exclaimed Michael, jerking away. "What are you doing?"

"Trust me," said Nikita tersely but he stepped back, hands raised in protest.

"No, I'm not just going to follow you blind. What's your plan?"

"I don't have time to type out an itinerary, so do as I say or you'll die. Take off your shirt."

Michael's fingers seemed to fumble with the buttons on his collared, long-sleeved shirt. "That window's too small to climb out," he called to her.

"I know that. I'm not climbing out." She dropped down from the window sill and approached him swiftly with an inky black smear on her fingers. "Close your eyes."

"What for?" He swore and flinched in pain as she smeared the window grease over his eyelids like heavy black eye shadow. "Damn it, Nikki, that burns!"

"Better than a bullet," she replied grimly, fiddling to remove one of her earrings. "And this part's going to hurt even more."

"No, I don't need that."

"The devil's in the details, sweetheart. Try not to yell."

But Michael did indeed yell as she forced the tiny, silver hoop through his left ear. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction, she used the rest of the black window paste to spike his hair unrecognizable, then ripped the sleeves off his white undershirt.

"Is this really unnecessary?" he asked disgruntledly as she wrapped her belt around his neck in the fashion style of a punk-rock musician.

"Listen to me," she hissed in a low voice, taking back her gun and steadying his face gravely between her hands. "The Triad is out there right now looking for us, which means we both need to strut out of this club unrecognizable."

"That's your plan?"

"That's the plan."

"That's exactly the kind of plan that'll get us killed!"

"I'm sorry," she snarled, narrowing her eyes dangerously. "Maybe I should have left you to die on that Triad interrogation table I found you in!"

"There has to be another way out of here."

"You're not listening to me! I told you: there is no other way out."

"My tracker's activated. Percy will send an extraction team!"

"Trust me," Nikita said quietly, more to herself than to him as she disengaged the safety from her gun. "Percy's not going to send an extraction team for you."

She kicked open the door.

"I have a lock on Ari Tasarov," Nikita confirmed in her earpiece, peering down at the man from her birds-eye view position at the top of the basketball stadium.

"Acknowledged. Take the shot."

She didn't even bother to disguise her surprise at the familiar voice in her ear. "Percy?" It wasn't exactly standard protocol for the head of Divison himself to run surveillance on a mission.

"Take the shot."

But as she peered at Ari Tasarov through the telescope of her sniper rifle, she saw him leap excitedly to his feet in response to a maneuver in the sporting arena below.

She lowered the gun. "I can't."

"Repeat?"

"I can't take the shot."

"Why the hell not? Your mission objective is clear: find Ari Tasarov and take him out!"

"His son's with him," replied Nikita quietly, watching Tasarov ruffle the young child's hair affectionately.

"So be it. Proceed as planned."

She jammed her finger to her earpiece with slightly more force than necessary. "I'm not about to murder a man in cold blood while he's watching a basketball game with his eight-year-old son!"

Percy sounded furious, livid. "Now is not the time to decide to grow a conscience, Nikita. I've given you a direct order. Take the shot. I repeat: take the shot."

Swearing, Nikita anchored the butt of the rifle against her shoulder once more, deftly keeping Ari Tasarov in the lines of the crosshairs. And yet, she hesitated.

"Damn it, Nikita, do it now!"

But she couldn't. Not while the man was with his son. Not while she had at least a shred of decency—of humanity—still left in her.

A splitting blow to the back of her skull surprised her and the sniper rifle misfired erratically in the air.

She stumbled to the ground, rifle clattering out of reach. On instinct, she rolled on her side to face her assailant with her gun cocked and ready. Straight wrist, closed elbow, three gunshots in a triangular pattern directly into the man's chest—seminary style. Divison had taught her well.

Below in the stadium, frightened hordes of people were scrambling over the bleachers in a panic to escape the melee. Nikita ducked to the ground as a heavy rain of gunfire—no doubt from Ari Tasarov's own private security detail—peppered the concrete barrier she cringed behind.

"Percy," she shouted into her earpiece, "I've been made and Tasarov is on the run. I repeat: I am taking heavy fire and did not complete the shot!"

"Acknowledged."

"Requesting early extraction from the Kayseri Atatürk stadium in Ankara!"

"Denied."

She paused, confused. "Repeat?"

Percy's voice over the earpiece was cold, shrewd, calculated. "You failed to complete the mission. Request for early extraction denied."

"Sir, these are East Russian military forces! I am pinned down and outnumbered; I need an extraction now!"

"Godspeed, Nikita."

"Percy, you son of a bitch," she hissed, "don't you dare hang me out to dry like this! Percy? Percy!"

But the earpiece was dead.

"I wouldn't move too fast if I were you. You were shot, remember?"

