Disclaimer - Story contains original characters from the series Airwolf by Donald Belisarius. No copyright infringement is intended and I make no profit from this piece. Additional characters belong to Ladyhawke 620.

Introduction - This story is set in the timeline before the creation of Airwolf by Charles Henry Moffet. It picks up sometime after the story Shadows of the Past.

Hope you enjoy, Ladyhawke 620

Not Ready to Make Nice

Dull thudding pounding in his head, Michael winced, blinking. The rough grit of concrete rasped against his cheek with a sharp scrape. Drawing a shuddering breath, he sought some recollection of what might've happened…

"Marella…," he whispered, sense returning abruptly, his blue eyes flashing wide. The flutter of papers beside him, told him things hadn't gone well, whatever well was…"Blast," he cursed, pushing himself up.

Reeling, he shoved free of the floor. The wall beside him shuddered and slid, blurring and he fought to catch himself, head reeling. Lean fingers flexed and clenched against rough floor.

"Getting too old for this…"he muttered. Maybe not, as the youngest Deputy Director the Firm had ever had, but suddenly it was sure feeling like it. Grimacing he picked himself up, wincing at the sharp ache in his shoulders and back.

Where was she? He wondered frantically. Heck, where was he? Dazed, he staggered, trying desperately to make sense of his surroundings.

"Sir?"

Startled, he spun at the sound of her voice a lump in his throat threatening to choke him as his eyes met hers.

A firmly muscled man in a grayish suit held her, one hand clamped tightly around her arm and an 8mm at her temple. Scared brown eyes met his for a long second, the terror in them just as quickly concealed as he'd seen it.

Maybe she wasn't scared, but he was petrified.

The sharp click of a dress shoe in the hallway behind her, ripped his attention from Marella.

"Lindgren," he spat in disgust, eyeing the slender man behind her. "I should've known."

Pale green eyes glittered with malice. "Yes, you should have, Archangel. When I make a promise, I keep it."

Michael frowned. He should have known. He'd never been one to like loose ends, it stood to reason neither did Rhys. And Marella was a loose end.

So was he.

"So, what is it you want?" he bit out, not so much for the answer, but mostly in the hope he could buy them some time.

He already knew what Rhy's wanted.

His head on a platter.

Lindgren laughed, the sound brittle and hard. "I want revenge, of course Michael." Bitterness edged his eyes. "You really messed up my plans, Archangel when you blew my cover with the Soviets."

Michael grimaced, knowing three good agents had paid with their lives that day because of Lindgren's deal with the Russians.

Sonya had been one of them. If it hadn't been for Marella's quick wit, he would've been the fourth.

"Well, it can't always turn out how we hope," he drawled laconically.

Irritation flashed in the pale green eyes. "You hung me out to dry, Michael!" he snapped. I haven't forgotten that."

"Neither have I," Archangel said softly, his tone deadly as he eyed the other.

Lindgren smirked, catching the accessing look in the spy's gaze. A sudden grin split the gamine features. "Clever, Michael," he whispered. "Just not clever enough." Coldly, he brought the gun he held up, pointing it directly in Archangel's face. "Now move it, before I splatter you all over the wall there and forget I have a use for you."

A sharp jab in the back propelled him into the room, the door clicking shut before he could do anything about it. Desperate, he slung himself at it even as he heard the ensuing scuffle outside.

Marella. Alone.

Furious, he slammed his palm against the wood, even as the scuffle got louder.

There was a dull thump and abruptly the struggle ceased. Panic-stricken, he slammed his shoulder again and again against the door to no avail.

Whatever it was, she was on her own now.

Shoulders hunched against the dull weariness that had settled there, Archangel contemplated the four walls that held him prisoner.

He harbored no illusions Lindgren fully intended to kill him. The only questions being the when and how. Surprisingly, he found himself okay with that; he'd known from the start the odds were he'd die on some assignment someday.

It was Marella who bothered him more. Marella whose intellect and beauty should've taken her far, Marella whom he'd talked into the whole spy game in the first place…

Marella who'd saved his life, and now he was going to cost hers.

She deserved better, he thought bitterly.

Glaring, Marella eyed the icy green eyes set in an angular face, its lean proportions marred by a thin scar wending its way down one cheek.

She'd given him that scar, when he'd tried to kill Michael two years ago. Her fingers curled remembering the glimmer of the blade in his hand, pulling it from his sleeve as Michael had turned away.

She'd wrenched it away at the last possible second.

Her only regret lay in not finishing the job. Their Russian hosts at the time had felt a little differently about the matter than she had...

Generous lips moued in disapproval. So this, was what Lindgren looked like after all this time. She'd often wondered…

Pale green eyes lit in amusement. "So glad to see you again," Rhys stated coolly, his eyes trailing up and down her figure. "I was so afraid you wouldn't be able to come after our past…

….little disagreement."

