"Sometimes all we have is our dreams."

"It wasn't all a lie."

Voices. Past. Present. Future. Everywhere. Surrounding her. Enveloping

her. Choking her.

"We're losing her!"

"She'll come around—"

"Does she look like she's going to come around?"

"I don't answer to you—"

"No, you answer to *him*. Would you like to be the one who tells him that

we lost her?"

Silence. Blessed silence. Then more voices.

"Give her 2 mg of Ativan IV."

"With that blood pressure?"

"Stop questioning me and just do it."

"Fine. But when she dies—"

"She won't die. She'll sleep."

A hand stroked her hair. She frowned, her unconscious mind struggling to

make sense of what she was hearing.

Then everything went black.

No one gave Ativan to someone who was bottoming out. She must be dead.

This floating sensation…it felt almost painfully surreal.

"You came back."

She opened startled blue eyes with a force that took the man by surprise.

"I'm not dead."

"No. You're not."

"Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital. Do you remember anything?"

"About what?"

"Do you know who you are?"

She shook her head.

"Your name is Nikita. You work for a clandestine anti-terrorist

organization called Section—"

She began to laugh. "Right," she agreed with a giggle.

"You need rest. Then it'll come back to you." The voice sounded

disappointed, even disapproving.

Her eyelids fluttered shut. She was so sleepy.

She didn't mind sleeping. That was when the dreams came. He was there.

They all were.

Her family.

The people who mattered.

Not this nonsensical little man with his all-too-obvious agenda.

What she knew…she would never tell.

And they would never know what she knew.

"The kids, the kids…" Nikita murmured in her sleep. But perhaps sleep
was not the right word. Someone had broken into her mind and stolen her
will, forcing her down, down, down into a place of utter blackness.

Still…something escaped.

"You have no kids, Nikita," the voice reminded her.

She twisted restlessly, her head swinging wildly from side to side, as if
in protest.

"You never did."

Her hair fell over her face like a shadowy cloak. She was still. Rigid.
The owner of the voice frowned.

"She's seizing. Dammit, I told you to give her the Ativan!"

"And I told *you* it's not head trauma!"

"What is it, then?"

"You took away her reason to live."

"I'm not getting anything."

"Well, you wouldn't, would you? Give me that!"

There was static inside her head. But it was the good kind. It reassured
her that she was doing the right thing. Don't say another word.

Her captors were growing frustrated. She could feel the underlying anger
that colored their voices. She couldn't force open her eyes. Too weak.
Too…the word eluded her, and she began to wonder if she could do this.

Yes. Yes, she could. Michael said so.

Michael.

"This wasn't the way I planned it," Michael swore softly.

"None of us planned to do it this way, Michael," Declan snapped.

"What if she can't—"

"What if she can?"

"This is stupid. I never should have let her go—"

"Fine. I'll go in after her and—"

"No!"

The two men turned as one and stared at the younger man who dared
interrupt them. "You can't. She knows what she's doing."

"You sound pretty sure about that," Michael said.

"Of course. She's my mom."

Michael sighed. Chris shrugged soundlessly, emotion clearly taking him by
the throat. When he could finally speak, he whispered, "I don't want to
lose you, too."

"You won't lose either one of us. She's coming back," Michael ground out,
unwilling to let his oldest son see just how frightened he really was.

Declan studied them in silence before turning his gaze back to the
monitors in front of him. "You should have sent me," he said gruffly.

"The way I remember it, you had a very vocal reason for staying."

Declan glared at the older man who was both mentor and friend. "Sey would
have gotten over it—"

Chris shook his head slowly. "I don't think so."

"I was the logical one to go—"

"You mean you were the logical one to stay. Get over it, Dec." Dav settled
his large frame into the chair beside the tall, redhaired Irishman. "You
can't argue with someone who loves you that much."

"I know," Michael said bleakly.

"I know."

"Safest thing to do is to split up."

"Safe for who?"

"Stick to the plan."

"Yeah."

"Sucks, though."

"You can say that again."

"Su--"

A fierce glare stopped the second speaker in his tracks. He knew that look. There was no arguing with that look.

