Fiona Glennane was brave. She was violent, she was skinny, and she was Irish. But most of all, she was brave. She knew this was all her fault. Michael might attempt to reassure her and Sam may point out the one who they should really blame it on was that son-of-a-bitch Anson, but she was smart. He had baited her, known exactly how she would react. She had played into his little trap, and gotten Michael stuck with her. So she was going to take care of it in the only way she knew how.
He had contacted them again. While Michael was out, working a job. This was the perfect chance for her. They were to meet that day, at a cafe. She hadn't told Michael, of course she hadn't. He wouldn't let her go through with what she was planning. But that meant no goodbye. She couldn't tear up. She had to seem normal. So Fiona stood from where she was sitting at the table, watching Michael as he focused on listening to a bug. Sucked up in his work, like usual.
"Well, I'm going shopping. Give me a call if you need me," she said casually. He glanced up and accepted a kiss from her, then went back to the bug. She smiled slightly, glancing around the one room apartment. She had known he probably wouldn't be too happy with all the changes she made, but before now it had simply been a place to sleep. Now it seemed more like a home. Her home, and his. A place for them to be together. She picked up her purse when she left, one of her many. It didn't matter which one she chose, they all had guns. But today she had chosen a special one. One that might send Michael one last message. Her H&K USP Compact with the chrome slide. She had noticed him holding it as she walked out, a simple glance back that revealed him staring at it sadly. She knew her almost leaving had been the wake up call he needed. He had realized he loved her, and now she was letting him know that she loved him too. She knew he would find out what gun she had used. He would find out every detail about what had happened, one way or another.
The cafe was small, out of the way. A quaint place, cute really. Under different circumstances she would've considered coming here more often. Unfortunately, she doubted she would be going anywhere soon. That bastard Anson was sitting at a table in the corner, sipping. On something. A coffee, she assumed. Fiona slid into a seat opposite him, waving away the waitress. Anson glanced at her before returning his attention to his mug.
"Where's Michael? He's the one I want."
"He's busy. I can tell him the details later. What do you want?" she spat out, hatred making her voice sharp.
"No, no, I want to see his face when I tell him the job. We'll just reschedule for when he can be here," Anson replied smugly, moving to stand up. Fiona moved with him, withdrawing the gun from her purse. For the moment it was hidden by his body, the way they were standing. Anson glanced down at the weapon and smirked.
"I have someone who is going to send your little confession to the FBI the moment anything happens to me. You'll never do it." Fiona smirked back, eyes glimmering in victory. The psychologist blinked in surprise, reading the look on her face as determination, realizing what this meant even as she told him.
"I don't care what happens to me, but you will leave him alone. You're done, Anson. We both are."
He had contacted them again. While Michael was out, working a job. This was the perfect chance for her. They were to meet that day, at a cafe. She hadn't told Michael, of course she hadn't. He wouldn't let her go through with what she was planning. But that meant no goodbye. She couldn't tear up. She had to seem normal. So Fiona stood from where she was sitting at the table, watching Michael as he focused on listening to a bug. Sucked up in his work, like usual.
"Well, I'm going shopping. Give me a call if you need me," she said casually. He glanced up and accepted a kiss from her, then went back to the bug. She smiled slightly, glancing around the one room apartment. She had known he probably wouldn't be too happy with all the changes she made, but before now it had simply been a place to sleep. Now it seemed more like a home. Her home, and his. A place for them to be together. She picked up her purse when she left, one of her many. It didn't matter which one she chose, they all had guns. But today she had chosen a special one. One that might send Michael one last message. Her H&K USP Compact with the chrome slide. She had noticed him holding it as she walked out, a simple glance back that revealed him staring at it sadly. She knew her almost leaving had been the wake up call he needed. He had realized he loved her, and now she was letting him know that she loved him too. She knew he would find out what gun she had used. He would find out every detail about what had happened, one way or another.
The cafe was small, out of the way. A quaint place, cute really. Under different circumstances she would've considered coming here more often. Unfortunately, she doubted she would be going anywhere soon. That bastard Anson was sitting at a table in the corner, sipping. On something. A coffee, she assumed. Fiona slid into a seat opposite him, waving away the waitress. Anson glanced at her before returning his attention to his mug.
"Where's Michael? He's the one I want."
"He's busy. I can tell him the details later. What do you want?" she spat out, hatred making her voice sharp.
"No, no, I want to see his face when I tell him the job. We'll just reschedule for when he can be here," Anson replied smugly, moving to stand up. Fiona moved with him, withdrawing the gun from her purse. For the moment it was hidden by his body, the way they were standing. Anson glanced down at the weapon and smirked.
"I have someone who is going to send your little confession to the FBI the moment anything happens to me. You'll never do it." Fiona smirked back, eyes glimmering in victory. The psychologist blinked in surprise, reading the look on her face as determination, realizing what this meant even as she told him.
"I don't care what happens to me, but you will leave him alone. You're done, Anson. We both are."
A waitress screamed as a gun shot echoed around the cafe and a man slumped to the ground. The petite woman with the gun didn't even bother to run as the waitress dialed 911. What was the point? The FBI would be on her tail soon, and she had just murdered someone. As sirens screamed closer, Fiona Glennane smiled once more, allowing a single tear to slide down her cheek as she held the H&K USP Compact with the chrome slide to her head. The police and doctors rushed in to find several customers screaming, a waitress fainted on the floor, and two dead bodies. One a man and the other a wiry, Irish female with a reckless grin on her face. In death as in life, Fiona Glennane was violent, she was skinny, and she was Irish. But most of all, Fiona Glennane was brave.