The voice came from across the room, from a hidden silhouette that Michael's bleary eyes couldn't quite make out at the moment. But there was no mistaking that voice. "Nikita?" he called, straining to prop himself up on the flimsy cot.

First, a pair of long, long legs. Then, a thin and slender torso followed by that silky, raven hair cascading to her elbows as Nikita finally stepped into view. "Glad to see you're awake, Michael."

"Where am I?" he croaked, his voice hoarse.

"Nowhere," answered Nikita, following his gaze around the unfamiliar cabin, "and that's the truth. Just a nice place for a chat. You've been in and out of consciousness for forty-eight hours. Since we got back from Shanghai, I took the liberty of removing the bullet from your hip and leg. You're welcome…again."

One of his hands was bound to the metal bedpost by a steel handcuff secure around his wrist. Michael glanced idly up at the restraint, then down at the simple white bedsheet spread carefully and deliberately over his lap. "I'm naked," he said dully.

"And observant."

"Just like old times then, huh?"

Nikita raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, regaling him with an expression of light amusement as if over a chat about afternoon tea. "Did you just tell a joke?" She laughed softly. "Same old Michael, always so serious. I didn't know you learned to be funny—"

"Cut the crap, Nikki," he spat, struggling against the handcuff. "Why don't you let me go?"

"Do you know how hard it is to have a normal conversation with you?"

"Why am I here, Nikita?"

She cocked her head to the side, seemingly considering him. "For medical attention, of course. You were shot. Twice. In addition to losing a lot of blood, you also sustained a few cracked ribs."

"And because you think that if you let me go, I'll tell Percy and Division where you are?"

"No," she smiled. "No, I trust you more than that."

"Then these aren't necessary," suggested Michael hopefully, nodding pointedly at the restraints.

"Mm, I don't trust you that much—"

He tore frustratingly at the cuffs, and he knew by the way she flinched that he had startled her. "Damn it, Nikki, you don't even realize what you've done!"

Finally, a crack in her impenetrable, calm exterior. Nikita's liquid brown eyes narrowed imperceptibly, hardening into pools of black. "And what is it that I've done?"

Even Michael was surprised at the earnestness in his voice as he leaned forward. "You're not supposed to be here; you're supposed to be on a beach in Malibu or in a vacation home off the coast of Greece. You need to get as far away from here as you can! If Percy or Division find out you're still active—"

"I showed up in Shanghai because you lost control of your mission," she maintained coldly, her chin raised defiantly.

"I had a plan!"

"Oh, yeah? And what plan was that? Stick it out with the Triad and hope Percy would send in an extraction team for you? He would have left you to die there, Michael, then disavowed any connection you ever had with Division. That's what Percy does. Believe me, I know."

He wanted to yell, to shake her, anything to make her understand. "You're not listening to me! Now that Division has you back on their radar, they'll—"

"They'll what? I left that agency almost three years ago. That's never even happened before—"

"Exactly," he rasped, flecks of spittle hitting her face in his intensity. "There's never been an agent like you before who's gone off the grid; that poses a problem. Who knows what Percy will do to eliminate that problem?"

But Nikita was shaking her head. "If Percy wanted me contained, he would have done it the second I turned in my key card, not three years after the fact."

"That was before you showed up in Shanghai," he implored her, desperate. "Three years ago, we all thought—hoped—you'd left the country, never showing your face again. But now that you've intercepted our tactical mission in Shanghai, you know Percy can't turn the other way while Oversight's looking over his shoulder!"

"I was saving your life!"

"And it may have cost you yours!"

Nikita rose to pace the room agitatedly. "You think I don't know the kind of man Percy is? You think I don't know what he's capable of?"

"I think if you don't let me return to Division right now and contain this, something terrible is going to happen to you."

Michael shifted in the bed, careful not to disturb the bandage securing his ribs, but nevertheless attempting once more to free his wrist from the restraint.

But the metallic clinking seemed to jolt her from her reverie. She turned to face him, her expression grave. "I'll need to stitch up the wound and redo your dressing in a few hours," she said quietly. "By tomorrow morning, you can go."

As she passed him on her way from the room, Michael reached for her arm with his free hand. "I don't know how else to convince you to trust me," he whispered, unable to hide the sheer desperation from his voice.

A brief spasm of emotions flickered across her face, too brief for him to decipher. Despite whatever steady resolve she'd maintained up to this point, as Nikita reached to cup his face tenderly in her hand, he was surprised to feel that she was trembling.

"I do trust you," she said softly, the hard contours in her face immediately softening. "That's the problem. Things aren't so simple anymore."

"I already lost you once. You know I can't lose you again."

"You won't."

"Nikita? Nikita!"

But she was already gone.

Song credit: Creedence Clearwater Revival, "Bad Moon Rising"
Scene credit: Alias