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jaybee65Title: 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.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
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 Three
Muscles tensed, Paul climbed the steps to Adrian's office; he trod heavily, as if each clank of boots on the stairway's metal grating could stomp out his anger. Inadequate intel, a useless team member: combined, they had led to chaos. There was nothing Paul despised more than chaos. Except for failure. And in his experience, the former tended to lead to the latter.
As he reached the top of the steps, he paused. Normally, the echo of his footsteps announced his arrival -- recognizing his gait, Adrian would call for him to enter. This time, however, there was no such greeting; instead, her voice was low and inaudible, but suffused with an odd, angry pitch. Curious, he felt his temper dissipate. He peered through the open doorway; inside, Adrian appeared engrossed in a telephone conversation. Judging by the frown that creased her face, it wasn't a pleasant chat.
Glancing up, she spotted Paul and gestured distractedly for him to come in. He took a seat and waited.
"Don't give in, George," she said, her voice sharp. "Just because Phillip throws a tantrum doesn't make it our priority."
Paul didn't recognize the name Phillip, but the mention of George made him pay closer attention. Despite Adrian's hints that Paul was being groomed as her successor, she kept him well in the dark regarding a great many things. Especially about the operations of the other Sections, where she allowed George to reign. Section One alone had been Paul's universe, and moments like this -- moments that reminded him how insignificant he really still was -- made him chafe at the limitation.
"My decision is final," she continued. "I'm not afraid of him. And you shouldn't be, either." A wave of irritation washed across her face. "You really do need to grow more of a spine, my dear."
Paul repressed a smirk. George hadn't darkened Section One's corridors for several years, but his absence hadn't softened Paul's disdain for the man. George was a toady and a sycophant, and it gave Paul a perverse twinge of pleasure to hear Adrian abuse him.
"Of course I'll let you know." She scowled. "When have I not? Yes, of course. Goodbye." She hung up brusquely and sat back in her chair. After an uncomfortably long time spent staring into space, she returned her attention to Paul. The shift in focus didn't seem to improve her mood. "You're here to debrief on Vienna?"
He nodded. "Six captives and eight fatalities, including one of ours."
"I'm well aware of what happened," she snapped. "I was monitoring the radio traffic."
"I see," he said warily. Navigating the shoals of her temper without foundering required a sensitivity that went against his natural instincts. He'd learned the hard way that the safest course was to remain noncommittal as long as possible.
"You seemed to have some difficulty controlling your team," she observed in a sweet-and-sour tone that was obviously intended to goad him. "Care to elaborate?"
Wonderful. Trust Adrian to zero in immediately on precisely the topic he had been dreading the most. "Brad refused to follow orders," he said, shrugging because he refused to concede that he should care. "I had no choice. Besides, it's no great loss, as far as I can tell."
"Charles never had any problems getting Brad to follow orders." She arched an eyebrow in mocking reproach. "Perhaps it's the way you give them."
Oh, bullshit. Charles never took any risks with his team: that's why he didn't have any discipline problems. And that's why Adrian always turned to Paul to handle the toughest assignments. She knew that, so why was she throwing Mr. Paint-By-Numbers in his face?
"As for Madeline," she went on, "she apparently thought so little of your leadership that she took over the mission herself."
"She's used to working solo," he interjected hastily. "If you give me more time with her I can solve that problem."
"Oh, the problem isn't with her. She made the right call. The problem is with you."
She rose to her feet. Circling her desk, she took a stance so close to his chair that he had to crane his neck to look at her. She stared down at him, somehow managing to appear both fragile and powerful, like a bird of prey sizing up a tasty morsel of rabbit.
"As soon as Brad refused to comply with your commands," she said sternly, "you should have sent in Madeline instead. Your failure to do so concerns me greatly."
"I was trying to--"
"I know what you were trying to do," she interrupted. She sighed, and her anger seemed to give way to a sad indulgence. "Madeline saved your life several years ago. It's natural for you to feel you owe her a debt. But you must set that feeling aside. It does both of you a disservice."
She had completely misread him. But there was no point trying to convince her of that. He'd known her long enough to recognize when she'd made up her mind, and he knew no amount of explanation would sway her. So he simply nodded. There would be other times to stand his ground.
She examined him for a moment. When she seemed satisfied with his acquiescence, she returned to her seat on the other side of the desk. "As for the other members of your team, they're entirely too trigger-happy. I wanted captives, not cadavers."
"Our intel was inaccurate. The targets were much more heavily armed than we were led to believe, and the blueprint of the building was completely wrong. We did well under the circumstances."
"Doing well isn't good enough. I expect excellence, and you fell far short of it. If the intel is flawed, you improvise. Even the freshest recruits know that."
He ignored the jab, clasping his hands together on his lap so hard he could feel the pulse throb in his fingertips. He could keep his mouth shut as long as he needed to, but he was going to need a workout on the heavy bag when he got the hell out of this office.
