A/N: A short chapter to update the whereabouts of all the players and a thank you to everyone again for your appreciation of new chapter of True Believer. Hard to believe it has been year and yet we are all still here. The next chapter of Life with Larry will be on the boards Saturday instead of Thursday this week. Real life is staying too REAL. A new one shot by Purdy's Pal, inspired by our 7.13 tribute chapter and following the storyline in Pale Imitation, will be on the boards soon.

()()()()()()()()

BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL

Chapter Eleven

Liam watched as the American thief who had stolen his sister's heart backed out of the cottage and then leapt to his feet, scrabbling over the dust covered floorboards to where his younger sibling sat slumped, semi-conscious against the wall and surrounded by a pool of blood.

"Sean, Sean lad, can ya hear me?" The older man knelt down, ignoring the red which instantly stained his pant leg as he tried to get a clear look at the bullet wound in his brother's arm. "Jayzuz," he muttered when he saw the small entry hole through the tricep muscle and the large messy exit wound at the top of Sean's arm just below the shoulder.

"Okay, brudder, am getting' ya outta -" he instinctively flung himself over the wounded man as the boom of an explosion filled the air followed by the clatter and bang of falling debris. Then, just as he began to straighten up thinking that the worst was over, another blast even louder than the first. Like the roar of thunder, it shook the small cottage and was followed by the whole interior being lit up, massive fireball made out of twisted metal crashing into the lane just outside the open front door, sending flames licking up the front of the building.

"Fiona, ya bloody bean dÚsachtach – !" the Irishman cursed out his sister, for he had no doubt in his mind who had been responsible for taking out the CIA's tactical team and their fancy air support.

With one eye on the spreading fire and the other on his younger brother's bloody wound, Liam reached out until his fingers grasped the blue and red striped silk tie he had spotted laying on the floor. Leaving the blood soaked jacket in place as the only padding he had available, the senior Glenanne began to wrap the tie around the junior's arm in an effort to slow the bleeding.

Having his arm joggled brought Sean back to full consciousness. Groaning in agony, he looked up at his older man through bloodshot eyes. "How bad is it?" he asked in a low whisper.

"Bad enough am gonna have ta find ya proper doctor ta put it right. Whot tha hell happened?"

"Thot Gilroy fella shot me. Twa' me own stupid fault. I stepped right by him an' then McBride shot ham twice in tha back. Tha bastid saved me life, Liam." Sean winced as his older sibling took hold of his good arm and pulled him up on to his feet.

"We cannae stay har, thot fire tis gonna burn this place ta tha ground in next ta no time, not ta mention bringing tha Garda an' every other fecker lookin' fer Fi an' Westen straight ta our door... can ya walk?"

"A better question is, are you armed?" The man they had all thought was dead was standing behind them, pointing a hand gun straight at the brothers.

The head of Clan Glenanne studied the Englishman, taking note of his badly beaten appearance and the way the gun wavered slightly in his tenuous grip. "I donnae have a gun, but whot I do have is one o' these things."

As he had been talking, Liam had slipped a hand into his brother's jacket pocket and he now held onto one of the incendiary grenades Sean had packed for the assault on the cottage. "Will thot do ya, Mister Gilroy?" He used his thumb to send the pin pinging across the floor.

The assassin was in no shape for a fight, his back was a mass of bruises and the fire at the front of the cottage had taken ahold. Soon the place would be filled with smoke and nobody would be leaving. If he had been thinking clearly, he wouldn't have faced down the brothers. "I should have just shot you," he declared in a miffed tone.

"Aye, ya shoulda. But as ya dinnae, me an' me brother will be on our way."

Gilroy stared back at him through coldly calculating blue eyes. But Liam was confident that the younger man was not ready to go for the nuclear option just yet. Seconds later, he was proved right when the CIA's hired assassin lowered his weapon.

"We'll call it a draw then. Until next time, Mr. Glenanne," Gilroy drawled as he slowly backed away, never taking his eyes off the explosive device in his adversary's hand.