Arching an angular eyebrow, Marella allowed the smallest smirk of her own to show through. "And I you," she rejoined, remembering his struggles and the desperate yelled imprecations when Archangel had turned the tables and handed him over to the Russians, convincing them to handle his "little" problem for him.

Anything remotely resembling a smirk slid off Lindgren's face as he set the 8mm down on the table. "I've got Michael now, Marella. The only thing I need you for is leverage. You'd do well to remember that." Pocketing the gun, he turned, locking the door behind him.

"So, how're you negotiating skills these days, Archangel?" Lindgren drawled.

"Evidently a little rusty," Michael replied wryly, lifting shackled wrists from the scarred table. "Why? You want to give me another go?"

Rhys grinned, the light in his eyes evil. "Maybe…"

Michael ignored the flare of hope in his chest. He knew better than to take anything Lindgren offered seriously. "Spit it out, Lindgren," he drawled. "What do you want?"

"Why you Michael…"

At the disbelieving snort, the double agent laughed. "Well, your negotiating skills anyway. The U.S. has a bio-chemical weapon the Russians want, and I want you to broker the deal."

"And what makes you think I would?" Archangel retorted disdainfully. He bitterly pulled against the cuffs chafing his wrists.

Lindgren smiled. "Because I have Marella. And you of all people should know what I'm willing to do to her to get what I want."

Panic clawed at his chest, before Michael shoved it away, ruthlessly tamping down anything he might feel and forcing cool blue eyes to meet Lindgren's. "She knew what she signed up for when she joined, Rhys. I'm no traitor."

Anger glittered briefly in the other man's eyes before the well-schooled mask slid into place. "Really?" he asked archly. "Are you so sure?"

A chilly silence stretched out between the two men, memories of their last meeting rushing to the forefront. Lindgren might carry the physical scars from the altercation, but his ran every bit as deep.

"Yeah," Michael retorted, jerking his head away abruptly.

Lindgren hesitated, before finally shrugging. "Suit yourself, Michael." Lean fingers nonchalantly slid into his pants pockets as he turned away towards the door.

Unmoving, Archangel glared straight ahead, ignoring the other's retreat.

Lindgren paused just inside the door, glancing back. "Somehow, I would've thought better of you, Archangel…Shame, really. I liked Sonya."

Blue eyes snatched to his, jaw clenching.

"You know she begged me to kill her at the end…, don't you?" The blonde brows raised sardonically. "I almost wished I could." Thin lips twisted humorlessly. "And people say I'm a -------. Think you and I should trade the black hats."

Unreasoning fury seethed and Michael momentarily forgot the shackles chaining him to the chair as he slammed his weight upward. Steel bands slashed into skin, cutting, chafing, drawing blood.

He didn't notice, slamming his full weight against the cuffs.

He'd always had his suspicions…had his fears...

"Let her go, Lindgren," he ground out.

"No can do, Michael baby," he said mockingly. "That ball's squarely in your court."

He hesitated for a long moment in the doorway, before finally shrugging and turning away.

Visions of Sonya flashing him a grin as she'd gone out that door the last time rose up, taunting him, her auburn hair glinting in the late afternoon sunlight.

Sonya'd trusted him with her life, and he'd cost her hers. Failed her in the worst way possible...

He couldn't do the same to Marella.

"I'll do it," he grated.

Lindgren grinned wickedly, not bothering to turn. "So glad to hear it, Michael. I knew I could count on you."

"What do you mean Archangel's missing?" Zeus roared. "You were supposed to be keeping tabs on them! He's supposed to be brokering a ten million dollar arms deal with the East Germans. I suppose next you're going to tell me you've lost the weapons too!"

Donovan Kincaid grimaced. He'd been knowing that was exactly what he was about to say. "Well, sir…"

Cold, grey eyes narrowed in a weathered face across the desk in front of him. "When?" he snarled. A beefy hand snapped across the desk knotting itself in his shirt so fast Kincaid didn't have a chance to avoid it.

"0900," he gritted, shoving himself free.

Teeth clenched, Zeus swung away from the senior agent. Nobody had to tell him Michael had a talent for losing a tail when he decided he didn't want one. The only question left was whether it was deliberate…

"Any sign of Parlovski?" he growled.

Straightening his tie, Kincaid stepped back. He like Archangel, but he wasn't going to throw his career away over him. "No, sir," he rasped. "One minute he was there, the next he was gone."

"Along with Marella and the weapons?"

"Well, actually we lost track of her about fifteen minutes earlier."

Scowling, Zeus cursed. Deliberate or not, Archangel and ten million dollars worth of armament were gone…

He sighed, it didn't much matter. "Shut down their sector and put Zebra squad on alert," he ordered. "They've got 36 hours."