After what seemed like a lifetime, she finally relaxed and smiled -- a sign that she was finished with her critique. Her tone lost its sarcastic edge and became crisp and businesslike. "Please tell Madeline that I wish to see her at six tomorrow morning. I'm pleased with her performance so far and would like to give her a new assignment."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And remind her to be prompt. I have enough demands on my time without being kept waiting."
"Of course."
"By the way," she added, flipping through a stack of papers on her desk, "I'm revoking the downtime scheduled for Lisa and Patrick. Perhaps if they suffer personal consequences for their carelessness they'll be more conscientious next time." She looked up from the papers with a regretful expression. "I hate to treat them like children, but when all else fails...."
"I'll tell them," he answered, groaning inwardly. Discipline was easy for Adrian to dispense, but it was Paul who would have to deal with the effects of their resentment.
"As for you, I'll treat this lapse as an anomaly. I trust it won't happen again." She smiled at him brightly. "That will be all."
He stared at her, unable to bring himself to answer. A lapse? Maybe -- but not by him, and not by his team, he wanted to say. But knowing better, he stood, turned, and left.
***
"Welcome back, kiddo," Walter said to Lisa as she limped into Munitions. "Glad to see you in one piece." He grinned. "Oh, and you too, Patrick, though you aren't quite as pretty."
Patrick grunted and dumped his gun, mask, and comm. unit on the table. Lisa smiled wanly at Walter's joke and did the same.
"We were lucky," she said. "They had us completely outnumbered this time."
"Bad intel," added Patrick with a scowl. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw in a gesture of irritation. "Again."
"Too bad Brad wasn't so lucky, though," said Walter. He gave them a knowing look. "Did Paul really cancel the poor bastard on the spot?"
Patrick shrugged. "Guess so."
"It happens," Lisa said uneasily. She wasn't entirely certain what had happened in the cellar of the safehouse, but as far as she was concerned, the less she knew the better. Besides, it was bad luck to talk too much about the dead, especially when the body was virtually still warm.
She could tell Walter wasn't satisfied with the brush-off by the conspiratorial gleam that lit up his face. Fortunately, before he could launch himself into full-on "Tell Uncle Walter" mode, a noise near the entrance interrupted the conversation. It was Madeline; she walked in slowly, her equipment gathered awkwardly in one arm.
As she dropped the equipment on the table, Walter watched her in silence. She looked up, and the two of them stared at each other -- a moment of discomfort broken only when Walter cleared his throat.
"I hear you kicked some bad guy butt out there," he said, his voice cautious but friendly.
Whatever Madeline was expecting from him, it clearly wasn't that. She blinked. Then she smiled -- a bright smile, one that lit up her entire face. It transformed her, instantaneously, into an entirely different person.
"I guess so, Walter," she answered, still smiling.
"You done good," he said. "And since I forgot to mention it before, welcome aboard."
"Thank you."
Lisa snuck a look at Patrick. He gave her a subtle nod of approval.
"Hey, Madeline," said Lisa, "Patrick and I have a kind of tradition of going out to dinner after missions. Would you like to join us? It's nothing fancy -- just cheap food, cheap entertainment and even cheaper drinks."
Madeline looked both surprised and grateful. "I'd like that."
"We'll stop by your quarters at six, then."
"All right," she answered. "Will Paul be joining us?" Her tone was carefully casual -- too much so, in fact.
A snort of laughter escaped from Patrick.
"Uh, these dinners are just for the grunts," Lisa said, shooting a glare at Patrick. "It's not that we don't get along with him, but, well, he's the boss. Having him along would kind of inhibit the celebration, you know?"
"I see," Madeline said. "I was just curious."
Lisa ignored Patrick's smirk and told herself to smack him later. "No problem. We'll see you at six."
***
For the third time in a row, the gear in Charles's van hadn't been racked in the optimal order. For the third time, this had caused several seconds' delay during egress. And so, for the third time, Charles marched toward Munitions to complain about the matter.
Obviously, the weapons master didn't consider Charles's instructions a priority; no doubt the man was too busy making googly eyes at whatever insipid female happened to flash cleavage his way to take care to outfit the vans adequately. But Charles had reached the limit of his tolerance, and if Walter thought Charles could be ignored, he was mistaken.
Lots of people made that mistake about Charles. They assumed that because he didn't wave his arms about like an enraged gorilla, he could be pushed around. Such people underestimated him. Persistence was the key. He would haunt Munitions -- daily if need be -- until Walter gave in, if only just to be rid of him. And Walter would give in. Most people did, eventually, once Charles set his mind on something.
At the entrance to Munitions, a pair of Paul's team members barreled out like schoolchildren racing to a playground. Charles successfully sidestepped them; in his haste, however, he didn't see the dark-haired woman following behind them until he collided into her.