"Oh, I'll be lookin' out fer ya, Mr. Mason Gilroy. Ya can count on it."

"Hm, yes, the same goes for me as well, Liam Glenanne..."

Smoke was beginning to fill the room when Liam stepped out through the kitchen door. The car they had stolen from a Waterford supermarket car park was out on the road, clear of all the damage caused by Fiona and her C4. They just had to make it there.

"Wa're gonna have ta move fast, Sean lad. Ya take tha grenade. If anybody fires on us, toss it straight at 'em." Liam squatted to lift his sibling up over his shoulder and then began to run.

()()()()()()()

Tom Card's new office in the US embassy in Dublin was far more comfortable than the one he had been given in the CIA's secret headquarters hidden underneath the embassy in London. For a start, he had a large window with a view. Not a great view, but it still gave him something to look at while he waited for news on the capture of his former star pupil.

The last communication from Gilroy had stated the British hired killer had found the location of the fugitives and he was going in. But that had been nearly an hour ago and since then there had been no word. Narrowing his eyes, he stared at a small brown bird, its feathered fluffed up against the cold damp weather, sitting on the branch of a tree just outside his office window.

It was a good analogy for how he felt right then, out in the cold, clinging onto a skinny branch. He needed Michael in custody and on his way back to the States with the Glenannes either dead and out of the picture or, at the very least, Ms. Fiona Glenanne in the hands of the British intelligence services where she could do no damage to the on-going peace process or Irish/American relations.

He turned away from the window and went back to his desk and the comfortable high-backed padded leather office chair. If he had Michael locked up, he could spin any story he wanted to about what happened to his agent. If he could talk the younger man into seeing the error of his ways. He just might be able to salvage a promising career and the man's mentor wasn't just thinking about his star pupil's chances to rise in the agency. A former student going rogue, and possibly damaging an important diplomatic mission, could throw up a big roadblock on the promotion opportunities for said rogue agent's training officer.

Card drummed his fingers on the desk top. What was taking so damn long?

The rap of knuckles on his door and then the appearance of a fresh faced young agent brought a sigh of relief to the tightly wound senior officer.

"Yes?" He snapped the word out, eager for the news that Michael was in chains and the Glenannes were dead.

The youngster by the door gulped and ran his tongue over his upper lip. "Sir, Agent Hilliard has called in requesting back up... Westen and the girl have gotten away... But that's not the worst of it, they blew up the helicopter with the crew and half the tactical team on board and... er, and...Liam Glenanne apparently killed Agent Montrose. But not before Montrose told him about Mr. Gilroy and how the CIA are chasing Agent Westen."

Tom Card blinked and slowly sank back into his chair as his mind tried to deal with the almighty pigscrew a simple forced extraction had turned into. "And what about the British boy wonder?" he asked, praying at least that the assassin he'd had forced upon him was dead too.

"Mr. Gilroy is alive. He took two shots in the back from close range. Agent Hilliard reported Gilroy has a broken rib and muscle damage but is still mobile. Unfortunately, one of the Glenannes blew up his support vehicle, so -" the junior agent's voice faded as Card's face turned crimson. The young man beat a hasty retreat back into the outer office.

With a grim expression, the senior CIA officer got to his feet and moved determinedly across the room and into his outer office, where the three other analysts he'd been loaned sat waiting to hear how their boss had reacted to the news of the spectacular failure.

"Okay, people front and center. We've got things to do." He watched impatiently as his small team of agents lined up in front of him and then got down to business."Before we start, somebody please tell me we have a bird in the air tracking Westen." His request was greeted by silence and then one man ran off frantically reaching for a phone.

Card closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath while he reminded himself he had no choice but to work with the agents who were available. The UK and Ireland were both friendly countries. The operatives sent to this region were not the same type of men who would be found in such places as Russia and the Middle East.

Opening his intense ice blue eyes, he turned his attention back to the three remaining men.

