With the lights out and the night inside

The broken radio was playing suicide

I felt myself falling, I confessed to you

I saw a body, you said you'd seen a few

This night has only just begun

If there's discretion that you'd not abandon

Now's the time

We'll burn against the morning sun

Go grab your bag, I'll bring the gun

"End Transmission"

AFI

December 1995

One year ago

They meet for the second time in December 1995. New York is grey and windy and the buildings glow gently in the black night, windows crammed with baubles and tinsel glittering like brightly coloured stars. They don't mean to cross paths but it is somehow inevitable and, when Marita spots him in the crowd outside the Rockefeller Center, watching as the Christmas lights are turned on, she realises she expected him to be there.

The lights go on and the falling snowflakes are cast with gold as they flutter past the Christmas tree. There is a round of applause and the crowd begins to scatter. The reverent silence gives way to bursts of conversation all around. Marita looks up at the tree, branches reaching up into the starless sky. Somewhere in the distance an ambulance wails, speeding through the night. She looks back at Krycek but he's not there anymore, replaced by an abundantly plump blonde woman and her enthralled children gazing up at the tree, all clasped hands and bright smiles. She wraps her scarf tighter around her cold throat and turns to leave when she feels a hand on her shoulder. Marita turns. Krycek looks down at her, unsmiling. His eyes catch the light from the Christmas tree.

"I didn't think you were the sentimental type," she says. He looks taller than she remembers him, even though she's wearing impractically tall heels.

"I'm full of surprises" he says wryly. She regards him for a moment, comparing him to the sickly invalid she housed only a month ago. He's wearing a worn leather jacket and jeans. He looks healthy. "Tis the season, or whatever."

She is unconvinced. "You're not here for the Christmas lights."

"No, I'm not," he agrees. He is looking over her shoulder, scanning the crowd. She follows his gaze. He zeroes in on a thin blonde woman, short skirt and long leather boots. Her lips are painted a gaudy red. She's beautiful in an inorganic way. No surprise there, Marita thinks, watching as the woman turns away from them. Her limbs are long and pale in the dark.

"Nice seeing you again," he says without looking at her. He moves forward, his hand unclipping something from his belt. Marita sees, as he pushes through the crowd, the flash of black steel and she realises he's got a gun. Jesus. She's stunned.

Marita follows him, weaving between people who haven't even noticed Krycek, let alone the gun. The ground beneath her is slick with ice and she stumbles as she walks, holding her coat together with one hand and pushing gently through with the other.

He is taller than most of the crowd and she keeps track of him right up until the crowd thins out on 5th Avenue. She scans the empty street for him but there's nobody there. Snow swirls and dances in the wind. She begins to walk slowly, wary at her isolation.

A hand pulls roughly at her shoulder, tugging her into a dark side street. She instinctively lashes out, swivels on her heels as she punches. Krycek catches her ineffective little fist in one hand. His eyes are fierce. "What the hell are you doing, Marita?"

"You had a gun," she says, pulling herself free. She steps away from him, still shaken. She's angry with him for surprising her. "I should ask you the same question."

He sighs a little. He's holding the gun in his other hand, she notices, neatly pressed against his thigh, barely noticeable. Evidently well practised. "I don't think it's any of your business."

"Perhaps not," she concedes, still angry. Her breath is a white cloud in the freezing air. Krycek seems not to have noticed the cold. "What did she do?"

"Who?" He's scanning the streets again. She wonders where the blonde went.

"The blonde woman. The one you're chasing."

"I'm not chasing any woman." He sounds irritated at her questions. "Listen, this might be a dangerous situation. You should go home."

"I'm not a child, Alex," she sulks, realising how childlike she actually sounds. He's right. This is none of her business. She knows little about Krycek but she knows why Smoky kept him on the payroll for so long. She remembers, just after the missile silo, standing in the boardroom listening to him offering backhanded eulogies about the man he presumed to be dead. He was one of the finest murderers, he had told her, a little smug. Good clean kills. Did as he was told. You can't buy that kind of class.

He stares at her, deadpan. "But you are wearing ridiculous shoes. You won't be able to run in those if you need to. And I doubt you're bulletproofed tonight."

She's unmoved by his practicality. "Fine. I take your point. Thank you for looking out for me, Alex." She shoves her hands back in her pockets, feeling demeaned by his too-candid assessment of her. "If I don't see you, have a wonderful Christmas."

He's about to respond when, from out of nowhere, the dry crack of pistol fire explodes in the silent street. A bullet ricochets neatly off the wall two inches shy of Marita's shoulder. Krycek wraps his arm around her, pulls her roughly to the ground. She feels the heel of her shoe snap as she tumbles to the floor, landing sprawled beneath him.

Krycek scrambles behind a dumpster, pulling her with him just as another bullet smashes into the brickwork. He wraps both arms around her, shielding her from fragments of brick. She feels his heart hammering against his chest and realises he's scared. Somehow this surprises her. Krycek has always seemed so unflappable.

"Goddamit," Krycek hisses, clutching his gun. He relaxes his grip on her, holding the gun two-handed. She pulls free of his clumsy embrace as he shuffles to the edge of the dumpster. He motions for her to stay where she is, muttering "Drop your guard for one fucking second…"

"Who is she?" Marita whispers. The ground is hard and damp and terribly uncomfortable but she hardly dares to breathe. She hears the click of the trigger as Krycek fires a blind shot into the distance. He waits for the inevitable response but there is none. He looks at Marita, wild-eyed and breathless.

"Radojka Zivanovic. Serbian bitch." He ducks forward, fires another shot into the black. In the distance, a dog starts barking, startled by the noise. "Trafficks little kids into the country."

