Thank you: Sabaceanbabe, Mitchy & Doccy for the beta!
Written For: Amand_r, for Yuletide 2013
Disclaimer: Still not mine, no profit made
Feedback: A kindness, not a toll - but always lovely to get!
Note: Set post series, so... spoilers?
As a rule, spies don't have a lot of time for platitudes. Something that applies to the man in the street isn't usually as relevant to the man hanging a hundred feet above the street – especially if the rope is fraying.
Good things come to those who wait , for example. Or, it's the journey, not the destination.
"Michael! If you swing – if you just –" Fiona had stretched as far she could; only her foot, hooked in the railing, was keeping her from following him over the edge of the roof.
Her hand was almost within reach, waving back and forth as she strained for one more inch. Michael shook his head; he'd just take her down with him. Which Fi had to know and, being Fi, had decided to ignore.
"Concentrate," she snapped, her face a pale blur behind fingers that, somehow, came closer still. She sounded irritated – like they could defy the laws of physics if Michael would just put the effort in. It was exasperating and comforting and, actually, a pretty good overview of their entire relationship to date.
"I am concentrating, Fi," he managed through clenched teeth. "Believe me." Something about the ten-story drop and dark, hard-looking streets below really focused the mind.
He could barely feel the pain of the rope digging into his palms, or sweat stinging the patches where the skin had rubbed raw, but everything else was etched across his senses: the glare of the roof lights, the sound of the shirt he'd borrowed from the hotel's uniform supply closet ripping its stitching across the shoulders.
The way Fi's expression lit up in fury and then crumpled in anguish as she realized that he was never going to take her hand.
"The rope's going to – Fi, I'm sorry - tell Charlie I'm -"
Fiona's responses to tense situations were best summarized as variable, but Michael had learned to predict what he was in for within a fairly narrow margin error. He was ready for tears, recriminations and possibly gunfire; laughter and a sudden disappearing act, not so much. He blinked.
Something heavy sounding clanked above and then a blinding light flared at his side. He twisted reflexively away, buying half a second to figure out what it was and exactly how he would use it to stay alive.
A huff of annoyance from the pitch-black darkness beyond the light interrupted the flood of scenarios that presented themselves. "Oh for- Mikey, get your ass back here!"
He squinted, trying to regain his night vision as he swung closer again. "Sam?"
"I got ya, brother." Two hands locked around his chest as the rope jerked unpleasantly. Mass, gravity and leverage vied to come out on top in one wrenching moment, and then he was falling back into a window cleaner's rig. It shuddered and swayed alarmingly as he landed hard against the siding, but it held.
After a moment he realized that the surface under him was soft. And moving. Sam had fallen on top of him, so – "Jesse?" he hazarded.
"Yeah," Jesse wheezed. "And can I say, Mike, great to see you - thrilled you're not dead, really - but get off of me."
"I'm trying." Michael tried to gain his footing and promptly fell over again as Sam's bulk swayed into him. "Sam!"
"You save a guy's life and all he does is bitch." Sam's hand smacked Michael's head on the way to the controls. "Sorry," he added, without any particular note of remorse.
"I'm grateful." He tried standing again, this time making it to one knee. "Jesse's complaining."
Jesse groaned as Michael's other knee hit something soft. "Can't breathe. Tunnel. Bright light. Gran'ma?"
"And maybe dying," Michael conceded.
Grumbling, Sam moved to the side. Michael hauled himself to his feet and then extended a hand to help Jesse up. They clung to the side of the rig as it squealed and jerked, beginning its descent.
Michael craned his neck, trying to see if Fiona was still on the roof. It was a bad angle, there was no way to tell; he guessed she was on her way down.
Through Marlow's men. "Wait! Sam, we need to get back up there."
"We really don't." Jesse shook his head with a hard half smile. "We already cleared an exit, you went over the side before we could give you the heads up."
Michael looked down again, watching the ground below for any sign of Fiona. "Yeah, that wasn't actually the plan. I try not to throw things off buildings."
Sam coughed, tone mildly incredulous. "Mike, you drove my car off a building once. You remember that? The sun was shining, birds were singing, terrorists were blooming…"
"Wasn't it Mrs. Reynolds' car? And it was a parking garage, so technically-" A familiar silhouette appeared on the street below them, walking, not running. He breathed out. "There she is."
"He fell," Fiona said, when the rig finally settled the sidewalk. "He fell off the fricking roof!"
Sam managed to keep a straight face; Jesse covered a grin with his hand before succumbing to what Michael considered an implausibly long coughing fit.
"Could happen to anyone," Jesse gasped when he was finally done, then pulled Fiona into a hug. "How's it going?"
"Good. Better." She hugged him back, arms – Michael knew from experience – probably almost painfully tight. Jesse didn't seem to mind.
"Apart from the whole roof thing." She released her grip just enough that she could beam up at him. "It's really great to see you." She glanced at Sam, expression teasing. "Both of you, I guess."
"Yeah, yeah, don't strain yourself." Sam gave her a one-armed shoulder hug and darted back, neatly avoiding the pincers.
Michael reached for her, received a venomous glare and let his arm drop. He tried to look contrite as he moved into a defensive position as subtly as possible. Fiona slipped inside his guard, delivered a kiss just this side of bruising and stepped away the moment he tried to hold her.
She scowled and her hand came up sharply; one thin digit stabbed him in the chest. "Don't. Do it. Again."
"Okay," he agreed.
She smiled. "Liar."
When you're a spy, you live with the fact that wherever you are, whatever life you've built around your cover, one day you may need to leave in a hurry – and you won't always have the support of your grateful government.
For most spies, a fast exit is accomplished with go-bags, multiple stash locations, safe houses, and an encyclopedic knowledge of local transport. In worst-case scenarios, it may also involve enraging an explosives expert and her extended, frighteningly tight-knit family.
Of course, when you're a spy with a family of your own, things are more complicated: very few schools include a "Hunted by a psychotic arms trafficker" option on their absence slip.
Fiona paused, pen hovering over paper. "I thought I'd go with a death in the family."
