Authors note and WARNING: This story starts out more violent and dark than anything else I've posted, just in case anyone's squeamish. No offense is meant to anyone from English or Irish descent, I'm just using the setting mentioned in the show. Also, future chapters will be longer. Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy :)
Prologue
Business was drying up in this part of the world. The crackpots in the IRA were usually good for a purchase or twenty, but England's peace negotiations were making everyone very careful. And no shooting meant no money. Well, he was about to remedy that. He opened his trunk and addressed the soldier bound and gagged inside.
"I'm afraid I'll need to borrow a few things," he said, causing the man's eyes to widen.
Ten minutes later, he strode into the Belfast Shopping Centre looking like a legitimate member of the English armed forces. He positioned himself on a second-floor landing with a view of the lower level. A single security camera pointed at him from above the service exit. With black-gloved hands, he pulled first a remote control and then a simple handgun from his pack. A push of the button on the remote control activated a device he had placed in the security camera days ago, shorting it out. He smiled. It would only take one shot, and the IRA would jump back into action. Everyone would think a "British soldier" had shot an innocent civilian. Which reminded him. He snagged his uniform on a door hinge and pulled until it ripped. He knew the specialized fabric would be strong evidence for the police. Finally he picked up the handgun. It was such a crude weapon. Nothing like the new M4 model or the V61 for aim or power. But no one would suspect an arms dealer of using rubbish like this.
The crowd swarmed through the shops and walkways below. It didn't really matter who he hit, and the aim on the pistol probably wouldn't allow him to pick a specific target. Nevertheless…. He pulled the trigger, the excitement rushing through and leaving him almost before it came.
He had hit a young woman. Blood was spattered across her pretty face, more pulsing from the wound in her chest. She would die slowly, painfully. Good. Hearts would bleed across the nation for the beautiful girl who had been cut down before her time. And bullets would fly.
He walked calmly out of the service exit, clipped one end of the rope to the railing, and repelled down. He would drive a safe distance away before killing the soldier in his trunk, make sure it looked like a suicide, and watch as everyone blamed one victim for the other's death.
As the engine revved to life, Claire Glenanne choked on her own blood and slipped away.
In Prague, a young couple hid in a shabby hotel room, knowing that the police were combing the city for them. The man looked worried and was taking stock of his supplies, packing up a black bag. The woman was brushing soot out of her hair, looking quite nonchalant, even pleased. It was she who broke the silence first.
"Michael, I think we should get married."
There was a serious undertone in Samantha's voice that was rarely present, but when Michael Westen's head whipped around to look at her in astonishment, she wore her customary mysterious grin.
"I…"
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes. I think it is."
And he allowed himself one brief, fierce kiss before saying, "I have an assignment in Dublin. Samantha, I'm sorry—"
"Stop," she said, looking amused. "I'll be right where you left me."
In the private, government funded jet, Michael did not share news of his engagement, receive a celebratory toast, or indeed give any outward signs that he had just been proposed to. In fact, the only other living souls on the plane were the pilot and a six foot eight sunglass-clad man two rows behind him. And this wasn't the kind of private jet that was stocked with bottles of champagne and other delicacies. Instead, it was loaded down with just about every kind of plastic explosive, semi-automatic, and automatic weapon a spy could wish for. Still, if there was any safe place for a covert operative to let down his guard, it was here, where the decisions lay with someone else for once and enemies were miles below. Contentedly, Michael gave in to the happy buzz in the back of his mind. There couldn't be a more understanding, unique, beautiful, perfect woman in the world for him. What other woman would understand that he left not because he didn't care, but because this job was a part of him and it was the only way he could show the world that he did care.
A gruff voice interrupted his thoughts. "You got everything? 'Cause you're on your own 'till you can hand us Sheehan."
"You've done your job," Michael answered the tall man, indicating the heavy black bag in his hand.
As the jet roared deafeningly, thoughts Samantha were locked behind steadfast gates in his mind. He had a job to do, and thinking about anything else might get him killed. Then he saw the car his handler had reserved for him. Rusting, the windshield already cracked in places, was a 1960 Minnie Cooper. Michael fervently hoped that Sheehan would be easy to find.
A/N: Please tell me what you think! I hope to be posting more later on. Thanks for reading :)