Things generally get hotter after the assignment as well. Not just because half of a small self-declared country that wasn't on the map is now blown off of it, but because people know your face, know whatever name you gave them, which is possibly on at least one of the passports you have on you. Which is why you get out of town quick. No questions, no clean up. There are teams for that, and they're not the teams you're on. You're on the search and destroy and they come along after with promises and doilies they throw over the mess to make it look pretty for the cameras.

She was obviously clean up, which is why it took a while for Michael to realize they were on the same side. He spent two days watching her, waiting for her to make a move before he caught on that she was watching him. He forgets sometimes that women do that, so he doesn't notice until her interest turned pointed. Not toward any particular areas he expected, but to two of the several places he had weapons hidden on him. When she sat at his table in the open air restaurant, he even managed a smile.

"Mr. Westen?"

"No." He shakes her hand and his grip is hard and tight. He can feel the pressure of her fingers and she knows what she's doing, which makes him even more suspicious, which makes him even more dangerous. "I'm Karl Melgardshagen." His German accent is as flawless as her skin. "You must have me mistaken with someone."

"I don't think I do." She sets the small notebook in her hands on the table. It's not until then he notices the recorder and the camera. For a fraction of a second, panic flares in his chest, but only until his training and his briefing kick in. Maybe she's new, or maybe no one told her the clean up crew doesn't hit town until there's something to clean up. "I'm Lucy."

Michael sees Bhupinder headed for the table, anger flashing brighter than the gun off his CZ-700. Lucy smiles at Michael and stands up, bodily blocking Bhupinder's progress. She stammers an apology, her hands on the medals that adorn Bhupinder's chest, sliding down to do something to the bolt of the rifle. Michael doesn't raise an eyebrow, but he has every intention of finding out what exactly is going on.

His hotel room isn't like he left it, which is why he's being grabbed from behind. It's also why he ends up with Lucy pinned to the ground, panting hard, and his palms flat against the hard pulse beating in her wrists. "You're good."

"I'm better than good," he informs her coolly, "but you're going to get me killed."

"Rumor is that's impossible."

"Rumor's wrong." He hasn't moved, and isn't sure he has any intention of doing so. Lucy's warm and lithe beneath him, her body perfectly curved and her legs parted just enough that he can settle his hips against her thighs. "What are you doing here?"

"Bad intel." He doesn't let up for a moment, but suddenly he's on his back and she's straddling him, her knees in his ribs and her body settled comfortably on his. "There's a coup about to strike, and apparently we're deciding to put our money behind them. They want you extricated."

"Is there word of an assassination?" He moves his wrists and slides his arms up, bringing her closer. "And why should I trust you?"

"Because I know you're Michael Westen. I know all four places you have weapons hidden on your body and I know that you like winning, which is why I'm going to get you out of this before it all falls apart."

"You're clean-up."

Lucy shakes her head and her long, dark hair falls around Michael's face. "Not even close, Michael Westen." She leans in and kisses him, and Michael's forgotten how good it feels to have a warm, pliable woman against him. He hasn't, however, forgotten that the number one rule in his business is stay alive, so he flips her over and slams her into the floor. The arches of his feet are positioned over her ankles and his knees have her bracketed so tight she can't move. "I'm the assassination team."

"I'd know."

"Not if they didn't want you to." She looks him in the eye and smiles. "Trust me."

"Not on your life."

She shakes her head slightly and flips him over her head, bringing him down to the floor with a hard, resounding crash. She kneels over him, upside down, and kisses him again. "It's not my life you have to worry about, Michael."

Hell breaks loose two days later, just before Michael boards his plane out of town. Karl Melgardshagen is dead, shed like an old suit in the hotel room, and Brandon Abbott is heading for the safer, saner lands of the Middle East. The flight is stalled on the tarmac as shooting goes on around them, but the engines start to whir and there's a hard jolt as the plane rolls. The small accordion door separating the pilot's compartment with the rest of the plane opens and Michael has to smile.

Lucy is as smooth as they come, dressed in a dress the same dark purple that spread across Bhupinder's chest at the fall of his regime. She sinks down next to Michael and snaps her belt into place.

"Not flying the plane?" Michael asks.

"Some things are better in the hands of professionals." She offers him her hand. "I'm Lucy Chen."

"Michael Westen."