"Sure. Wait." Michael finished tweaking the direction of camera 6 and looked up, confused. "Doesn't that make five great-grandfathers, now?"
"Are you judging my grandmother, Michael Westen?"
"No. No, I'm not." Michael shook his head. "Any of them."
Fiona smiled sharply, checked the box and signed the absence slip. "I'll ask Carol to take it with her when she drops off Tamsin."
"Mm." He nudged the camera again, chasing a shadow. It was just a cat, prowling the bushes in the wee hours of the morning.
Once, if it had been just him and Fiona, they'd have grabbed their go bags, stripped the house of any incriminating evidence and been on their way within half an hour. If they'd even bothered going back at all.
Now, things were a lot more complicated and those complications mostly involved childcare.
Michael watched the monitors as Fiona moved around the small kitchen. She was efficiently ticking off the checklist involved in making sure that Charlie would be safe and happy, and that no one would be asking questions.
"You know what they say about an ounce of prevention, Mike." Sam was leaning against the counter, watching them both with an almost wary bemusement. Fiona's apparent domestication had clearly unnerved him, although he'd recovered when he'd counted the number of kitchen knives.
"We're in England, they use metric." Michael said flatly, hoping to head Sam's growing amusement off at the pass. "Sometimes. Why are you here, Sam?"
"He's sulking," Fi murmured in a stage whisper.
"Man fell off a roof," Jesse said reasonably, from his position by the door.
"Look, I didn't-" Michael raised his eyes to the ceiling, froze and waited for the sound of a bed creaking; feet on the floorboards. Nothing. He lowered his voice anyway. "Why are you here?" he asked again. "Not that we're not happy to see you both." He risked a quick, but genuine smile. "Really."
"Well, you know how I've always wanted to visit…" Sam looked askance at Jesse. "Slurry," the other man supplied promptly.
"Surrey," Fi corrected.
"Right," Jesse nodded with a grin. "That's what I said. Surrey. Although we figured we'd find you guys in Ireland."
"Mmm." She smiled faintly. "So did everyone else, hopefully. It's … nice here. There's..." Her mouth moved for a moment as she thought. "The schools," she said, finally. "The schools are very good. And of course there's the village fete." Her expression turned waxen. "And the book club. With sandwiches."
Sam glanced between them, looking doubtful. "The roof thing wasn't a cry for help, right?"
"I'm going to keep asking," Michael prodded gently. "You might as well tell me."
"Fiona's back on the grid." Sam's face fell. "Which I guess you already found out. I tried reaching out, but that started raising flags all over, so Jesse and I decided we'd go ahead and take a job in Norway."
Michael raised an eyebrow. "Norway?"
"Norway. Then we hopped a boat to Ireland, but you'd already moved on – although your mom sends her love, Fi. It's probably for the best if I don't pass on her message to you," he added, eyeing Michael.
"Thanks, I appreciate that."
"We finally make it here and the sitter tells us you've gone to some conference in London, where we find you dangling off a roof. And here we are."
"Gemma told you where we were?" Fiona frowned. "She knows better than that."
"Don't blame Gemma," Sam smirked. "I turned on the Sam Axe charm: she didn't stand a chance."
Jesse coughed. "And who would? But, also, she also recognized us from your pictures."
Sam shot him an unfriendly look.
"You came to warn us." Michael smiled again. It was a small, uncertain smile, the one that appeared when he had no idea how to respond. There were very few people who'd seen it; most were dead now, the rest were in the house.
Sam looked pleased for a moment, before gruffly recovering. "And try haggis, don't make a big deal out of it."
Fiona rolled her eyes. "Haggis is Scottish."
Jesse sighed heavily. "Great. All this way for nothing."
The door to the kitchen creaked open. Charlie, rumpled and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, clutching at his pillow, stood in the doorway.
Michael hadn't heard any movement in the hall or on the stairs; he grinned despite himself. Fiona shot Michael a glare, which he considered completely unreasonable – who wouldn't be proud of their kid's first undetected infiltration?
Charlie's face split into a grin. "Uncle Jesse! Uncle Sam!"
Jesse crouched next to him. "Hey, little man!"
Fiona started forward. "Charlie, sweetheart…"
"Charlie?" Sam gasped. "That's not Charlie, Charlie's just a kid! Who's this guy?"
Charlie giggled as Jesse swept him up, feet first.
"I'm five and a half! And that's the wrong way!"
"Huh? Really?" Jesse spun him in a 360. "Better?"
By now Charlie was laughing too hard to reply. Jesse shook his head as Fiona reached for him. "No worries, I'll take him back to bed. Upstairs?"
"Last on the left," Michael nodded. Last on the left, because anyone coming for him had to go past Michael first. Nate's room had been the last on the left once, too.
He looked back to the monitors as Fiona followed Jesse, muttering something about the toy bag.
"Wow, he looks a lot like Nate," Sam said quietly.
Michael's smile faded, but didn't disappear. "Yeah. He does. He got Mom's eyes though. That's good. She had great … " He trailed away, then turned and opened the fridge, pulling a yoghurt and a bottle of beer out.
Sam made a sound of appreciation as he took the beer. "So what was the deal at the hotel?"
Michael grimaced and ripped open the yoghurt pot with excessive force. He replied, tone so ironic it conveyed not just finger quotes, but italic emphasis. "Security Conference."
"Now there's a name that covers a multitude of sins."
"Right. And we got an invitation from Marlow. Delivered under the door. No stamp."
"'I know where you live.' Subtle. Doesn't seem like Kathleen's style. I thought she was willing to let bygones go by."
"She was. Lucas, not so much. Looks like he decided to expand the family business."
Sam whistled under his breath. "He got out? He wasn't even eligible for parole until … I don't know. The heat death of the universe?"
"I guess new evidence magically came to light. Or someone wanted him out more than the full weight of the law wanted him in."
"Anyone who has the pull to make Lucas Marlow a free man could just come after you themselves. Why bother to sic him on you?"