She flinched noticeably and clutched at her arm with her other hand.
"Oh, I'm very sorry," he said. "Are you all right?"
"It's nothing," she replied.
Her tone was dismissive, and her expression unconcerned, but she continued to hold the arm protectively.
"It looks like more than nothing to me," said Charles. "Haven't you been to Medlab?"
"Not yet. We just returned from a mission."
"I suggest you head straight there. Foolish to ignore injuries, you know."
She nodded, but then an odd, almost embarrassed expression crept across her face.
"Actually, I'm not sure where it is."
He raised his eyebrows in incredulity. "Pardon?"
"I've only been here a week," she said, then added with a wry note, "It wasn't on my introductory tour."
Charles drew in a sharp breath of disapproval. "Then your team leader should have taken you. Tell me who he is, and I'll see to it he's reprimanded."
To his surprise, he thought he detected a trace of mirth lift the corners of her mouth.
"I didn't mention my injury to my team leader," she said. "So I don't believe a reprimand will be necessary. Although I appreciate the concern."
She didn't mention it to her team leader? He glanced across the room toward Walter, who just shrugged uselessly, as if he couldn't be bothered to wonder about people's behavior, no matter how strange.
The woman seemed to notice this exchange. "We were busy," she explained. "It didn't seem critical."
Charles laughed. How refreshingly stoic. Quite a contrast to the typical operative, who would scurry to Medlab with the slightest scratch, pleading for medical downtime.
"Interesting perspective," he said approvingly. "Admirable, in a stiff upper lip sort of way. Always thought that was supposed to be my country's specialty."
She didn't answer, but her smile broadened. It lit her eyes with a rich, engaging warmth. Suddenly, lecturing Walter about mission vans didn't seem like such a priority.
"Why don't you follow me?" invited Charles, gesturing toward the door, "Let's get that arm looked at properly, shall we?"
"That's not necessary. I'll find my own way."
"Nonsense. I insist."
She inclined her head in agreement, and Charles led the way down the corridor. As he walked, stealing occasional glances at the woman beside him, he frowned to himself. She had only been in Section a week? That didn't make sense.
"You haven't been here long enough to know where Medlab is, but you're going out on missions?"
"Yes."
He waited, but she volunteered nothing further. The look on her face was difficult to read, despite the startling expressiveness of her eyes. Catching himself staring, he forced himself to look away -- even then, he felt her dark gaze upon him, and the blood rushed to his face in a self-conscious reaction.
"I don't recall seeing you as a recruit at all, in fact," he remarked, unable to restrain his curiosity. "Did you spend the entire time at the Farm?"
"I finished my training ten years ago. For you to remember me as a recruit, you'd need a very good memory."
"Ten years ago?" His puzzlement grew, until the answer dawned on him. "Oh, of course."
"Of course?" she repeated. Something shifted in her tone; it was as if a window cracked open and let in a chilly autumn draft.
"You're the transfer from Section Two everyone's been talking about," he said, and then immediately wanted to eat his words. She didn't need to know she had been gossiped about.
"Have they now?" she asked, the chill turning into frost. "And just what have they been saying?"
He felt a burgeoning discomfort, because in truth, none of it was good. People called her George's protégé, Adrian's new enforcer: she was viewed with suspicion and dread, her arrival seen as a harbinger of harsh new punishments.
The rumors had originated with Jules, the head of Comm. Proud of his wide-ranging sources, Jules had delighted in elaborating on the gruesome details of the new transfer's undercover mission, provoking rampant speculation as to the reason for her transfer. From Jules, the story had passed from operative to operative, becoming increasingly lurid with each telling. The stories had grown to such proportions that Charles had expected a virtual Mengele to arrive at Section One's doorstep.
The person walking beside him, however, didn't fit such a grim image. She was young -- quite young, in fact, which startled him. And elegant, even covered in what looked like soot and grime from her mission. As for her manner, he sensed a hint of a dry wit, mixed with a stubborn independence, all hidden beneath a graceful facade. Not a monster at all
Then there was the matter of her going on missions. According to the rumor mill, she had been transferred in order to take over internal discipline, not to risk her own life in the field like other operatives. In fact, with her background, sending her on missions made no sense whatsoever. It was all very mysterious.
Then again, Charles liked mysteries.
"Nothing they've been saying does you justice," he said. And he meant it.
The chill in her manner vanished, and she smiled in a way that made his face flush hot.
"Here you are," he said, indicating toward the entrance to Medlab. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I'm Charles, by the way. Senior Team Leader."
"Pleased to meet you, Charles. I'm Madeline. I'd shake your hand, but...." She glanced toward her arm.
"Of course." He stood there, wishing there were a reason to accompany her inside, until the awkwardness of waiting became too much to bear. "If you ever need anything else, don't hesitate to come to me."
