Chapter 3

Michael sat beneath the jaunty sweep of a sun gold shade umbrella on the small dinning patio of the Mar Harbor Café. The air had a slightly briny bite. Sleek motorized sport fishing rigs rumbled past on their way to open water. Foot traffic trended more towards weekday contractors making their living off the high end onboard lifestyle; artisans, handymen, off duty crew members. The patio area was an eddy of casual middle income socialites, in no apparent rush to be anywhere else. Intricately folded linens fluttered beside polished stemware waiting to deliver a stylish dining experience. A bougainvillea vine twisted up the restaurant's salt bleached side. The restaurant was signature Fiona, charming, expensive, and tucked away a well to do location. The patio had excellent sight lines, multiple escape routes, and was in an area Michael had never frequented. Perfect for a dead man trying to contain any rumors of resurrection. Sam, Fiona and he had

agreed that Michael Westen should remain dead until they had a better understanding around the circumstances of his death. They hadn't agreed quite on how that deed needed to be accomplished.

Michael flipped open a menu. It was a relief to finally escape Sam's small condo. Not that Michael was complaining. Sam certainly knew how to live upscale contemporary luxury. The neighborhood was quiet, the central air efficiently kept the temperature a refreshing 72 degrees in every room, and there was always hot water readily available. But it made Michael wonder how Sam had spent so many voluntary hours without comment in the third world conditions of Michael's old apartment. He shifted slightly in his seat looking for a position that put less pressure on his broken ribs and bruised back.

Honestly, the problem wasn't Sam's apartment, it was Michael. Basic rule of combat: moving targets are harder to hit. Repeat any behavior long enough and it either becomes second nature or a bad habit, depending on your view point. As a result, Michael found it difficult to stay 12 hours in one place without any change in routine. It made him antsy. Add in the fact that he was recovering from significant injuries; Injuries that he still owed his friends and family an explanation for. Then consider that the awaited explanation was sure to cause more awkwardness and disarray than it solved… and the need to move suddenly ratcheted up to a survival instinct to bolt. Michael tugged at the fraying corner of gauze bandaging peeking out from beneath his shirt cuff. He had never been very good at sitting still.

It made matters worse that his every breath was being noted and analyzed between his mother, Nate, Sam and Fi. He tried to keep in mind that under the circumstances their behavior was warranted. A confirmed saint, would have difficulty observing personal space if a miracle had restored her loved one to life. Add insult to injury by supplying a blatant lie in explanation for the loved one's death... Well, none of Michael's circle came close to qualifying for sainthood, they weren't about to forgive and forget any time soon. Michael just happened to be an available outlet for the weeks of grief they had been put through. Michael did his best to endure the forced cheerfulness that resulted in hours of mind numbing small talk, the absurd excuses for "dropping by" on what was obviously a previously arranged visitation schedule, and the inept covert glances that left him without a moment to himself. Michael held together his sanity with a promise

that it would ease up once he could prove that he was healed and capable of taking care of himself. Lunch out was a huge step in that direction.

Fi pushed the car door closed and leaned over to use the side mirror to quickly dab on a light coat of lip gloss. She capped the tube, tossed it in her clutch and gave her hair a quick fluff with her fingers. Satisfied, she slid on a pair of Chloé sunglasses and set off for the Café. She noted the appreciative looks directed her way and smiled. Exactly the reaction she wanted for Michael's first day back on his feet. She felt light, almost giddy. She forced herself to walk with an unhurried confidence, knowing Michael would have chosen a table allowing him to see anyone approaching before they saw him. She wanted him to take a long hard look at what he had been missing.

"Fi" Michael greeted her with the quirk of an appreciative smile. Only Michael could look relaxed while curiously alert to every shifting detail of his surroundings. It gave him a refreshing air of capability that had nothing to do with exerting control. After months of his absence, His presence felt like a brisk breath of clear air. Fi studied him as she choose the seat to his left. Michael was difficult to read. He tended to play personal issues close to his chest and was far too talented at diverting attention from himself. His failure to pull out her chair was the only cue that he still suffered pain from his injuries. Making a mental note to watch that he didn't over tax himself, Fiona smoothed the tailored fabric of her skirt and sat back in her chair.