"Testing the water, maybe? I don't know. We reconned the hotel early, but it looked like he had the same idea. Didn't even bother to talk, just started shooting. Which is about where you guys came in. Give or take a minor misstep."
"Kind of weird the police didn't show up. I mean, gunfire isn't exactly an every day thing here, right? Whoever's behind this, those pockets are deep, Mike. And that kind of money? It's personal. Kind of makes me wonder why Lucas isn't on your doorstep right now."
"Something to ask Kathleen." Michael shrugged, digging in his yoghurt pot. When he looked up, Sam was studying him like he was trying to work out the answer to a question.
Michael could guess what that question was; he answered it. "We both knew we couldn't disappear forever."
"But maybe we hoped." Standing in the kitchen doorway, holding a toy truck in one hand and her Glock in the other, Fiona's expression was pinched. "I'm going to call my mother. Charlie loves staying there, and between her, my father and my brothers, there's no place safer."
"We figure this out, and then we come back," Michael promised.
"We come home." Her mouth tightened and her chin rose. "Well. I'm going to finish packing. Make yourselves useful and empty the slicks."
Before she could go, the telephone rang. Over the last few months, they'd first become accustomed to even having a house phone and then to actually receiving calls on it, but a call at 3am was a first.
Fiona eyed it with suspicion and then abruptly picked up, flicking it onto speaker. "Yes?"
"Fiona! Oh, thank God. It's Elaine. Elaine Van Allan. Please say you remember me."
"Laney?" Fiona's posture shifted from defensive to concerned. "Of course I remember you. Van Allan? Not-"
"Paul and I married, yes." Despite a watery sounding sniff, Michael could hear a fond note. "I've done something terrible and I'm so, so sorry. Please-"
"Of course!" Fiona flipped the speaker off and turned her back, murmuring too quietly to hear. The rest of the exchange was short. "We're going to New York," she said flatly when she hung up. Jesse glanced at Sam, Sam looked at Michael.
Michael considered Fiona's expression. "We're taking client?" He barely made it a question, so wasn't surprised when she didn't bother to answer.
He raised his hands and dropped them again. "We're taking a client," he confirmed.
Jesse raised an eyebrow as he headed back to his spot by the fridge. "So. Van Allan. Did you just get a future FLOTUS? Seriously? Because Sam and I have been finding lost cats. I'm just saying."
Sam threw a hand over his heart, careful that he didn't spill his beer. "I'm not good enough for you now?"
Jesse sniffed and tilted his head back, looking down his nose. "You weren't good enough for me then. I took pity."
"I'm a pity partner?"
"I can't believe you didn't invite us to the wedding," Michael said dryly.
"It was great, you'd have loved it. There was a twenty-one-gun salute and a flag. Everyone wore black – pretty classy." Jesse's tone was still light, but it had sharpened at the edges. His expression flickered, as if he'd even surprised himself.
Michael tightened his mouth and stared without any focus into the middle distance. "Jesse, I-"
Jesse made a sharp motion with his hand. "You know what? My bad. Never mind. Everybody's alive, Charlie's safe – that's the important thing, right?"
The fact is, however good your exit, however fast you make it and how much support you have, you're always leaving someone behind.
The trip to Ireland was uneventful: an early morning ferry trip from Holyhead that Charlie mostly slept through, a short detour around the more scenic parts of town to make sure they weren't being followed, and then Michael stayed in the car while Fiona carried Charlie to the door of her mother's unremarkable terrace house in Dublin.
Unremarkable to the untrained eye, anyway. It was, Michael was well aware, a fortress with nice curtains – one that smelled of sweet-scented tobacco and spiced apple, and always welcomed their youngest grandchild with delight.
Between them, he and Fiona's family had managed a mostly cordial détente. Michael tried to make himself as invisible as possible and, in return, when it was unavoidable that they meet, there was never a hint of animosity when Charlie was near. It was working so far.
He started the engine when Fiona slipped back into the car, but didn't pull away. She kept her face turned away, but the wetness on her cheeks reflected in the window. His fingers found her hand; squeezed gently. "He'll be okay."
"I know"
"And we'll be okay."
"I know. I know, Michael."
"As long as they don't have any roofs in their arsenal." He said after a moment, and her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
"Don't joke about it! When this is over, we're going to have a long refresher talk about that martyr complex of yours." She was indignant now; there was no trace of tears when she rounded on him.
"Yeah, I thought we might." He squeezed her hand again and, when he let go, she held on for just a moment longer.
Anyone who says that absence makes the heart grow fonder has never waited in JFK for three hours carrying a forged passport.
A black limo met them at the airport gates; the driver took their bags with a smile and a nod. If he knew anything about why they were here, he wasn't giving it away. Settling in the comfortable back seat, Michael spared a thought for Sam and Jesse, who were travelling on a later flight and wouldn't be arriving for a few hours yet.
Fiona made a pleased sound as she sat beside him. "It's been years," she said, as concrete sprawl of the airport gave way to the green stretches of the Belt Parkway. "I met Elaine when she was studying in Europe."
"Studying or studying?"
"She wasn't just some rich kid living off Mommy and Daddy, if that's what you're asking." Fiona looked uncomfortable. "Not exactly. Paul's another matter." Her expression darkened. "He's a good guy, or he was twenty years ago, but …"
A basic and often-successful interrogation technique involves saying nothing at all. You'll find inexperienced, untrained or defensive subjects start talking just to fill the silence.
The ethics of using it on friends and loved ones is a gray area.
"Elaine thinks she may be the reason Lucas came after us," Fiona admitted. "And there's a good chance he'll come for her too.
"I wanted you to meet her so you understood that anything she did was accidental. So we could help her. Laney is one of the sweetest people I know. After Claire died, she was … she kept me-"
"We'll help her," he promised. "We'll help her, we'll get Marlow off our backs, and we'll go home."
The gate swung open as they rolled up the driveway; by the time the limo came into view of the main house, a woman was waiting outside. She looked roughly Fiona's age and, from the clasp of her hands and nervous expression, he guessed it was Elaine.
Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a rough, not artful tail at the nape of her neck and if she was wearing makeup, there was no more than a touch of it. She wore a faded, unfitted t-shirt and, in concession to the changeability of the weather, a shapeless overcoat. Old, paint-splattered blue jeans and fingerless gloves completed the ensemble: not even slightly what he had pictured for the woman who'd married into one of the most influential families in the country.
The car had barely stopped before Fiona sprang out and drew her into a fierce hug, glancing back over her shoulder as if daring Michael to comment. He got out of the car more slowly, taking the time to slip on his shades and ran an eye over the house instead.
It was an older build, 20s or 30s maybe. The security was discreet, but it was present and impressive. When he looked back, Elaine and Fiona were talking quietly. The woman wasn't crying, but her expression had the pinched, unhappy look that suggested that was only because she was determined not to.
She straightened when she saw Michael's attention, nodded and held out her hand. "Mr. Westen. Fiona's told me so much about you."
He looked at the offered hand warily. "Did she?"
Fiona waved the comment away. "Don't worry, only the bad stuff."
Elaine barely missed a beat. "Thank you so much for coming and please, accept my sincerest apologies."
Closer now, he could see something familiar; in the tilt of her head, in the line of her jaw. The way those slate grey eyes stayed dry. Kathleen Marlow had two children: Lucas, and-
"Elaine Marlow." Michael kept his smile steady, but shot Fiona a meaningful look as he drawled. "You're friends with the Marlow family. You should have said."
"Only Elaine. I thought I'd let it be a surprise."
"That was thoughtful." Michael finally shook Elaine's offered hand and smiled brightly. "Any friend of Fiona's."
They made stilted small talk until Sam and Jesse arrived and then, when she couldn't delay any longer, Elaine led them into a small parlor room that looked homely and lived-in. They arranged themselves on comfortable chairs and Elaine smiled nervously. "Crazy, right? Whole house and, when I'm on my own, I just live in here."
They all made the polite murmurs of denial, although Sam's speculative expression suggested that he was considering asking if Paul had any unwed sisters. Or an interesting wine cellar. Jesse nudged him and raised a reproving eyebrow; Sam shot him an old fashioned look.
Michael felt a pang at the ease between them. It wasn't much of a pang, though; the phantom twinge of an old wound. Sam and Jesse were like brothers, and he would trade them both in a heartbeat for the life he shared with Fiona and Charlie. Had, in fact. He just wished he hadn't had to.
Elaine said something else, dragging his attention back. Fiona was sending her a sympathetic look. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and sighed.
"My mother … is my mother. I'm sure you all know her reputation." Her mouth twisted wryly. "I thought we had an agreement: she would stay out of my life and I'd keep telling the FBI I was washing my hair.
"I call on her birthday. She sends presents for the girls on theirs."
"The girls…?" Jesse asked delicately, only someone who knew him well would hear the new note of concern. Michael shared it. The slow, reassuring approach they were taking with Elaine would need to be accelerated if there were children in any possible danger.
"Staying with Paul's mother," she assured them. "It's the safest place."
"Usually is," Michael agreed, trying on a warmer smile.
Fiona took Elaine's hand and squeezed it encouragingly. "Go on. What happened, Laney?"
"Lucas." Her expression turned bitter. "Lucas said mom tried to have him killed. When I went to see him, he was, he was so pale in that bed, and there were so many wires. He couldn't protect himself in prison. I was scared I'd lose him."
Michael tried to think of a tactful way to suggest that she might share that fear with exactly no one: Kathleen Marlow was a ruthless trafficker of drugs, arms and people but, if she'd tried to have her own son killed, she'd have the moral high ground.
Sam didn't bother with tact. "Nuns would throw a party if they heard he was dead. With strippers."
"I know Lucas – I know he belongs in prison. He's done horrible things. But you have to understand it was to please our mother. When I was younger, he was the only good thing in my life. He helped me run away to Europe, he got me out of there."
"So you returned the favor," Jesse said into the awkward silence. "You got Lucas released."
"No! Not released. I'd never do that." Elaine shook her head vehemently. "Paul has … connections. He arranged for Lucas to be transferred to minimum security.
"I was stupid," she finished simply. "I was scared, and I was very, very stupid."
Michael could see the shape of the story now and it didn't cast any of the Marlow family in a particularly good light. "Let me guess: your mom had nothing to do with it?"
"Nothing. Lucas set it up. The attack. The hospital. Everything. He called and told me himself the day after he escaped. I didn't know what to do." She rushed on. "I couldn't ask Paul to do more, and I couldn't involve the police, and I knew, Fiona, you had … experience. But when I tried to find you, I ran into more and more red tape.
"On the same day I discovered you were officially dead, my investigator sent me CCTV footage of you in London."
Michael grimaced. Moving so close to a city with the densest CCTV coverage in the world hadn't been their first choice. "Okay, so how did Lucas know about us?"
"Apparently, the investigator was working for him as well." Elaine straightened and drew a breath, when she went on her tone was measured. "I'd never have looked for you if I'd known this would happen, or that he'd have heard of you. Both of you." Her expression sharpened with curiosity. "Should I ask why?"
Michael ignored the question. "Actually, this is good news - if we can keep it contained to Lucas, it doesn't have to go any further."
"That's why I invited you here, so I can try and give you the best possible resources to fix my mistake. I know Lucas is in the country, that was the last thing O'Dell – the investigator – told me before he disappeared." She swallowed, but almost managed to sound off-handed as she went on. "He knows I've tried to stop him, so I imagine he'll be coming for me next."
Sam's expression was sober, but not unsympathetic. "Lady, chances are, he's coming for us all."
The uncomfortable truth that most intelligence agencies prefer to ignore is that spies and criminals have a lot more in common with each other than they do the rest of decent, law-abiding society.
Compare the early life of a certain kind of spy with the early life of a certain kind of criminal and you'll find very little difference. The first thing you'll probably see is that home is really, definitely not where the heart is.
If it were, there'd be a lot less crime and significantly fewer people hacking your phone.
