Disclaimer, I don't own any part of Burn notice. This is all for fun
A/N: I started writing this story way back at the beginning of 2012 and then somehow it got forgotten and has been waiting unfinished. Now I will be posting new chapters weekly. Don't worry, they are all finished, so this time you won't be investing in a half finished story. I have also added content to the earlier chapters and the story has been BETA'd by my friend, writing buddy and talented author, Jedi Skysinger.
TWO HOURS TOO LATE
That was all it took for somebody else to take advantage of Michael's predicament.
The motel was a rundown dump, so close to Miami International Airport that every couple of minutes the whole building shook as nearby planes took off or landed. It was the type of place where the only customers they got were the desperate or those not necessarily looking for a place to stay the whole night. It was also the place where two days earlier Michael Westen's unconscious body had been delivered, the room paid for by one of the suited men who had dropped him off.
Laid out on a lumpy bed in a second floor room, the recently disavowed spy had been virtually dead to the world. The bruised and battered man had only woken a couple of times to answer the call of nature or to sip a glass of water. His mind and body needed rest and neither was taking no for an answer this time.
He was so out of it, he even failed to notice that on the second morning of his stay a concerned maid rifling through his wallet searching for a contact number. The young woman had become so worried about the unmoving figure on the bed that she had risked being accused of theft to get him help. The last thing she needed was this unknown man dying on her. No one would benefit from that, least of all of owners or the staff at the hotel. Not after what had happened the last time…
Five hours later, the maid had finished her shift, happy in the knowledge that some woman in New York City was leaving as soon as she could get a flight to come and take care of the near comatose man in Room 214. With any luck, he would be gone before she was due to return to work.
As she walked across the motel parking lot, the young woman glanced over to where a shiny, new model silver BMW was pulling up the street. Such vehicles were not normally seen stopping in this neighborhood. But she'd just worked a long shift and, after a casual glance, she thought no more about it, getting into her own car and driving away.
The well-dressed driver of the BMW strolled into the motel reception with a charming smile firmly in place. A minute later, this same stranger had the required room number and was walking briskly across the parking lot and up the stairs leading to the second floor.
Slipping silently into the room, the intruder took a moment to adjust to the dim light before going to the window to peer out through the blinds. The smile vanished at the sight of an obvious two-man surveillance team of FBI agents sitting outside in their even more glaringly obvious government issued Ford Crown Victoria. No time to waste… the figure turned and, after taking one long step, raised a leg and gave the bed a hard kick.
"Hey, no, no more…." Michael Westen groaned with one hand raised to ward off the attack he thought was coming as he turned to face the latest threat to his life.
Staring through blood shot eyes, the spy stared in disbelief at the interloper. "Aren't you dead?"
"That's the rumor, Kid. Just don't tell my ex-wife any different." Larry Sizemore beamed his thousand watt smile at his former protégé. "I heard a really interesting piece of gossip the other day and I just had to come see for myself." He waggled a finger at the younger man. "You've been a very bad boy or so the wet rags in DC are saying."
"Someone put a burn notice on me, Lare." Michael ran his fingers through his hair before giving the older operative a suspicious look, unsure if he was speaking to a hallucination or the man himself. After all, the last time he had seen Larry Sizemore, a large part of a Russian oil refinery had been collapsing on his head. "So, what did you hear?"
"Oh, you know, the usual water cooler stuff. The great Michael Westen went off the reservation… unsanctioned kills, selling secrets. Really, Kid, you should be grateful you're not sitting in Gitmo."
The other man gestured with his chin towards the window which gave a clear view of the alley below. Taking the hint, with a gasp of pain, the younger man slowly got to his feet. Swaying slightly, he wrapped one arm about his ribs before taking the couple of steps necessary to look out of the window. As he stared out at the view, a feeling of dread settled over him. "Where are we?"
"Miami... Hey, isn't this your home town? You could go see your mom... Play house." Larry chuckled, enjoying himself immensely. "But I would say a family reunion is the least of your worries…. Take another look."