She glanced casually around the cafe patio locating Sam at the bar, before focusing on Michael. He had lost the pale abused look Larry had sent him home with. Dressed in crisp white and tan, his hair was cut, the bruising around his face had faded. Michael's eyes shifted from his open menu to meet hers. His gaze was steady, clear of any confusion. Fi picked up her menu. "The sword fish is good," she offered. Michael nodded, enjoying the way her hair fell loose down her back.

Fiona had stumbled upon the secluded dining patio of the Del Mar Harbor Café at 2 am on her way to a job as a subject matter resource for a thermoregulatory trigger mechanism. Carlos Miguel Leyva had been a Glenanne family friend for years. Carlos was looking to customize a piece for a client in Panama and Fiona had welcomed a distraction from worrying about Michael's absence. Ironically, stumbling upon the Café had left her with a paralyzing yearning for exactly the man she was trying to distract herself from. For months after she harbored a fantasy of sitting with Michael on the quaint patio. She studied him now from the corner of her eye as he shifted in his seat, lightly tapping his index finger against the wooden table. His eyes flickered over the people passing by. A soft warm breeze fluttered over Fiona's bare shoulders punctuating the surreal quality of the moment. With a sudden need for confirmation, that this was real, Fi reached forward

and laid her hand over his. There was a second of hesitant surprise before he shifted his palm to wrap his fingers around hers.

"I'm ok, Fi" Michael assured her in a low voice.

"I think I'll try the sole," Fiona redirected, laying down her menu.

Michael made to shift away but Fiona refused to relinquish his hand. Fi answered his questioning look with an innocent expectant smile. The pressure of Fi's grip increased. "Fi" Michael warned with a hesitant grin.

"I've been very patient, Michael." Fi gave him an expectant look. "I believe there's something you want to tell me." She prompted.

She watched his eyes darken. It was endearing, how quickly his brain worked assessing appropriate responses; identifying what she was looking for; and mapping out an alternative that both of them could live with. His chest clenched, long due explanations tangled, creating a choke hold at the base of his throat. He struggled to find an exit strategy.

You look great?

It was along the lines of what Michael was thinking. But he quickly discarded it as too obvious to be what she was looking for. Fiona's grip began to squeeze his knuckles together, cutting the blood flow to his fingers.

I'm sorry, I swear I'll make it up to you?

How the hell did he expect to accomplish that? He didn't even have the means to pay for today's lunch.

I missed you?

Hard to make that sound believable while clenching his teeth against the twisting pain pulling at the stitches running along his wrist.

Nice restaurant, can't wait to try the food?

Definitely not, he was getting desperate. "Fi!" He concealed the pain radiating up his wrist with a gritted smile and pried her fingers off. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms so that his fingers were tucked out of harms way.

Sam walked up coddling four Dos Equiis. Throwing himself into a seat he offered one to Fi and nudged another towards Michael. He glanced between Michael's guarded body language and Fi's narrowed calculating glare. "Uh, should I go get a few more beers?" He asked.

Michael wrapped finger's still throbbing from Fi's pressure around the offered bottle and brought the beer to his lips. Fi smiled tightly. Michael wasn't getting off that easily. "Don't be ridiculous," Fiona said brightly, "Michael was just about to explain the tan line on his ring finger." Her smile widened with satisfaction as Michael struggled to keep the beer from spraying in surprise. "Whoa, don't waste a perfectly cold beer! C'mon!" Sam admonished waving his double fisted beers in accusation at the two of them. "Besides," Sam added with a nod for emphasis, leaning back to balance on two chair legs, "It's not like any of them were real, right Mikey? Just a perk of the job." Michael went perfectly still glaring sharply at Sam.

"Not helping Sam!" He ground out. Michael fixed a huge "Who me" smile into place before turning back to Fi.