Widowed with two small children at thirty, Kathleen Marlow had taken her husband's fledgling enterprise and quietly, competently and with the minimum of upheaval, carved an empire simply from facilitating the movement of goods.
Sometimes that carving had been in the flesh of those who doubted her conviction, but not, she told herself, unnecessarily. Never without need. The death of one man, at the right time, in the right place, in front of the right eyes, might save the lives of a hundred others.
And her own, of course - she liked to think she was a woman of proportional response, but she was nothing if not pragmatic.
Her daughter, Elaine, had left to study in Europe and though after four years she'd come back to America, she'd never come home. They talked sometimes on the telephone, stilted conversations, both aware that anyone might be listening. The FBI interest in her affairs never ceased and, of course, there was whoever was monitoring Paul to consider as well.
There were two granddaughters that Kathleen had never seen; Elaine hadn't even sent photos. Then, she'd not sent photos of the wedding either.
And Lucas had been such a sweet child; somewhere she still had his first finger painting and the photographs from his sixth birthday. But sometime between that gap-toothed smile and now, he'd become a monster. One not even a mother could love.
Elaine had adored him, though. And Lucas had played the devoted big brother in turn, smirking at Kathleen as he'd stolen her daughter away piece by piece.
It didn't occur to Kathleen to imagine what she might have done to send them on their paths. She only knew that, one way or another, her children had broken her heart.
And now, she supposed, they were going to be the death of her. She remembered her own mother saying that, but her own mother had never stared down the barrel of a gun.
She stayed in her armchair, next to the fire and the photos of her children and raised a hand to gesture at the second chair.
Lucas hadn't changed a great deal since she'd last seen him. Auburn hair, so like her own before she'd gracefully allowed the gray its ground. He was in his mid-thirties now, and still no trace of gray in his. That boyish face that fooled so many people was still unweathered, though perhaps thinner. There was a bruise, mottled in yellow and purple, fading under his eye.
"You look well," she said, and left it there. There were any number of sharp comments she could add, but they would seem desperate in the face of that barrel and, if nothing else, she had her pride.
"You look old." Lucas took the seat she'd offered, gesturing for his men to fall back to the edges of the room. There was a shuffle of sound as they obeyed. She hadn't bothered to turn her head and count them, let alone acknowledge their presence. Five or six, she guessed. There had been no shouts, no gunfire – either Lucas' men were exceptionally well trained and her security was dead, or they'd been bought off. The latter was more likely, she was forced to admit, but they weren't the only hope.
"Waiting for Tomás?" Lucas's smile was pleasant, almost friendly. "You'll be pleased to know he didn't feel a thing."
"He taught you how to tie your laces," she murmured, trying not to let the flinch in her heart reach her face. Tomás.
"And how to clean a gun. That's why it was quick." Lucas leaned forward. "What did you teach me, mom? Should I be kind?"
Despite herself, Kathleen pressed back in her chair. Dimly, she heard the telephone begin to ring.
Lucas turned as the ansaphone clicked on and frowned as he recognized the voice leaving a message. "Mom? I'm sorry to call so late." There was a weighted pause, as if Elaine were listening to someone, before, "I just wanted to confirm we'll be arriving around lunchtime. Tell Tomás not to make anything; we'll eat on the way."
"Don't." Kathleen said shortly when the call ended. "Finish this now and if you ever had any real love for your sister, let it end here."
"My adoring sister was the only one who cared enough to get me out of jail, mom, of course I love her." Lucas smiled warmly. "It's been way too long since we were all together, don't you think?"
-o-
Elaine licked her lips nervously as she hung up the phone. "She would have answered. Or Tomás. Someone would have picked up."
Jesse frowned and sat forward, as if he'd like to start moving. "Guess we know where Lucas is."
"Then we call the police. I should have done it in the beginning." Elaine reached for the phone again.
Fiona gently covered Elaine's hand with her own, keeping the handset in the cradle. "It's not that simple. Lucas was inside for six years before he escaped. He broke out now for a reason. If we call the cops, they may be able to catch him, they may not, but we won't know who's moving against your mother. You'll all be in danger until we know who it is and what they want."
"So what do we do?"
Fiona released her hand and patted it absently. "What we do best."
There are a lot of things you need to consider when faking your own death. Most of them are logistical – a new identity, relocation, funding, deciding whether the moustache is really you. But the hardest part for most people is severing all ties, all friendships, because there's at least one platitude that's true: a secret shared by two people isn't a secret.
Of course, despite your best efforts, some friends - the best friends -won't believe you're dead unless they see a body and have the DNA confirmed by three separate labs.
They'll find you, even if they have to go via Scandinavia to do it.
For other friends, it may be kind of a shock.
"I went to your funeral."
"And we were touched, Barry. Seriously. And Fiona thought the black worked for you. We both did. Did you drop a few pounds?"
Barry wasn't appeased. "Do you have any idea what it looked like for someone in my position – someone of my standing – to be seen at your funeral? At Michael Westen's funeral? Do you have any idea what you did to my business?"
Michael could feel a headache growing, right between the eyes. "And I'm really, deeply sorry we're not dead."
"Hey, I'm glad you're alive, seriously, that's great – I'll let Seymour know, he was inconsolable-"
"-We'd really rather you didn't-"
"- Kept fondling his knife set and crying. So thanks for letting me know. Eventually. I'll-"
"-Barry."
"See you both aroun-"
"Barry."
"We're way past 'you're my friend or you aren't.'" Barry hissed, dropping the breezy tone. "Friends don't make friends hug unstable arms dealers while they stroke sharp objects and weep."
"I know. And I'm sorry. And we wouldn't be asking for your help if it wasn't important."
"You know I had drinks with Sam last week, right? He just sat there like nothing was new."
"He didn't know either. Not … exactly."
"Wow." Barry was quiet for a long moment. "You're a piece of work, Westen."
Michael rarely felt the need to defend himself, least of all to Barry, but the quiet words stung. "He suspected. We had to take care of Charlie. Charlie was the important thing. I'm sorry."
