A/N: First things first. I'm sorry it's been a ridiculously long time since I last updated, but I do intend to finish the story as quickly as possible now. Also, for those of you who read the prologue when I fist posted it, I added something quite important about Fiona's story line…sorry!

Chapter 2: Buried, Tricked, Trapped

Fiona Glenanne was finding the action of taking air in and out of her lungs difficult. It wanted to be gasped in, hissed out; her eyes wanted to close and stay closed, salt and water streaming from them. She was doing that thing she so rarely did alone, much less in front of people. She was crying. When she looked down into her cupped hand and saw not the damp earth she held, but bright red blood coating it. Again she sucked in cold air and felt it burn her chest. It wasn't her fault. She dropped her handful of dirt into the hole, hearing it thud against the coffin. Not her fault.

The first of Fiona's four brothers stepped forward and dropped his handful of dirt onto Claire's coffin. Fiona wanted to push him aside, stand between her sister and those who would have her hidden under the ground. With the burial clothes hiding the wounds in her chest, Claire hardly looked dead at all, merely sleeping. Fiona had seen her with her own eyes at the service. If she was right there, how could she be gone? But she would die if they buried her, hid her away. She shook her head. Claire was dead, as so many she had known were, sacrificed for their cause.

Fiona was used to living in a house full of boys. Her mother was too much like her, more interested in flamethrowers than cooking ovens, to offer a feminine influence. As for her oldest sister, Brenda, the Glenannes rarely saw her or her new husband. So it had been Fiona, her parents, her four brothers, and Claire. Claire wasn't like Fiona and her mother. She flirted with the boys in their town and spent her money on purses and shoes. She didn't know the difference between a blunderbuss and arquebus rifle. And she had annoyed Fiona because she never quite seemed to understand the importance of what they did. But Claire had looked up to Fiona and that meant everything.

Sean, the brother that cared most for Fiona, noticed that she was stroking the green scarf draped over her plain funeral wear. He didn't recognize it, which was why it was safe for Fiona to take it wherever she went. Items with personal connections weren't safe to keep, but no one knew that this was the scarf Clair had bought when she died. Scarves were just like Claire, stylish, but no thought for the danger of being strangled by the damned things. Fiona didn't care; it was a reminder of what Claire had taught her: your life couldn't be single-mindedly focused on one cause, no matter how deserving it was.

Sheehan was not an easy man to find. The arms dealer had recently been supplying crime syndicates all along America's east coast and the CIA wanted his head. To make matters worse, Michael had few contacts in Ireland, and he was on bad terms with almost all of them. Currently he was driving down a long country lane under a miserable curtain of rain. He took out his cell phone (cell phone in the singular, because government agencies always insisted on giving him guns and underestimated the usefulness of mobile phones) and dialed his handler's number.

A firm, crisp voice answered. "This is Daniel Siebels, United States Department of Defense. Who am I speaking to?"

"Relax, Dan, it's me." There was no reply; he tried again. "This is Michael Westen, covert operations."

"Your first assignment, Michael?"

"Officially Afghanistan, 1990, but off the books, Russia, 1989. Are you done now?"

"Yes, but is it so much to ask that you use a secure line for once in your life?"

Michael ignored this. Years of training had taught him to control his temper at all costs, to keep a cover even when his quarry said and did things that made him want to shoot everything in sight. But simple annoyance was different. And he was very annoyed with Dan.

"Look, I'm not asking for an Aston Martin here, but why…" He counted for a few seconds in his head. "Are you trying to get me killed Dan?"

"Are you talking about the Mini Cooper?" Dan laughed. "It'll help you blend in."

It was infuriating to hear amusement in the handler's voice. Michael was used to working with whatever he had, be it a sniper rifle or duct tape and a pair of tweezers. What irked him was the fact that Dan could have very easily gotten him something that he didn't constantly have to worry about breaking down.

"I hope you're right about it helping." He clicked the phone shut and continued toward Belfast.

On the southern outskirts of the city, Michael pursued his only concrete lead. Sheehan had used one of his aliases to purchase a small office building. No one had been seen near the place, or at least that was what he heard in the debriefing. Perhaps he would be able to search it undisturbed.

Twenty minutes later, the Mini grinded to a halt a block away from the office building. It wasn't so much the whole building Sheehan had bought as just the corner office. Luckier and luckier; Michael would have that much less to search. He grabbed his set of lock picks and a handgun. The lock was yielding enough, as he expected from civilian security. But it was disappointing, because Sheehan would have added more protection if there was anything of value inside. Then he flipped the light switch and was greeted with the sight of brand new cubicles and a door on the far wall. A door that should not have been there, seeing as the next office over belonged to another company, and the exterior didn't suggest any room in between the offices. Ignoring his curiosity, Michael searched the entire room, finding nothing of interest. So it was to be the door next.

This lock took a little more time, and he was satisfied that something sensitive might be on the other side. He was also aware that there might be more than a lock standing in his way. This room was normal enough, but not empty as the first had been. The desk was large and expensive, with an award plaque and a computer sitting on top. Nothing was hidden, not even a picture he could have used to learn more about the man. There was a painting on the wall, and though Michael didn't think Sheehan would be careless enough to use this spot, he grasped the frame and…stopped immediately. He could feel resistance on the other side, keeping the painting in place.

A quick look at the wall behind showed a mess of wire connecting the painting to enough explosive charges to remove his face. Michael took a deep breath before using his Swiss Army Knife to snip the wires. The triggers were similar to grenade pins, so as long as he didn't pull the wires any farther, he could cut them. When he lifted the painting free after several nerve-wracking minutes, he saw the safe the charges had been protecting. Frank Westen would have hit Michael for the smug look he wore, but Michael was good at cracking safes. He put his ear to the cool metal and listened as he turned the dial. 4… finally he would have something to go off of in his search. 9… If he could find Sheehan he could catch him. Catch him and go home to…5. The safe opened and a wire attached to the inside of the door snapped, pulling out the trigger on a much larger explosive charge.