"You..." He jabbed a finger at the young man who had originally delivered the bad news. "Speak to the local cops. No one and I mean no one is to interfere with the scene. We're sending our own investigators down there and, until they arrive, we would be grateful if they continue to keep any sightseers away. Make up something about sensitive, classified equipment, or documents being on board..."

"You..." He moved down the line to the next poor unfortunate soul. "Get on the cleaners. I want every single piece of evidence picked up and all signs of what happened removed and I want it done yesterday..."

"And you," he addressed the last man standing. "Get the press office on the phone, put out the story it was a tragic accident. The engine malfunctioned during a training exercise or whatever..."

He half turned away then caught the eye of his personal secretary, a middle aged woman who had been with him for the last three years when he noticed no one was moving. "Come on, people, get going! And you," he said to the blonde. "Get Richard Chamber's on the phone and tell him we need to talk and don't take no for an answer."

Back in his office with the door closed, Tom Card paced around his small office, part of him felt a small glow of pride that his former star pupil had kicked Mason Gilroy's ass. Now, just maybe, the Brit's would finally let him the free hand he needed to get the job done.

()()()()()()()

It felt like every muscle and nerve ending in his body was screaming at him, but Michael knew better. The ordinary stiffness which accompanied sleeping in an uncomfortable position was nothing new to the former spy. It was something he had spent a lot of time dealing with throughout his teen and adult life. No, the pain which had forced him awake came from the sharp pointed elbow which was digging into the multitude of bruises covering his ribs.

His padded winter jacket offered his back some protection between himself and the rough uneven surface of the tree trunk he was leaning back against. But the back of his head was not so fortunate. Resisting the urge to stir and disturb the sleeping woman settled between his legs and ensconced in his arms, her lover pressed a light kiss into the short shorn tresses.

He would have to wake her soon. She needed to lie down and the shelter he had made would offer her more protection from the cold as the night drew on. But for now he cradled her in his arms, a reminder of how close he had come to losing her and their baby hours earlier.

Thinking back on what happened was painful, but necessary. There was a reason the Agency insisted on long and detailed debriefings following an operation. This particular op had gone completely sideways and he spared a moment to contemplate how annoyed the Irishwoman would be if she knew he was thinking of their lives as a mission that needed to be examined and dissected.

But that was how he had been trained and that training had kept him alive up until now. If he allowed the turmoil in his heart to affect his mind again like he had last night, then they were dead already and just didn't know it yet. His lover played havoc with his self-control, she always had...

Feeling her warmth and her weight pressed up against him, a part of Michael felt sorry for the way he had come unglued on her. It wasn't her fault his brother was an irresponsible addict who always expected Big Bro and everyone around him to clean up his mess. But it was her fault for acting like Nate and it wasn't something they could afford while they were on the run from the world at large.

The thought of how close he'd come to losing that tiny little life cocooned inside her along with her had terrified him. Fiona was courageous to the point of recklessness and she thought about others more than herself. It was something about her he had admired; however, he needed her to think about their baby more than anyone else and he just couldn't figure out how to get her to do that.

He shuddered involuntarily, as the boxes containing one of his most horrific moments rattled in his head, threatening to spill out again. He couldn't have been more than three, maybe four years old?

The besotted shouting, the split second of shoving that ended in a terrible fall, the soul shattering cries of his mother and then the blood and the panic and the confusion as the sirens came to his house again, being taken away by the police for a different reason than his father had. It was something buried so deep and never touched again until he had found himself running for his life with his pregnant girlfriend in tow, desperately trying to keep that little life from being snuffed out.

That reality sent another shiver through his spine, eclipsing the memories of his childhood. Fiona was more than his girlfriend. She was his lover, his life now and about to be the mother of his child. How could he protect her if he couldn't convince her to keep herself safe and out of harm's way?

He needed to come up with a plan, some sort of strategy to get them both safely out of Ireland. Carefully easing his body away from the tree, he whispered into Fiona's ear. "Fi, you need to sleep."

"I'm fine, Michael," she spoke sleepily and then stifled a yawn.