"Yeah, you said." Barry sounded slightly mollified, at least. "What do you need?"
"Lucas Marlow."
There was a low whistle. "No one needs him. I heard he's doing life in State. That thing with the acid. I mean. You almost have to admire the creativity, but that's someone you do not want on the outside. He was half a biscuit off the death penalty."
"And he escaped while he was being transferred to another unit. But I think there's a reason he's out now and I have a feeling he's not running the show. I want to know who's holding the leash."
"And why would I know something like that?"
"Ask around. Work with me, Barry, you're all I've got right now. Sam and Jesse are working their contacts, but no one has more fingers in more pies than you. We – I – can't do this without you."
"Yeah, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but I am so over the spyjinks and flattery will not get you everywhere." There was a pause. "But it's a pretty good start. Fine. I'll see what I can do. But you owe me, Westen. A postcard every now and then, would that be so much to ask?"
"Thanks, Barry."
Unless you're lucky enough to have friends and family who demonstrate affection with impeccably timed tactical support and overwhelmingly superior firepower, love is not all you need.
"This is too risky, Fi." Michael moved into her path as she crossed the room towards her bag; she veered smoothly around him. "We have to wait for Barry's intel," he continued, as reasonably as possible. "Then we figure out the best way forward."
"We know where Lucas is right now, Michael. If we wait, he'll be gone and God knows what damage he'll do." Fiona threw a roll of duct tape into her bag and then leaned her full weight down to force it closed. Michael took an instinctive step back. She smirked and shook her head as she jerked up the zipper. "Jesse and I can handle him, you concentrate on whoever was stupid enough to help get him out."
She was right. Of course she was right, and in her position he'd be making exactly the same arguments, but that didn't make it any easier. "Then take Sam as well, I can- "
"You need Sam. Hand me that Glock." She waved her hand impatiently. "No, the other one."
Elaine spoke from the seat she'd taken next the window. "I'm going as well. You won't get inside the house without me."
Fiona wavered. "Have you ever even fired a gun?"
-o-
The huge house was even emptier once Elaine, Fiona and Jesse had set out for Philadelphia. Sam muttered on the phone with his buddy while Michael stood staring blankly out the window and across the gardens, only half listening.
"Yeah, I got it, thanks."
Michael turned as Sam headed over. "Get anything?"
"One part rumor, two parts conjecture and a twist of agency double-speak."
"Thirsty, Sam?"
"You know, now you mention it, I am. Do me a favor -"
With a clear understanding of at least one of her guests, Elaine had left a small collection of beers on the sideboard; Michael grabbed a bottle and tossed it underhand while Sam went on.
"I don't know who's behind Lucas' jail break, we're still waiting on Barry for that, but I may have some idea why he's out.
"Seems Momma Marlow's mellowing in her old age. Stopped the two-legged part of her trafficking operations: it's just guns and drugs now."
"What a sweet old lady."
"Right. Thing is, she didn't let anyone take over the operation, so she basically cut off a major route. So I'm thinking, some of her previous partners might have been a little upset. Maybe figured Junior would be easier to deal with. Probably because they never met the psycho."
Sam took a long pull on the beer and sighed contently. "Import. I'm telling you, I should'a stayed in school."
"You have a masters, Sam."
Sam looked stricken. "Hey! What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas."
"Sure, but you were in St-"
"You may be dead, Mikey, but the living have an image to maintain."
"I'd swear in court I've never met an ox dumber." Michael grinned. "So your buddy didn't have any ideas who was behind it at all?"
"Nothing she could tell me. Reading between the lines? It sounds like a ATF-DEA joint taskforce - they're planning something big."
Michael smiled. "That's interesting."
Sam grinned widely back. "Brother, I'm telling you, I have missed that look."
-o-
Jesse glanced in the rear view. Elaine was dozing, but from the tightness around her eyes, it didn't look like her dreams were good. He was aware of Fiona in his peripheral vision. She was cleaning the barrel of her Glock. Again.
He cleared his throat quietly. "So you guys go back?"
"We spent a summer together in Paris. All three of us."
"Paris? Wow. Sounds ... really French."
"Oui. Elaine was there for the art; Paul was there for Elaine. I was … studying the language." Her lips curved in a smile that had a secret hidden right in the corner. Jesse wondered if Michael knew what it was, and promptly decided it was none of his business.
"I'm sure you're quite the linguist," he risked, and then went quickly on. "And you didn't keep in touch?"
"For a few months. But then Paul's father died, and Elaine had college. And I … well." Her half-smile turned wry. "Hanging out with a suspected terrorist isn't exactly a suitable occupation for the prodigal daughter of the Marlow operation, or for the golden haired boy of a political dynasty."
"Worked out for the Kennedys," Jesse pointed out. "Besides, Van Allan can't have been that worried. 'Marlow' isn't exactly a name that inspires warm, happy feelings in most people and he -"
"- Married me anyway?" Elaine guessed, with only a trace of sarcasm.
"I was going to say 'didn't let that stop him.' Kind of surprised he's not here now."
There was no reply from Elaine, or Fiona. Jesse kept driving.
-o-
Barry started talking almost as soon as Michael raised the cell to his ear. "I've got good news and I've got bad news, and, honestly, the good news is more bad news."
"You found who's behind Lucas," Michael translated.
"And it's not too late to go back to whatever untouched tropical island that you've been hiding out on. Are the piña coladas good? No, wait, don't tell me, I'll get jealous and I'm almost starting to forgive you. Well, Fiona anyway. Is she there?"
"She says hi. Who is it, Barry."
There was a pause and then, "The name Takarov ringing any bells?"
"Takarov? He was operating out of Miami."
"Right, until someone who shall remain nameless shut him down. You know they're still finding pieces of Ivan Petrov? And they're not big pieces, Mike.
"Takarov ran back to mother New York and the syndicate were not the happiest campers in the world that he lost Miami. It looks like he's using Lucas to make his move back to the top."
"Thanks, Barry. We appreciate it."