***
"Can I ask you a question?" Lisa asked, leaning over and placing a hand on Madeline's arm.
She nearly had to yell to be heard over the distorted thump of music from the bar's enormous loudspeakers. Her eyes were bloodshot, perhaps from the haze of cigarette smoke in the room, perhaps from the lateness of the hour, or perhaps from the vodka shots she kept downing. But even bloodshot, they held a bright kind of innocence -- it would have been amusing if it weren't so disarming.
Madeline picked up her drink and sipped it. It was a little awkward with the cast on her forearm, but she managed to ignore the discomfort. "Go ahead."
"How do you know Walter?"
Madeline set her glass down. For someone who was drunk, Lisa picked a shrewd question to ask. Perhaps she wasn't as naive as she appeared.
"What do you mean?" Madeline asked, as noncommittally as possible.
"He says he met you before you transferred here. But he acted kind of funny about it."
Did he indeed? Madeline studied her drink; a slice of lime floated in it, forlorn and half-submerged. Reflexively, she picked up a toothpick and pushed the lime below the liquid's surface. When it bobbed back up, she pierced it, forcing it to the bottom of the glass as if it were an enemy to be drowned.
How did she know Walter? As a spy for Adrian who had nearly caused Madeline to be cancelled. And yet who, out of kindness, had also chosen to keep Madeline's biggest secret to himself.
She understood the spying. It was his job. It was the kindness that was unforgivable.
Madeline looked back up at Lisa. The other woman was intoxicated enough that if Madeline told her the whole story, she likely wouldn't remember a thing afterwards. It made her the perfect confidante. Madeline could speak without fear, could finally unburden herself of all the hurt and anger she had kept to herself the past three years: feelings that had reemerged upon her transfer to Section One, like fresh blood flowing from a broken scab.
Looking into Lisa's friendly face, it was almost tempting. Almost. But if there was one thing that Madeline prided herself on being able to do, it was resisting temptation.
"We met at an inter-Sectional meeting a few years ago," Madeline said. That was true enough, but utterly meaningless.
"That's all?"
"More or less. Why?"
"Oh, I figured he must have hit on you and made an ass of himself."
Madeline laughed, relieved that Lisa was on the wrong track, and amused at the insight into Walter's character. "Good Lord, no."
Lisa grinned. "Good. He can be a bit much sometimes, but he doesn't mean any harm." She swallowed the dregs of her drink with a slurping sound and twisted around in her seat in a fruitless search for a waiter. When she didn't find one, she settled for chewing on an olive. "Paul, on the other hand, is a whole other story."
Madeline stiffened and cast her gaze about the room for a distraction -- any distraction -- to use as an excuse to cut Lisa off. But it was hopeless. Lisa had the enthusiastic expression of someone who'd been pining for a chance to indulge in sisterly gossip, and it was clear she wasn't about to be derailed once she got going.
"Yeah, Paul," Lisa said, "he's kind of an asshole. I mean, he's okay as a team leader, but I wouldn't ever want to go out with him. Not that he'd ever ask me, because I'm not his type, you know, but if I were, and he did, I wouldn't, because, oh, God, I've lost track of my point." She frowned. "Oh, yes. Asshole. He can really be one sometimes." She reached across the table, stole the olive from the drink Patrick had left behind, and popped it in her mouth. "There was this girl," she said, chewing, "Juliana, or Juliette, or something -- who caught him two-timing her. She got so mad she threw a shoe at him -- right in the middle of Section! It was pretty funny, except I heard she got transferred to Libya afterwards, so maybe it wasn't very funny at all."
That was quite enough. Madeline seized the moment to change the subject. If Lisa wanted to gossip so badly, she could do so about herself.
"So, what about you and Patrick?"
Lisa blinked in confusion and looked around the room. Patrick, who had wandered off in search of a toilet, was nowhere in sight.
"Uh, what do you mean?"
"You seem close."
Lisa raised her eyebrows in the excessively dramatic way of the thoroughly inebriated. "Oh, jeeze, no, it's nothing like that! We were recruits together. We've been on the same teams since forever. We're buddies, you know?"
Madeline suppressed a smile. Lisa's reaction was endearing, in a teenaged sort of way. How could someone survive in Section and still come across as so young?
"All right. No romance with Patrick. Anyone else?"
"No, no, that just leads to trouble. It was thanks to an idiotic boyfriend that I got recruited in the first place. Completely ruined my life." She rolled her eyes. "If he weren't already dead, I'd kill him." Seemingly out of nowhere, her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with her sleeve and laughed bitterly. "I still miss the stupid piece of shit. How pathetic is that?"
Before Madeline could respond, Patrick slumped into the empty chair at their table. He inspected their glasses gravely and announced, "Time for a new round."
************
To go on to Chapter Four, click here.
Prior Chapters
Previous Chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two
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.