"No, you need lie down. I'm going to make one more sweep and then I'll be back. Nobody is going to start a search in the middle of the night."

Thankfully, she didn't argue with him any further. Once he made sure she was wrapped tightly in her sleeping bag and he'd fed a little more wood on to the fire, the ex-spy set off to check nobody was close by.

Michael suspected that Card would concentrate on clearing away the wreckage and cleaning out the cottage in a search for clues. Then tomorrow the search would begin in earnest. Gazing up at the cloud covered sky, he listened intently for any sounds of helicopters passing overhead. But there was nothing apart from the ordinary night time noises. At least being south of the border meant they didn't have to worry the British Army joining the hunt with their thermal cameras.

()()()()()()()

Samantha Keyes stood in the doorway to her Moscow apartment, her brown eyes wide and her lips trembling. She wasn't quite sure if the rush of adrenaline streaming through her body was due to anger or fear as she surveyed the destruction before her.

"They're two kinds of government surveillance: the kind that's there to look for something and the kind that's just there to make your target's life difficult."

Michael had passed on that little gem of information on the night she had helped him slip inside the Mariinsky Palace in St. Petersburg. The reason for their masterful breaking and entering was not to steal anything, rather to plant listening devices in the Minister for the Interior's private office using bugs of Chinese design and positioned in such a way that they would be discovered the next time the recently commissioned FSB ran a security sweep.

At the time, she had found it quite exhilarating, and to be truthful entertaining, that they were going to all the trouble of sneaking inside a magnificent palace reduced to a government building just to slow down the renewing relationship between the two super powers.

However, now she was on the other end of that surveillance, she felt chills run up and down her spine. The man she had at first sensed following on her journey from the center of London out to the hotel next to Heathrow Airport had been expected and hadn't really bothered herm as she arranged for one of her many London contacts to find a woman willing to act as a decoy.

It had been amusing to finally catch a good look at the man who was tailing her when he had followed the decoy towards the Aer Lingus departure gate, unaware that the woman he was shadowing was not a Russian-based master thief but instead was a highly paid escort more used to spending her time in the company of the wealthy elite who holidayed in London. But, for a very hefty fee, the woman had been happy to hide in an airport rest room change clothes with a stranger and then take a plane to Dublin.

But now, standing in the doorway of her Moscow apartment, Ms. Keyes was debating turning tail and running as far as she could or stepping inside what had been her favorite sanctuary.

Every class of criminal has their own set of fears. Usually the bogeyman lives in the mirror. A thief triple-locks their doors.

The locks on her door had been picked and by a very skilled individual, as from the outside she had seen no clue to what was waiting for her inside.

Whether it's a stray hair arranged to detect if someone's opened a drawer or a cabinet booby-trapped with explosives, field operatives know how to secure their hiding places. So, if you're searching a pro's home, you can't just toss the place like a cop with a warrant.

But that was precisely what they had done, though tossed wasn't the word she would have used.

Taking a deep breath, the leggy brunette tiptoed inside to survey the damage and it didn't take her long to realized whoever had destroyed her home hadn't been looking for anything. This had been a warning: we can come into your home any time we want.

Samantha had returned to Moscow because going to Ireland would have been a waste of her time. She had no contacts in country and the little bits of information she had managed to gather during her night in the airport hotel had been enough to convince her that asking questions about any of the Glenannes on either side of the Irish border would have been bad for her health. Back home in Russia, the master thief knew people who could reach out across Europe and get her some of the answers she wanted without any of the risk.

But now she knew the truth. She wasn't going to be safe anywhere until the CIA got what they wanted. After one more look around what had been her primary sanctuary, the terrified woman ran outside and went searching for the one man she believed would be able to keep her safe and had the network which could help her find the answers she needed more than ever.

()()()()()()()

It was late when Fiona woke up again. The right side of her body was sore from where she had crashed the chair to wooden floor of the cottage to free herself. Her neck was a little stiff and her head ached slightly, but the redhead really became concerned when she realized she couldn't move. But the panic of paralysis faded and a new fear took its place when Ms. Glenanne realized she was cocooned tightly in a downy sleeping bag, lying on the ground up in the Slieveamon Mountains.