Michael's lips thinned as he looked over at his former mentor, trying to decide if this ghost from his past was here to help or not... When had good old Lare ever done done anything that wasn't for his own benefit? But after one more peek between the blinds, the burned spy's mind was made up.
"Do me a favor… I need to find out what happened, try to limit the damage, and I can't do it with a FBI tail. Think you can get rid of them for me? You know, shoot one of them in leg. Set the other one on fire. Whatever, but do it in about ten minutes." He was already heading for the bathroom. To hell with worrying about the man's motives; he was sure that he would find out all about it sooner rather than later.
"I do this, you listen to my business proposal?" Larry called out as his former junior partner disappeared into the bathroom.
And there it was...
But the thought was gone in a flash as Michael's mind was already running through all the things he needed to get done as quickly as possible before his own government closed him down completely.
"Sure, whatever, just keep those feds busy in ten minutes."
ooo BN ooo
Two hours after Michael had slipped away from the motel, a petite auburn haired woman dressed in skinny jeans and a tight fitting T-shirt stepped out of a taxi and found a crowd of onlookers blocking her way to her destination. Behind designer shades, her blue-green eyes narrowed as she caught sight of the yellow police tape cutting off the way to the front of the motel and the entrance to the neighbouring side street.
Pushing her way through the crowd, she eventually reached the front, choosing a spot where her image would not be captured by the throng of news reporters with their cameras. Desperate for information, she scanned the crime scene while listening to every scrap of gossip coming from the crowd. Slowly, the redhead began to build a picture of what had happened.
On the side street, two bodies had been pulled from a burned out wreck. The car, a government vehicle in her expert opinion, was now surrounded by men in jackets emblazoned with the FBI logo. Meanwhile in the motel itself, a body believed to be that of the receptionist had been found, hidden under the counter and stabbed through the heart.
Her eyes strayed to the second floor rooms, her blood running cold when she noticed the door to Room 214 was wide open and she could just make out the shape of people moving around inside. Having seen enough, the lithe woman quickly faded back into the crowd and away from the multiple crime scenes.
When she had first received the call from one of the cleaning staff, Fiona Glenanne had been surprised by her reaction to the news that Michael Westen lay badly injured in a Miami motel. The urge to drop everything and run to him had been impossible to fight. She had told herself it had nothing to do with him being injured. It had to do with her getting some closure.
She had convinced herself that if he was indeed hurt as badly as the woman on the phone had claimed, then he wouldn't have the strength to run away when she demanded the answers she craved. Why did tha bastid keep running away fram her, only taa keep coming back ta finagle his way back inta har arms? Afterwards, she would let him know exactly what she thought of him and walk away with her head held high.
But now a cold chill crept up her spine as she realized whatever trouble Michael was in, it was far worse than she had first thought. The Irishwoman wondered about his connection to the three dead bodies and about where he had gone... Whare ar' ya, Micheal? And whot tha hell have ya done? And why tha bloody hell wa' it me name in yar wallet as an emergency contact? Ya donnae keep tha name o' someone ya left as a contact.
Reaching a bus stop, she joined the line of people waiting. There was no way she going back to New York now. There was an old enemy who had been creeping about and asking questions, trying to find her. Staying in Miami would throw him off the scent at least for a while.
Getting on to the bus, she sat down. I'll get me a room in tha city centre and start making me own inquiries. A smile came to her face as Fiona remembered something. Michael had family in tha city. That would be the place to start. She was pretty sure if she nosed around his family, then he would come looking for her.
ooo BN ooo
Michael walked along the bustling crowded street in a daze. For the first time in over ten years, he felt like his world was spinning out of control. His handler was refusing to take his calls. The damn man who he had considered his friend wouldn't even take the time to explain to him what had gone wrong. His bank accounts, credit cards, every legitimate dollar he had earned was frozen, inaccessible and to top it off they had dumped him in the one place he loathed with a passion.
So now, as much as he hated it, he had no choice but to go along with whatever scheme Larry Sizemore was running and hope that the man would in return help him out of his predicament.