Length: The whole thing is 120k-plus words. There are 31 chapters, which are distributed among four "Parts."
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).
Muscles tensed, Paul climbed the steps to Adrian's office; he trod heavily, as if each clank of boots on the stairway's metal grating could stomp out his anger. Inadequate intel, a useless team member: combined, they had led to chaos. There was nothing Paul despised more than chaos. Except for failure. And in his experience, the former tended to lead to the latter.
As he reached the top of the steps, he paused. Normally, the echo of his footsteps announced his arrival -- recognizing his gait, Adrian would call for him to enter. This time, however, there was no such greeting; instead, her voice was low and inaudible, but suffused with an odd, angry pitch. Curious, he felt his temper dissipate. He peered through the open doorway; inside, Adrian appeared engrossed in a telephone conversation. Judging by the frown that creased her face, it wasn't a pleasant chat.
Glancing up, she spotted Paul and gestured distractedly for him to come in. He took a seat and waited.
"Don't give in, George," she said, her voice sharp. "Just because Phillip throws a tantrum doesn't make it our priority."
Paul didn't recognize the name Phillip, but the mention of George made him pay closer attention. Despite Adrian's hints that Paul was being groomed as her successor, she kept him well in the dark regarding a great many things. Especially about the operations of the other Sections, where she allowed George to reign. Section One alone had been Paul's universe, and moments like this -- moments that reminded him how insignificant he really still was -- made him chafe at the limitation.
"My decision is final," she continued. "I'm not afraid of him. And you shouldn't be, either." A wave of irritation washed across her face. "You really do need to grow more of a spine, my dear."
Paul repressed a smirk. George hadn't darkened Section One's corridors for several years, but his absence hadn't softened Paul's disdain for the man. George was a toady and a sycophant, and it gave Paul a perverse twinge of pleasure to hear Adrian abuse him.
"Of course I'll let you know." She scowled. "When have I not? Yes, of course. Goodbye." She hung up brusquely and sat back in her chair. After an uncomfortably long time spent staring into space, she returned her attention to Paul. The shift in focus didn't seem to improve her mood. "You're here to debrief on Vienna?"
He nodded. "Six captives and eight fatalities, including one of ours."
"I'm well aware of what happened," she snapped. "I was monitoring the radio traffic."
"I see," he said warily. Navigating the shoals of her temper without foundering required a sensitivity that went against his natural instincts. He'd learned the hard way that the safest course was to remain noncommittal as long as possible.
"You seemed to have some difficulty controlling your team," she observed in a sweet-and-sour tone that was obviously intended to goad him. "Care to elaborate?"
Wonderful. Trust Adrian to zero in immediately on precisely the topic he had been dreading the most. "Brad refused to follow orders," he said, shrugging because he refused to concede that he should care. "I had no choice. Besides, it's no great loss, as far as I can tell."
"Charles never had any problems getting Brad to follow orders." She arched an eyebrow in mocking reproach. "Perhaps it's the way you give them."
Oh, bullshit. Charles never took any risks with his team: that's why he didn't have any discipline problems. And that's why Adrian always turned to Paul to handle the toughest assignments. She knew that, so why was she throwing Mr. Paint-By-Numbers in his face?
"As for Madeline," she went on, "she apparently thought so little of your leadership that she took over the mission herself."
"She's used to working solo," he interjected hastily. "If you give me more time with her I can solve that problem."
"Oh, the problem isn't with her. She made the right call. The problem is with you."
She rose to her feet. Circling her desk, she took a stance so close to his chair that he had to crane his neck to look at her. She stared down at him, somehow managing to appear both fragile and powerful, like a bird of prey sizing up a tasty morsel of rabbit.
"As soon as Brad refused to comply with your commands," she said sternly, "you should have sent in Madeline instead. Your failure to do so concerns me greatly."
"I was trying to--"
"I know what you were trying to do," she interrupted. She sighed, and her anger seemed to give way to a sad indulgence. "Madeline saved your life several years ago. It's natural for you to feel you owe her a debt. But you must set that feeling aside. It does both of you a disservice."
She had completely misread him. But there was no point trying to convince her of that. He'd known her long enough to recognize when she'd made up her mind, and he knew no amount of explanation would sway her. So he simply nodded. There would be other times to stand his ground.
She examined him for a moment. When she seemed satisfied with his acquiescence, she returned to her seat on the other side of the desk. "As for the other members of your team, they're entirely too trigger-happy. I wanted captives, not cadavers."
"Our intel was inaccurate. The targets were much more heavily armed than we were led to believe, and the blueprint of the building was completely wrong. We did well under the circumstances."
"Doing well isn't good enough. I expect excellence, and you fell far short of it. If the intel is flawed, you improvise. Even the freshest recruits know that."
He ignored the jab, clasping his hands together on his lap so hard he could feel the pulse throb in his fingertips. He could keep his mouth shut as long as he needed to, but he was going to need a workout on the heavy bag when he got the hell out of this office.