"Postcard!" Barry managed, just as Michael flipped his cell closed.
"Did I hear right?" Sam put the empty beer bottle down. "Takarov? He's a scum-sucking flesh trafficker. Those girls, Mike - if you hadn't got there when you did…"
"So this time we make sure he's shut down for good. Call your buddy, Sam. We're going to need a couple things."
-o-
Jesse killed the engine a block from a small two-storey on the edge of Haddonfield, surrounded by other houses much the same. Neatly clipped lawns, mailboxes and trees here and there. There was an old blue Ford and a black SUV in the drive.
Basically, it was the picture of suburban normality, which was kind of freaky given who owned it. "Huh."
Elaine leaned forward, resting her forearms between the headrests. "You were expecting something else?"
"Something a little more fortress of doom-ey, sure. Do they even make volcano lairs this small?"
Probably despite herself, Elaine grinned. "We grew up in that house with Tomás. And Greta - she was his wife. They'd been the housekeepers at the place my parents owned before Dad died. After he died, Mom lived in New York. She never came out here. After Lucas and I left, and Greta died, I guess Mom and Tomás … I don't know." She drew a breath and her tone hardened. "So, how are we going to do this?"
Fiona took over, speaking briskly. "You ring the doorbell, we go in. Jesse and I are friends you're organizing a charity drive with, you wanted to stop by and pick up some old toys to donate.
"Best case scenario: Lucas doesn't recognize me and plays along, Jesse and I will volunteer to stay downstairs while you go upstairs. He may let you bring Kathleen with you. If he does, you go upstairs and you stay there until Jesse or I come and get you, unless you think you can get out safely."
"Worst case scenario?"
Fiona smiled brightly and held up two bags, one in each hand. "We get to have a little fun."
"I haven't missed this." Jesse shook his head as he pulled out three water bottles and some folded cloth to tuck inside his jacket. "This I have not missed."
"Yes, you have."
"Little bit," he admitted to Elaine, once Fiona had left the car.
"I heard that!" Fiona replied in singsong as she darted away.
If you're trying to make a deal with the Bratva, the guys you want to approach are the Avtorityet, or captains. They're high enough in the chain to call some shots, but low enough that they still have something to prove.
The good news is that the Bratva aren't as structured as some other criminal organizations. You might talk to one guy in the morning and have to repeat yourself to another in the evening, and, if you talk fast, you can stay under the radar while you map the hierarchy and work out an angle of attack.
There's no more good news, you're dealing with the Russian mob.
Alex Morozov was the newest - and at forty-eight, oldest - captain in the New York Bratva and, worse, he was working for Takarov. It was because he was American born that he'd spent so long amongst the soldiers, he was sure, but now he had the chance to really prove himself.
The man who'd approached him for a meet was already at the hotel bar when he arrived. Slicked back hair, graying at the temples, a sharp suit and a lecherous smile that he was turning on the waitress handing him his drink. She wasn't charmed; he didn't seem to notice.
An idiot, Alex decided. And a narcissistic one. Easy.
The man held out his hand when Alex approached. "Finley. Chuck Finley."
"I know who you are." Alex looked at the hand; it withdrew when he made no move to shake it. "What do you want?"
"Actually, this is about what you want." Finley sipped his drink and leaned, lounged, back against the bar. "There are agencies with more acronyms than a teenager girl's cell phone, all working together, just to bring your bosses down."
Alex sniffed and took a step back. "Enjoy your drink. Then leave."
"But they haven't, have they? They've just sat and watched, because they have nothing to bring charges with - nothing that will do more than take a chip off the block."
Finley held up a hand, single finger extended. "Sorry, had nothing. Here's the deal: I'm going to give you two words. You're going to take those words to someone who's in a position to make a deal and they're going to come back with an offer within the next hour, or I'll be gone. Da?"
"Who do you think-"
Finley's smirk hardened. "Say, 'da,' Alexei. Or I'm taking this to Pavel. You really want me taking this to Pavel?"
Alex didn't. "Tell me."
Finley leaned forward and whispered two little words.
Michael watched as Morozov left the hotel at a fast walk, already pulling his cell out. He looked back and saw Sam giving a thumbs up through the huge hotel window.
He nodded back; glanced at his cell and pulled out into traffic.
-o-
"Mom?" The front door was unlocked; Elaine pushed it open. "Mom, we're here."
Fiona and Jesse followed on her heels, making soft compliments about the décor, the neighborhood – oh, isn't that a lovely picture. It was almost surreal. She'd never known exactly what Fiona did, but with her own background she'd been able to drawn some broad conclusions. When they'd met, the comfort they'd taken from each other had been all that mattered. Now she could see the way Fiona moved, the alertness hidden under the inane chatter. The way Jesse mirrored her, how they worked together.
For the first time, she began to wonder if they really had a chance.
Then Lucas stepped out into the hallway. He looked better than he had the last time she'd seen him, but the traces of the beating he'd taken – arranged – were still marking his face.
She tried to look surprised. "Lucas! Are you okay? Where's mom?"
"She's around here somewhere." Lucas grinned. It was the wide, happy smile she'd grown up with. The one that came before a joke to make her laugh, or a present he'd pull from his pocket like a magician. "You'll have to make do with me." He held out his arms and she willed herself to hug him enthusiastically, not to step back too quickly when he released her.
There was blood on his collar.
Behind her, Fiona coughed politely.
"Oh! I'm sorry. Janine, this is my brother, Lucas. Lucas, this is Janine and Mark. They're helping me with the toy drive."
Lucas leaned past her to shake Fiona's offered hand. "Fiona Glenanne," he chided gently. "And I don't think that guy really looks like a Mark, do you?"
Fiona snatched her hand away; Elaine felt a warm hand on her shoulder as Jesse drew her back, pulling her behind him. Lucas did nothing, except watch Fiona with bright-eyed interest.
"I'm a good brother," he said. "You really think I'd let my little sister hang around Europe without watching out for her?"
Jesse raised his hands as Lucas' men filed into the hall, guns drawn. "Have you noticed how we never, ever get the best case scenario?"