He was his father's son.

And then some.

He shoved the gun down the back of his jeans and whirled to face the intruder, only to heave an exasperated sigh of relief moments later. "You!"

"Hey, how come you get a gun?"

"Cause I know how to use it?"

"That's not fair."

"Neither is life. Get over it."

Faith struck a pose, one hip akimbo, and narrowed her dark green eyes. "I'm telling."

Chris shuddered. "Look..."

"I get one, too."

"Or what?"

"Or else."

"As usual, Fee, your bravado is superseded only by your complete lack of imagination."

His twin stuck out her tongue and flicked the fingers of one outstretched hand at him. "Gun."

Chris rolled his eyes. "I've reduced you to words of one syllable. Great. Maybe there's hope that someday you'll simply shut up."

Faith's eyes glistened with suspicious moisture, and Chris shook his head. "If we have to split up, I'll be safer with a gun, Chris, you know that," she said huskily.

"You're an expert in karate, Fee."

"Maybe I don't want to have to get that close to whoever wants us dead."

Damn. He couldn't think of a single thing to say to that.

"Don't tell Dad. Don't tell Dad," Sasha muttered under his breath. "Are you sure about this?"

"Your father would have a freaking coronary, son, if he knew what we were doing."

"I thought you were supposed to be the voice of experience and all that."

"All that and more, buddy, I'm still alive, aren't I?"

Sasha frowned. Grandfathers weren't supposed to be cool. Were they?

"Hide? Heroes don't hide," he snorted.

"They do if they want to live to have baby heroes," his companion pointed out wisely.

"Are you pregnant?"

Adam laughed, the first genuinely spontaneous sound that had erupted from the young man in what seemed like weeks. "Not so much. You?"

Jazz cast his lover a wry glance. "You picked a fine time to start enjoying life again."

"You know what they say, don't know what you got till it's gone."

She kept hearing voices. They sounded...familiar. Yet not. The crease between her eyebrows deepened. She would figure it out. She had to.

She had a feeling it was important. Even vital.

"Headache again?"

Nikita looked up sharply and winced at the jolt of pain that produced. "Ugh."

"We can give you something for that."

"No, no, that's okay. I'm fine. Fine. Really."

No, she wasn't. But she wasn't about to tell him that.

"Did you look over your mission protocol?"

"Yes," she said tersely. "But I don't have the line-up. Who are we using? I need a P5 to back me up, but I don't see any names here."

"Are you sure?" The older man frowned, then gestured at someone unseen. With a wave of his hand, he managed to produce an additional piece of paper. "Isn't this it?"

Nikita blinked, momentary confusion apparent in her large blue eyes. "That--"

"It was here all along. It's the headache. You really should take something, you know."

The man was so insistent. She didn't want pills, she wanted answers. But she didn't think he had any of those to give away.

She strained to focus on the page in front of her, but when the names swam into view at last, she couldn't help but gasp.

"Michael?"

"Did you know him?"

Nikita felt her vision grow fuzzy again, along with a corresponding increase in the pain in her head. "I--"

A pale hand reached out and patted her cheek almost kindly. "I'm so sorry, Nikita. Someone left his name on the mission roster. Such a terrible mistake."

"Mistake?"

"Yes," the voice continued, seemingly from a great distance. "He's gone."

Her heart jumped in her chest, and she had no idea why this name, suddenly so foreign to her, meant so much, but she unconsciously masked her reaction. He left? He got out of here? There was hope, then, hope that she...

"Cancelled."

She flinched as if struck. "C-cancelled?"

"Quite."

The roaring in her ears took her by surprise.

The pallid-complexioned man stepped over her now-prone body and smiled in evident satisfaction. "She seems to have fainted."

His subordinate nodded.

"Give her five minutes. Then wake her."

"I thought we were waiting till we got some positive word--"

"There might not be--" Declan stopped himself before he said too much. His lover was dangerously emotional at the moment, and he knew better than to start something he didn't have a hope of finishing.

"I can read between the lines as well as you can, Dec," Sey said quietly.