"Is that worth shooting her for?" Marita asks.

He stares at her for a moment.

"You don't want to know what they do to those kids," he says finally. He slowly gets to his feet, crouching just below the top of the dumpster. He quickly glances over, ducking his head down just in time to dodge a third bullet. Chunks of cement fly overhead again, scattering like confetti on the ground.

Krycek remains half-crouched for a moment. Gravel crunches beneath his feet, and Marita can see bright blood dripping onto his leather jacket.

"Jesus," she breathes, scrambling to her feet. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he hisses. "Get back down."

"You're bleeding!" Marita exclaims. Blood dribbles down his face; his hair is black with it. She reaches a hand to his shoulder. He turns sharply, grabbing her wrist. She gasps as he pushes her against the dumpster, staring down at her with wild eyes. A thin, dark stream runs down his face, pooling in the hollow of his shoulder. For the first time she is afraid of him, of the power he has over her, and although he is holding her wrist gently, although the warmth of him is almost pleasant, she is horribly aware of how dangerous Alex Krycek can be.

"Stop putting yourself in danger." he says quietly. He loosens his grip on her wrist. She breathes deep, pulling her wrist to her chest as if hurt. He's so close she can smell the sharp tang of blood as it runs down his cheek.

"Alex. Your head…"

"Forget it, it's just debris." Krycek dismisses. He is about to wipe the blood away when they both hear the sound of feet hitting concrete. He snaps his head around just in time to see Zivanovic take aim. In one swift movement, he raises his gun and fires a single bullet. It slams into her abdomen, throwing her violently backwards. Black blood sprays outward like a firework, spattering the street with a thousand tiny poppies. She yelps in pain, collapsing to her hands and knees.

"Stay here," Krycek commands, calmer now. He moves cautiously forward, his gun level with her head. Marita is frozen to the spot. She is not unaccustomed to brutality but, as she watches Krycek circle Zivanovic, plucking her gun out of her hand with almost arrogant ease, she realises she is a long way out of her depth.

Zivanovic coughs a mouthful of bright arterial blood onto the ground. It stains her lips and teeth like a predator caught at the kill, dribbling down her chin.

"Izvinite," he says quietly, and he does sound sorry.

The woman stares at him reproachfully. Her hands grasp desperately at her stomach, as if trying to force the blood back in. It spills through her fingers, pooling on the ground. Marita watches with rapt horror. For a second, her eyes meet Zivanovic's. They are full to the brim with helpless anger, imploring her to stop staring and fucking help.

Krycek stops pacing. He holds his gun in his right hand, Zivanovic's gun in his left. "I'll make this quick," he says. And he does. It happens in a split second. All Marita sees is Krycek step back and Zivanovic slump to the ground, a gaping black hole between her sightless eyes. There is blood everywhere, huge gouts of it running in rivulets between the paving slabs, staining the powdery snow a deceptively pretty pink. A spent bullet case falls to the ground in slow motion. Marita waits for it to clatter to the ground movie-style, but it falls soundlessly, glittering like something precious in the yellow light of the sodium lamps. She has seen death before, but never this close, never this real.

Krycek turns to her, impassive and stained only with his own blood. His head wound is still bleeding steadily but it seems so insignificant now, so small. He throws Zivanovic's Glock carelessly to the ground, tucks his own gun back in his waistband. He is so casual it almost angers her.

"That should have been cleaner," he says. He looks tired, as if the act of shooting Zivanovic between the eyes was a particularly laborious task.

"You didn't have to kill her," Marita responds, a little petulant.

There is a ghost of a smile about his lips. Her naivety should infuriate him, but somehow it is charming. She stands with her hands in her pockets, her lips pursed, her eyebrows knotted. She is a postcard of childish anger. And yet he can see by the hardness in her eyes that she's no stranger to this. He marvels quietly at how untroubled she seems by the blood running in thick streams along the ground.

His wounded head has started to throb in the cold. "I'd rather not bore you by telling you exactly why that whore deserved worse than I gave her."

She stares at him, perplexed by his arrogance. From somewhere in the distance, the low wail of sirens burst into life.

"This isn't all you are," she tells him, as if she has known him all her life.

He visibly bristles at her approximation. "You don't know that," he responds.

Marita looks down at Zivanovic, slumped over in the prayer position. Her blonde hair is matted with blood, her arms stretched out in front of her, grasping at the cold concrete. Her gun lays discarded inches from her fingers, mocking her.

"If I hadn't killed her," Krycek says, running a hand through his bloody hair, "she would have killed me. And she would have killed you."

She is still looking at Zivanovic, feeling guilt bloom in her stomach like a sickness, when she feels his hand on her wrist. She expects him to grab her again but he is gentle. He tugs at her arm, willing her silently to look away. The woman looks smaller in death, somehow less than she was, as if something important has withered and disappeared.

"Marita," he says, almost soothingly, and she turns to him in surprise. Alex Krycek; murderer, mercenary and now confidante. She isn't completely sure she finds this amusing. "Go home. You shouldn't have seen this."

"You're just going to leave her?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Well, I'm not taking her home. So I guess so."

She is silent. She knows now that she doesn't belong in his world. And although this realisation doesn't surprise her, she still feels curiously disappointed. He releases her wrist, his fingers trailing across her skin, feather light. "There'll be cops here soon. Go home. Get some sleep. Forget about it."

Marita looks up at him. He is almost too calm. A woman lies dead at his feet and he is more concerned about her emotional fragility than what he has just done. The street lights flicker sleepily overhead, casting their shadows long and distorted across the ground. For the first time, he smiles.

"Have a good Christmas," he says.