After what seemed like a lifetime, she finally relaxed and smiled -- a sign that she was finished with her critique. Her tone lost its sarcastic edge and became crisp and businesslike. "Please tell Madeline that I wish to see her at six tomorrow morning. I'm pleased with her performance so far and would like to give her a new assignment."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And remind her to be prompt. I have enough demands on my time without being kept waiting."
"Of course."
"By the way," she added, flipping through a stack of papers on her desk, "I'm revoking the downtime scheduled for Lisa and Patrick. Perhaps if they suffer personal consequences for their carelessness they'll be more conscientious next time." She looked up from the papers with a regretful expression. "I hate to treat them like children, but when all else fails...."
"I'll tell them," he answered, groaning inwardly. Discipline was easy for Adrian to dispense, but it was Paul who would have to deal with the effects of their resentment.
"As for you, I'll treat this lapse as an anomaly. I trust it won't happen again." She smiled at him brightly. "That will be all."
He stared at her, unable to bring himself to answer. A lapse? Maybe -- but not by him, and not by his team, he wanted to say. But knowing better, he stood, turned, and left.
***
"Welcome back, kiddo," Walter said to Lisa as she limped into Munitions. "Glad to see you in one piece." He grinned. "Oh, and you too, Patrick, though you aren't quite as pretty."
Patrick grunted and dumped his gun, mask, and comm. unit on the table. Lisa smiled wanly at Walter's joke and did the same.
"We were lucky," she said. "They had us completely outnumbered this time."
"Bad intel," added Patrick with a scowl. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw in a gesture of irritation. "Again."
"Too bad Brad wasn't so lucky, though," said Walter. He gave them a knowing look. "Did Paul really cancel the poor bastard on the spot?"
Patrick shrugged. "Guess so."
"It happens," Lisa said uneasily. She wasn't entirely certain what had happened in the cellar of the safehouse, but as far as she was concerned, the less she knew the better. Besides, it was bad luck to talk too much about the dead, especially when the body was virtually still warm.
She could tell Walter wasn't satisfied with the brush-off by the conspiratorial gleam that lit up his face. Fortunately, before he could launch himself into full-on "Tell Uncle Walter" mode, a noise near the entrance interrupted the conversation. It was Madeline; she walked in slowly, her equipment gathered awkwardly in one arm.
As she dropped the equipment on the table, Walter watched her in silence. She looked up, and the two of them stared at each other -- a moment of discomfort broken only when Walter cleared his throat.
"I hear you kicked some bad guy butt out there," he said, his voice cautious but friendly.
Whatever Madeline was expecting from him, it clearly wasn't that. She blinked. Then she smiled -- a bright smile, one that lit up her entire face. It transformed her, instantaneously, into an entirely different person.
"I guess so, Walter," she answered, still smiling.
"You done good," he said. "And since I forgot to mention it before, welcome aboard."
"Thank you."
Lisa snuck a look at Patrick. He gave her a subtle nod of approval.
"Hey, Madeline," said Lisa, "Patrick and I have a kind of tradition of going out to dinner after missions. Would you like to join us? It's nothing fancy -- just cheap food, cheap entertainment and even cheaper drinks."
Madeline looked both surprised and grateful. "I'd like that."
"We'll stop by your quarters at six, then."
"All right," she answered. "Will Paul be joining us?" Her tone was carefully casual -- too much so, in fact.
A snort of laughter escaped from Patrick.
"Uh, these dinners are just for the grunts," Lisa said, shooting a glare at Patrick. "It's not that we don't get along with him, but, well, he's the boss. Having him along would kind of inhibit the celebration, you know?"
"I see," Madeline said. "I was just curious."
Lisa ignored Patrick's smirk and told herself to smack him later. "No problem. We'll see you at six."
***
For the third time in a row, the gear in Charles's van hadn't been racked in the optimal order. For the third time, this had caused several seconds' delay during egress. And so, for the third time, Charles marched toward Munitions to complain about the matter.
Obviously, the weapons master didn't consider Charles's instructions a priority; no doubt the man was too busy making googly eyes at whatever insipid female happened to flash cleavage his way to take care to outfit the vans adequately. But Charles had reached the limit of his tolerance, and if Walter thought Charles could be ignored, he was mistaken.
Lots of people made that mistake about Charles. They assumed that because he didn't wave his arms about like an enraged gorilla, he could be pushed around. Such people underestimated him. Persistence was the key. He would haunt Munitions -- daily if need be -- until Walter gave in, if only just to be rid of him. And Walter would give in. Most people did, eventually, once Charles set his mind on something.
At the entrance to Munitions, a pair of Paul's team members barreled out like schoolchildren racing to a playground. Charles successfully sidestepped them; in his haste, however, he didn't see the dark-haired woman following behind them until he collided into her.