Fi sat stiffly with open eyed outrage, "Them?" she fumed. Michael could practically feel the threat of violence rolling off of her slim frame. "Exactly how many times have you been married?" She asked pinning him with the intensity in her eyes. Michael stared back at her unsure how to proceed, watchful for any move towards violence. A waiter headed to collect their order, sensed the tension at the table, and tactfully redirected to check on other guests. Aware that he may have caused a serious problem, Sam leaned forward until all four chair legs were planted on the floor planks. He prayed that he wasn't about to catch an errant barb as Fi and Michael faced off with the intense focus of fighters poised before the clash of battle. Sam took a swig of courage and cleared his throat nervously. "Uh, C'mon guys. It's just a piece of paper…" Sam's joking laugh sounded flat.

"How many?" Fi hissed

"In some situations a married man is considered less of a security concern," Michael responded softly. He resisted the urge to back away as Fiona leaned dangerously close, pressing the subject. "They call it an act of marriage for a reason, Fi. It's something you have to actually do to mean anything."

"Was I real?" She asked. Her breath caressed his jaw with a siren's effect. He struggled to masque how his pulse shuddered in response.

"I couldn't have succeeded without your help, but you were not a direct objective." Michael carefully qualified. Fi studied him looking for any tell that he was lying, trying to understand the nuance between an objective and an asset and what that meant to Michael. He watched her battle for control of her emotions. They radiated from her with diamond brilliance attracting him like a ghost to the living. He blinked, suddenly unsure why he cared to hide the truth. Fiona's force of will had always managed to play havoc with his tactically analyzed plans. Beyond a general aversion for discussing himself, he struggled to recall why he didn't want her to know. "Twelve." He surrendered. Fiona nodded. She sat back, struggling to balance the thrill of victory with the bitterness of the truth.

Sam whistled in disbelief. "Damn, Mikey. I had no idea. I mean, I met the girl in Laos. She was a tad too institutional for my tastes. And I assumed there was one on the last job, but twelve? Heh! I think maybe you should reconsider your mom's suggestion to see that shrink."

"Thanks, but no," Michael ground his thumb against the pressure building behind his temple. "I look like a walking suicide risk. A vacation in a padded cell with 24-hour surveillance is the last thing I need at the moment."

"How do we know, you aren't?" Fi asked. "You won't talk to us. It's been over a week and you won't tell us anything." A touch of vulnerability had crept into her voice and she had wrapped her arms across her chest in a defensive gesture. He had hurt her without intending to, hadn't he known this would happen? Why did she have to keep pushing? The knowledge agitated him, his back hurt, his head hurt… The pain wore him down. Maybe Sam had been right this was too soon, Michael doubted. Why had he pushed so hard to spend the afternoon out, so quickly after getting back on his feet.

"Mike," Sam took a deep breath and stalled with a swig of beer. Michael could hear Sam searching for a new approach as he rubbed a thumb over day old stubble, "I've seen plenty of buddies get up from a leather couch with their wires in a worse tangle than when they sat down. But you need to talk to somebody. And if you can't say anything to Fi or I because it's classified, then… All I'm saying is maybe you should consider Maddie's suggestion."

In a brittle voice Michael clarified, "Classify what? Seven military men on furlough chose the wrong object of entertainment. What more do you need to hear?" There had been head trauma because the memories came as a powerful stream of sound, smell, and touch disturbingly void of visuals. The bitter flavor of fear collecting against the soft underside of his tongue. The numbing chill of metal as skin and muscle parted in it's wake. The heated smell of alcohol and cologne carried on the musk of an unwashed body. There were no questions, no relevance to anything greater than the sick games of a pack of boys watching an insect squirm as it's wings were pulled from it. In his mind he had failed the mission days before. His stomach clenched. Saliva rushed forward in preparation of the rising bile. Michael propped his elbow against the table and clamped his palm across his mouth. The table was silent except for the flapping of the table cloth on the breeze. One glance at Sam's slack stare told Michael he had said more than he had intended. He cursed himself for running his mouth off unaware.

He couldn't look at Fi. He wanted to explode from his seat, fling the chair across the boardwalk and storm out of the restaurant, but that would show an unforgivable lack of control. So instead, he remained still and threw his anger into restricting his body to even breathing and refusing all urges to move. Even the sharp requests to ease pressure points against his broken ribs went denied. He kept busy studying the movement of people around them as an excuse not to meet Sam or Fi's worried glances. "I'm fine," he added as much to comfort himself as well as Fi and Sam.