His old mentor, the man who had nearly cost him his sanity and his job, was now the only person in the world talking to him.
Just before Larry had left the motel room, he had handed him a business card with a phone number on one side and on the other side in Larry's small neat handwriting a time and a place.
Carlitos South Beach 2pm.
Reaching into his pants pocket, Michael searched through for change. He had hoped to find enough to take a taxi; however, just like everything else in his life at the moment, he had no such luck. With a snarl of frustration, the disavowed spy joined the line at the bus stop. As he waited, he took his mind off his broken ribs by coming up with the most painful and prolonged methods he could think of to kill the people who had burned him.
He found Larry sitting out in the open, sipping from a small cup as if he didn't have a care in the world. "It's called a cortadito." The undead spy called out, raising the cup in a form of greeting as Michael took a seat facing him. "Delicious to drink and fun to say, corta-dito." He almost sung the last word.
"Glad to see you making yourself at home, Lare." Michael waved away the waiter. "So, what do you want?"
"You… I want to go back to working with you." He leaned forward, his blue eyes shining with an intensity that Michael was only used to seeing when they had been handed a particularly nasty assignment. "I have money, the contacts. I can keep you safe."
"And what do I have to do for all this... generosity?"
"Nothing you're not already doing, Kid, and with me in charge you'll earn a lot more than a government paycheck."
"I didn't..." Michael began to protest, but Larry held up a hand.
"Oh don't try that whole boy scout routine on me, Michael. I know exactly what you're capable of." He finished his beverage and slid a brown colored folder over the table. "This is the job."
He then pulled out a thick roll of hundred dollar bills, dropping the whole roll into Michael's hand. "And this is for you to go buy some decent clothes and get a room for a couple of nights. Have a read and then give me a call. Let me know if you ever want to leave this dump."
The older man took a step and then turned back, leaning over the table so his mouth was inches from Michael's ear. "Oh, you should probably keep a low profile. That surveillance team, I did what you asked me to…I shot 'em and set 'em on fire. The Feds are probably gonna want a word with you."
The older man stood up straight, grinning back at Michael's stunned expression.
"Well, you have a good day, Michael. Call me later."
ooo BN ooo
Commander Sam Axe (retired) sat in a comfortable well-padded chair, facing an old associate from his glory days as a top flight Navy SEAL trying to hide a very slight case of envy. There was no doubt that ex-CIA operative Lucy Chen had done very well for herself since getting out of the spy trade. She had left the Agency before the job could claim her soul and now was the head of a private security company with a penthouse office overlooking the Atlantic.
"This is it?" he asked waving the file she had handed him a few minutes earlier. "The guy has forty six hundred dollars and this job – well, let's be real here, sister, it's going to be a pain in the ass." He threw the file down on the desk top.
"Look, Sam, you asked me for a job. This is it... I told him it's too small for us. Sooooo if you don't want it either…" The petite dark haired woman shrugged her narrow shoulders and pouted sadly. "I guess the poor guy will go to jail."
"Ok I'll do it." The disgraced ex-SEAL groused and rolled his eyes. He had already decided he would take it as soon as he had read the details. "But only because my lady friend has gone back to Colorado for Christmas."
"Thank you, Sam. I'll give the client a call; let him know to expect you."
There were many things Lucy Chen was good at. But at the top of that long list was the ability to manipulate a certain former military man. She had known he would take the job as soon as he read all about the underdog with a little kid.
Sam was at the door when the raven haired Ms Chen brought up a subject that had been playing on her mind ever since she had received a certain classified information. "Did you know they've burned Michael Westen?"
"Yeah, I think, it's bullshit but what can you do?" Sam replied sadly, thinking of his old friend. "I'll let you know how this case goes. Stay beautiful, Lucy." He turned the door knob and headed for the elevators.
Tomorrow he had an appointment with an estate manager called Javier and tonight he had a date with a special lady up in Bal Harbour while the lawyer's wife was out of town… After that, who knew? The one sure thing was that for this particular retired navy man, life was extremely good.