Too quietly. Letting go of Declan was hard enough. Letting go of his kids was making him uncomfortably numb.

"Yeah, well..." Declan let his voice drift off to a husky sigh. "Em's going to be okay. You know I wouldn't trust my daughter to anyone but Chris or Michael."

Sey almost smiled. That was true. At least Emmy would have the best possible protector. Wherever she was.

"And Sasha?" Sey queried.

"He's with my sister."

Sey nearly choked on unexpected laughter. "Derry? Derry's going to take care of Sasha?"

"She was a freaking field operative, Sey, I hardly think a teenage boy is going to give her a moment's trouble."

"Are we talking about the same Sasha?"

Declan snorted derisively and rummaged through his backpack for an extra clip for his gun. "You worry too much. What could possibly happen?"

"What do you mean, he's not with *you*?" Declan shouted at his sister.

"Read my lips. He's...not...with...me."

"He's supposed to be."

"Oh, well, then, excuse me," Derry drawled sarcastically. "You get downright cranky when your son goes missing, don't you?"

Declan cut short the retort that was burning to make it past his lips to glance at his watch. "Dammit! I'm going to be late to meet Michael!"

"Well, that makes two of you who aren't where you're sposed to be. Maybe it's genetic." Derry gasped in faux horror. "Oh! Do you spose I'm likely to disappear as well?"

"It's not funny!"

"No, it's not. You care more about being on time than you do your own flesh and blood. *This* is why we got *out* of Section, Declan McLaren, and don't you ever forget it!"

"Oh, piss off!"

"Thank you, I will," Derry snapped. "Oh, and don't worry about being late, Dec, Michael left an hour ago."

Derry whistled at the stunned expression on her brother's face. "Change of plans. Michael couldn't find you. So he took my bloody husband instead!"

"I-I'm sorry," Declan whispered.

"Me, too," Derry whispered back, as if saying it any louder was too painful to bear. "Now come on--"

"--we've got to find Sasha."

Declan nodded mutely.

"Think anyone'll be looking for us?" Sasha asked anxiously.

"For you, you mean. Yeah. Once they notice you're gone, they're gonna get distracted. Just hope it doesn't make 'em stupid."

"Hey, my dad's not stupid!"

"Son, I've known your dad for more years than I can count. He might be the most brilliant systems analyst the world has ever seen, but he doesn't have a lick of common sense." He held up a weathered hand to forestall Sasha's automatic protest. "Trust me, I know."

Sasha studied his grandfather sullenly for a few moments. "I meant my *other* Dad."

"Him, too."

"Stay here--"

"I thought we were splitting up--"

"I said stay here, Sey! In case Sasha comes back--"

"In case? In case?"

"See, now you're getting all worked up, and I really can't deal with you right now!" Declan shouted, pain and concern making him sound agitated.

"Oh, right now. Well, sure. You let me know when a good time might be, Dec. You let me know when I can expect to see my son again!"

"Screw this! I'm going!"

"Maybe I won't be here when you get back." It wasn't angry. It wasn't plaintive. It was cool and matter of fact. That stopped Declan dead in his tracks.

For all of two seconds.

Then he was gone.

"We're almost there."

"Almost where? We're in the middle of nowhere."

"You're just saying that cause we couldn't risk taking the car."

"No, I'm saying that cause we're in the forest in the middle of the night, and we didn't come here to get away from it all."

"You talk too much."

"Um, like who's going to hear us out here? In here? Whatever? I hope Bambi's not sleeping. Wouldn't want to wake her up. Do deer bite?"

"Not usually. But I do."

Jazz frowned, though his exact expression was difficult to see in the darkness. "And stop waving that gun around. You're making me nervous."

"Not much point in having it if I'm not prepared to use it," Adam replied, his dark eyes unconsciously searching the surrounding foliage.

"Well, unless you're planning to use it on *me*, put it away."

There was a sibilant rustling of leaves directly to their left, and Adam whirled around, brandishing the offending pistol. When the leaves parted abruptly moments later to reveal his younger sister, Adam heaved a great sigh and tucked the gun away.