She flinched noticeably and clutched at her arm with her other hand.
"Oh, I'm very sorry," he said. "Are you all right?"
"It's nothing," she replied.
Her tone was dismissive, and her expression unconcerned, but she continued to hold the arm protectively.
"It looks like more than nothing to me," said Charles. "Haven't you been to Medlab?"
"Not yet. We just returned from a mission."
"I suggest you head straight there. Foolish to ignore injuries, you know."
She nodded, but then an odd, almost embarrassed expression crept across her face.
"Actually, I'm not sure where it is."
He raised his eyebrows in incredulity. "Pardon?"
"I've only been here a week," she said, then added with a wry note, "It wasn't on my introductory tour."
Charles drew in a sharp breath of disapproval. "Then your team leader should have taken you. Tell me who he is, and I'll see to it he's reprimanded."
To his surprise, he thought he detected a trace of mirth lift the corners of her mouth.
"I didn't mention my injury to my team leader," she said. "So I don't believe a reprimand will be necessary. Although I appreciate the concern."
She didn't mention it to her team leader? He glanced across the room toward Walter, who just shrugged uselessly, as if he couldn't be bothered to wonder about people's behavior, no matter how strange.
The woman seemed to notice this exchange. "We were busy," she explained. "It didn't seem critical."
Charles laughed. How refreshingly stoic. Quite a contrast to the typical operative, who would scurry to Medlab with the slightest scratch, pleading for medical downtime.
"Interesting perspective," he said approvingly. "Admirable, in a stiff upper lip sort of way. Always thought that was supposed to be my country's specialty."
She didn't answer, but her smile broadened. It lit her eyes with a rich, engaging warmth. Suddenly, lecturing Walter about mission vans didn't seem like such a priority.
"Why don't you follow me?" invited Charles, gesturing toward the door, "Let's get that arm looked at properly, shall we?"
"That's not necessary. I'll find my own way."
"Nonsense. I insist."
She inclined her head in agreement, and Charles led the way down the corridor. As he walked, stealing occasional glances at the woman beside him, he frowned to himself. She had only been in Section a week? That didn't make sense.
"You haven't been here long enough to know where Medlab is, but you're going out on missions?"
"Yes."
He waited, but she volunteered nothing further. The look on her face was difficult to read, despite the startling expressiveness of her eyes. Catching himself staring, he forced himself to look away -- even then, he felt her dark gaze upon him, and the blood rushed to his face in a self-conscious reaction.
"I don't recall seeing you as a recruit at all, in fact," he remarked, unable to restrain his curiosity. "Did you spend the entire time at the Farm?"
"I finished my training ten years ago. For you to remember me as a recruit, you'd need a very good memory."
"Ten years ago?" His puzzlement grew, until the answer dawned on him. "Oh, of course."
"Of course?" she repeated. Something shifted in her tone; it was as if a window cracked open and let in a chilly autumn draft.
"You're the transfer from Section Two everyone's been talking about," he said, and then immediately wanted to eat his words. She didn't need to know she had been gossiped about.
"Have they now?" she asked, the chill turning into frost. "And just what have they been saying?"
He felt a burgeoning discomfort, because in truth, none of it was good. People called her George's protégé, Adrian's new enforcer: she was viewed with suspicion and dread, her arrival seen as a harbinger of harsh new punishments.
The rumors had originated with Jules, the head of Comm. Proud of his wide-ranging sources, Jules had delighted in elaborating on the gruesome details of the new transfer's undercover mission, provoking rampant speculation as to the reason for her transfer. From Jules, the story had passed from operative to operative, becoming increasingly lurid with each telling. The stories had grown to such proportions that Charles had expected a virtual Mengele to arrive at Section One's doorstep.
The person walking beside him, however, didn't fit such a grim image. She was young -- quite young, in fact, which startled him. And elegant, even covered in what looked like soot and grime from her mission. As for her manner, he sensed a hint of a dry wit, mixed with a stubborn independence, all hidden beneath a graceful facade. Not a monster at all
Then there was the matter of her going on missions. According to the rumor mill, she had been transferred in order to take over internal discipline, not to risk her own life in the field like other operatives. In fact, with her background, sending her on missions made no sense whatsoever. It was all very mysterious.
Then again, Charles liked mysteries.
"Nothing they've been saying does you justice," he said. And he meant it.
The chill in her manner vanished, and she smiled in a way that made his face flush hot.
"Here you are," he said, indicating toward the entrance to Medlab. He cleared his throat and straightened his posture. "I'm Charles, by the way. Senior Team Leader."
"Pleased to meet you, Charles. I'm Madeline. I'd shake your hand, but...." She glanced toward her arm.
"Of course." He stood there, wishing there were a reason to accompany her inside, until the awkwardness of waiting became too much to bear. "If you ever need anything else, don't hesitate to come to me."