"Still better than book club." Fiona sighed and raised her hands.
She gave Lucas just enough time to register that one of them was holding a detonator before giving him a wide, happy smile and pressing the button.
-o-
"Michael Westen." Takarov said as he sat at the table Sam had claimed by the door, sounding only slightly out of breath despite his bulk.
He'd only seen photos of the man, but Sam thought Takarov had aged badly in the last few years: a few extra pounds, a lot of worry lines and gray hairs.
Honestly, Sam kind of sympathized: Mike had given him one or two of those too. "Two little words," he agreed amiably. "And with thirty-six minutes to go. Did you take 10th?"
"He's dead." Takarov eyed him; there was already a sheen of sweat gathering at his receding hairline. "Michael Westen is dead."
"Then I guess you have nothing to worry about." Sam made a motion to stand, stopped when the hand of one of Takarov's men dropped heavily on his shoulder.
"Are you sure it's him?" Takarov pressed, leaning towards him.
Reaching – slowly – into his jacket, Sam withdrew a small folder and slid it over. He watched Takarov's face as he saw the top picture, the one showing Michael Westen in a DEA windbreaker, conferring with a woman in an ATF cap. His buddy hadn't been that difficult to convince, not with Lucas Marlow on the loose.
Sam shrugged. "Pretty sure. Now look at the others." Behind them were a series of snaps, clearly from an outside surveillance camera. They showed Lucas smiling and hugging his sister. Lucas, shaking Fiona's hand.
"You know who she is? That's Fiona Glenanne. She and Westen work together. Lucas is setting you up, Takarov. And they're helping him. I've got more.
"So, will you be paying with cash or check?"
It's generally considered that the more powerful your target is, the bigger the weapons you'll need to take them down. The fact is, the more powerful your target is the easier it is to use that power against them.
Their paranoia is the best weapon you'll ever have. Explosives are a perfectly good second.
The detcord that had been carefully arranged on the sides of the Marlow house ripped holes through the walls, filling the ground floor with a concussive noise, dust and – Fiona's own special addition – clouds of pepper.
Fiona ran forward, and kicked out viciously hard. Still clutching his ears, Lucas didn't even see it coming; the foot caught him under the sternum and flung him back into the wall. He landed with a choked-off shout.
The other men were already running, blindly trying to make their way out. There was no danger of the house falling, but they had no way to know that.
Jesse pushed Elaine back towards the front door and handed her a water-soaked cloth. "Put it over your mouth and nose."
She nodded rapidly and watched as Jesse did the same before he flung himself after Fiona.
Fiona grabbed the dripping cloth that appeared in front of her streaming eyes and held it to her face. With her other hand, she gestured for him to take the kitchen. There was nothing in there but the remains of a microwaved dinner that several hours old. He cleared the laundry room and met Fiona back in the hall. "Upstairs?"
Lucas was weakly beginning to move; Elaine stared at his jacket, where she imagined the blood to be. When she tracked up to his face, she saw his eyes were open. They were raw-looking, blood-shot, with tears streaming. And there was nothing in them she recognized; nothing that recognized her.
His fingers scrabbled for his gun, but Fiona had kicked it towards Elaine. Their eyes met.
Lucas lunged forward.
He'd always been the quicker one.
The thing about platitudes, maybe the worst thing, is that they don't give you the whole story. Maybe a chain is only as strong as its weakest link, but when that link breaks, what you're left with are two really strong chains.
When she heard the shot, Fiona was cutting the ropes that tied the bloody and disheveled, but alive, Kathleen in the chair in a bedroom that looked like it had belonged to a teenage girl.
Jesse bolted for the door and Fiona almost cut herself in her haste as she redoubled her efforts. One hand finally came free and Kathleen snatched the knife from her. "Go," she rasped. "Go."
When she reached the top of the stairs, she clung to the bannister as she took in the scene below. Elaine was alone, gripping a gun in her hands, expression repulsed. No Jesse. No Lucas.
"He – I shot him and he ran out."
Jesse appeared in the front door and nodded confirmation through the clouds of dust still hanging in the air. "The SUV's gone."
Fiona's cell phone had vibrated several minutes before; she checked the short text and smiled grimly. "He won't get far. The Russians think he got a deal from the ATF to set them up. If he's got any sense, he'll try and make one. If he gets the chance."
She heard the floorboard creak and turned; Kathleen had made it out of the bedroom. Her graying hair was streaked with blood and there was a small burn on her cheek. She squared her shoulders and pushed gently past, to make her way slowly down the stairs.
Elaine stood to meet her at the bottom. "Mom?"
Kathleen held her daughter for the first time in over a decade; neither cried.
Spies don't tend to believe everything happens for a reason - especially bad things. When you care about someone enough, the reasons don't matter – all that matters is what you'll do to make it right.
'Right' depends on the person. For some people, it might be testifying against the Bratva – and their own son – to make sure their daughter is safe. Even if they go to jail.
For others, it could mean convincing their husband to pull a few more strings, so their old friend – and their old friend's boyfriend and son – can come home. Really come home.
And for others it might mean calling up an arms dealer and listening to him cry for half an hour, because it turns out that their money launderer is also an accomplished blackmailer.
"But," Michael concluded, "you know what they say about the best revenge."
Charlie stared down at the paper in front of him, pencil still gripped in hand, poised to try and finish his homework. When Mrs. Dynan had asked the class to find examples of sayings, he'd figured it would be easy. Dad knew almost everything. And whatever he didn't know, Mom definitely did.
"No," he said. Then more hopefully, "Is it a saying?"
"I'm not going to give you all the answers, kiddo." Michael ruffled his hair until he squirmed away, then stood and headed for the kitchen. "Do your homework, then maybe we'll run surveillance on your mom when she goes shopping for Christmas presents."
There was a snort from the other end of the table, where Fiona was carefully wrapping her snow globes in newspaper for the long trip back to the States. "There's no fool like an old fool."
Michael grinned over his shoulder. "Hope springs eternal."