"Jeesh, I could hear the two of you arguing a mile away."

"We weren't arguing," Jazz protested.

Adam clapped a hand over his lover's mouth and nodded. "Yeah, we were. Good thing you're not a bad guy."

Jazz pried Adam's hand away from his mouth, but held onto his fingers long enough to betray just how tense he really was. "What are you doing here, Fee? I thought the idea was for us to head in *different* directions. Are you following us?"

"Why would I do that? I've got my own gun," she scoffed.

"And her own bodyguard," Connor interjected, suddenly appearing from behind her right shoulder.

Adam shifted his weight onto his left leg, causing his right hip to jut out just enough to inadvertently caress Jazz' side. "Who else is with you?" Adam demanded. "This is turning into a freaking party."

"Nobody. Just us," Faith said, her lower lip trembling ever so slightly.

"We can't travel together, Fee. It's not smart."

"I know. It's just--"

Connor turned to Faith with a heartbreaking look. "You don't feel safe with me?"

"Of course I do," Faith said, but her green eyes shone darkly.

"Sure, you do. Hey, go with them. I understand. I really do. Adam's your big brother. He knows how to handle himself. He--"

"Oh, shut up, Con," Faith said, cutting him off with a kiss. "We're all scared."

"I'm not," Jazz piped up.

Adam gave him a warning look, and Jazz returned the look with a salute of his own using the middle finger. "I'm not," Jazz continued happily, "I'm absolutely terrified."

"Really?" Connor looked unconvinced.

Adam snorted, then waved the back of his right hand in Connor's face. "See? Those are fingernail marks. From *him*."

"Wow."

Faith silently applauded her older brother's diplomatic way of assuaging all their fears by somehow embracing them. "So I guess we should head back the other way, huh?"

Adam nodded.

"Faith gave him a curious half-smile. "You're not just saying that cause you two want to be alone together?"

"Trust me," Jazz said with a shudder. "This is not my idea of a night out."

"We get enough of each other at home, Fee. We don't need to play games in the dark in the woods to get off."

"Ew, thanks for the mental picture, Adam."

Connor muttered to himself, and at first Adam thought it was fear coloring his voice. Then he realized it was something else entirely.

"Too much information. *Way* too much."

"Hey, Con, if you've got issues, I could help you work on them," Adam said provocatively, drawing the instantaneous ire of both his sister and his lover.

"*So* not necessary," Faith said with a cool smile.

Jazz stared at Adam pointedly, but wisely refrained from saying a word. Still, his eyes said it all.

Adam gestured in the direction they had been heading before they were interrupted. "Trudging onward."

They moved slowly and quietly through the wooded glade. But the silence was barely tolerable to either of them. "You're mad," Adam finally spoke up, slicing through the uncharacteristically hostile aura that surrounded them.

"You love to state the obvious."

"I thought you wanted me to loosen up, be a little more--"

Jazz turned so sharply, Adam almost walked into him. "Loosen up? Now? Now is when I need you to be uptight, you asshole!"

"Let me get this straight. You *want* me to be uptight."

"Yesss," Jazz hissed.

Adam looked genuinely puzzled. "Why?"

"Cause we're scared shitless, and yeah, I know jokes can break the tension, but right now, I want you to be a fucking hair-trigger!"

"And that's a good thing?"

"Yes!" Jazz cried. "It's a very good thing!"

"Why?"

"Cause that's who you need to be to shoot someone!" By now, Jazz was almost sobbing in his frustrated efforts to make Adam understand. "And I think, no, I *know*, no matter how fucking tense I get, that's never gonna be *me*! So if you don't do it..."

It wouldn't get done. "Ah," Adam answered, still disliking the concept in theory.

But Jazz was right. They were at the mercy of some very bad people. His father and the others were undeniably armed and dangerous. What gave him pause was that he, Adam, now fell into that category.

That was a pretty scary place to be for someone barely twenty. But at least he wasn't alone.

Adam cocked his head and pulled the younger man into his arms. They didn't kiss or hug. They just stood there, shaking and holding onto each other for dear life.

Because that's what it truly was. Dear life.