***
"Can I ask you a question?" Lisa asked, leaning over and placing a hand on Madeline's arm.
She nearly had to yell to be heard over the distorted thump of music from the bar's enormous loudspeakers. Her eyes were bloodshot, perhaps from the haze of cigarette smoke in the room, perhaps from the lateness of the hour, or perhaps from the vodka shots she kept downing. But even bloodshot, they held a bright kind of innocence -- it would have been amusing if it weren't so disarming.
Madeline picked up her drink and sipped it. It was a little awkward with the cast on her forearm, but she managed to ignore the discomfort. "Go ahead."
"How do you know Walter?"
Madeline set her glass down. For someone who was drunk, Lisa picked a shrewd question to ask. Perhaps she wasn't as naive as she appeared.
"What do you mean?" Madeline asked, as noncommittally as possible.
"He says he met you before you transferred here. But he acted kind of funny about it."
Did he indeed? Madeline studied her drink; a slice of lime floated in it, forlorn and half-submerged. Reflexively, she picked up a toothpick and pushed the lime below the liquid's surface. When it bobbed back up, she pierced it, forcing it to the bottom of the glass as if it were an enemy to be drowned.
How did she know Walter? As a spy for Adrian who had nearly caused Madeline to be cancelled. And yet who, out of kindness, had also chosen to keep Madeline's biggest secret to himself.
She understood the spying. It was his job. It was the kindness that was unforgivable.
Madeline looked back up at Lisa. The other woman was intoxicated enough that if Madeline told her the whole story, she likely wouldn't remember a thing afterwards. It made her the perfect confidante. Madeline could speak without fear, could finally unburden herself of all the hurt and anger she had kept to herself the past three years: feelings that had reemerged upon her transfer to Section One, like fresh blood flowing from a broken scab.
Looking into Lisa's friendly face, it was almost tempting. Almost. But if there was one thing that Madeline prided herself on being able to do, it was resisting temptation.
"We met at an inter-Sectional meeting a few years ago," Madeline said. That was true enough, but utterly meaningless.
"That's all?"
"More or less. Why?"
"Oh, I figured he must have hit on you and made an ass of himself."
Madeline laughed, relieved that Lisa was on the wrong track, and amused at the insight into Walter's character. "Good Lord, no."
Lisa grinned. "Good. He can be a bit much sometimes, but he doesn't mean any harm." She swallowed the dregs of her drink with a slurping sound and twisted around in her seat in a fruitless search for a waiter. When she didn't find one, she settled for chewing on an olive. "Paul, on the other hand, is a whole other story."
Madeline stiffened and cast her gaze about the room for a distraction -- any distraction -- to use as an excuse to cut Lisa off. But it was hopeless. Lisa had the enthusiastic expression of someone who'd been pining for a chance to indulge in sisterly gossip, and it was clear she wasn't about to be derailed once she got going.
"Yeah, Paul," Lisa said, "he's kind of an asshole. I mean, he's okay as a team leader, but I wouldn't ever want to go out with him. Not that he'd ever ask me, because I'm not his type, you know, but if I were, and he did, I wouldn't, because, oh, God, I've lost track of my point." She frowned. "Oh, yes. Asshole. He can really be one sometimes." She reached across the table, stole the olive from the drink Patrick had left behind, and popped it in her mouth. "There was this girl," she said, chewing, "Juliana, or Juliette, or something -- who caught him two-timing her. She got so mad she threw a shoe at him -- right in the middle of Section! It was pretty funny, except I heard she got transferred to Libya afterwards, so maybe it wasn't very funny at all."
That was quite enough. Madeline seized the moment to change the subject. If Lisa wanted to gossip so badly, she could do so about herself.
"So, what about you and Patrick?"
Lisa blinked in confusion and looked around the room. Patrick, who had wandered off in search of a toilet, was nowhere in sight.
"Uh, what do you mean?"
"You seem close."
Lisa raised her eyebrows in the excessively dramatic way of the thoroughly inebriated. "Oh, jeeze, no, it's nothing like that! We were recruits together. We've been on the same teams since forever. We're buddies, you know?"
Madeline suppressed a smile. Lisa's reaction was endearing, in a teenaged sort of way. How could someone survive in Section and still come across as so young?
"All right. No romance with Patrick. Anyone else?"
"No, no, that just leads to trouble. It was thanks to an idiotic boyfriend that I got recruited in the first place. Completely ruined my life." She rolled her eyes. "If he weren't already dead, I'd kill him." Seemingly out of nowhere, her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away with her sleeve and laughed bitterly. "I still miss the stupid piece of shit. How pathetic is that?"
Before Madeline could respond, Patrick slumped into the empty chair at their table. He inspected their glasses gravely and announced, "Time for a new round."
************
To go on to Chapter Four, click here.
Prior Chapters
Chapter One
Chapter Two