Rapidly blinking the sleep from her eyes and wriggling a hand free to swipe at them, she surveyed her surroundings. Her lover was perched on a stump near the fire, soaking in its warmth against the cold night air. Fiona felt a wave of guilt wash over her about what had happened back at the cottage, tinged with some embarrassment as well at the massive crying jag that had overcome her. She was passionate, of that there was no doubt. Her temper had gotten her both in and out of trouble. But she rarely let her emotions reduce her to a quivering, helpless sobbing mess incapable of doing anything. Surely it was the physical exhaustion of the trek, the emotional upheaval of what had almost happened and, though she was loathe to admit it, those damned pregnancy hormones…

The Irishwoman inched the zipper down and sat up slowly, making sure not to disturb the roof of her surprisingly cozy little shelter. The larger movement caught his attention more fully and she waited quietly to see what his mood was. They stared at each other for a long moment before a small smile graced his face, the firelight shining his eyes as he nodded and simply said, "Hey…"

"Hey, yourself…" Fiona shinnied out of the fluffy warmth and closed the small distance between them on her knees slowly. He helped her up to sit in his lap and pressed a kiss to her temple before settling his arms around her. She sighed and leaned into his shoulder, not protesting when he tucked her head under his scruffy chin. The overgrowth which he claimed was a beard tickled somewhat.

She breathed deep and listened to his steady heartbeat. Ms. Glenanne knew she had some serious apologizing to do, particularly with what had happened with her brothers, but she wanted a moment of peace between them to bolster her courage before she began. Saying sorry wasn't something she did particularly well. Fighting like banshees and then just getting over it was the family modus operandi.

"Am sorry, Michael," she said softly and paused, testing his reaction. "Am sorry I dinnae listen ta ya an' Am sorry I dinnae trust ya ta nae shoot me brudder. I know I could've made ya shoot ham by mistake poundin' on ya like thot when ya war just tryin' ta disarm ham." She skipped over the bit about running unarmed into a fire fight, which had caused him to curse earlier. One thing at a time, she decided. "I know thar are bigger things out thar than me family after us, I see it now. Am sorry."

When he didn't answer her, Fiona risked a glance upwards. He wasn't angry. Michael seemed more lost in his own thoughts than anything. She almost wanted to ask what he was talking about earlier, about drunkards hurting innocent little lives. But the petite woman decided that was a conversation for another time and would surely muddy the waters of what she needed to convey next.

"But as ya've already pointed out, tis just us, thar's only the two o' us. Ya've made thot plain and I'll try ta follow yar lead, but ya need ta remember sommit. Am pregnant, nae crippled an' ya cannae carry this whole thing by yarself. Ya need ta figure out how ta work wit' me and stop cuttin' me out all the time. Yer gonna git yarself killed tryin' ta get between me and tha rest o' tha world."

There, she had said it. His lover waited quietly to see what his response was.

It was his turn to draw a deep breath before speaking. It was easier to talk like this, she decided, holding one another, but not having to look each other in the face. They really were no good at this.

"I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. I was just—I mean, I—You could have been killed." He sighed heavily. "When we worked together before, even when my cover was blown, we worked as a team because we were still on the same mission, on the same page. We were working together on your turf to accomplish a goal and I deferred to your expertise on the matter. That's not how it is anymore, it can't be. Not when-"

"Ya war havin' too much fun in me bed ta argue wit' me," she teased gently.

"Point taken," he agreed, his tone a little lighter. "But the important point is, we still may be on your turf, but that's a disadvantage now. Your family knows all your moves and we're being hunted by my people too. So, we need to do this my way. It's the only way this succeeds. I promise, I'll try to remember you're still capable for now."

"Whot's thot supposed ta mean?" She was tempted to punch him, but then she remembered all the blows he'd already taken from the British assassin yesterday trying to protect her. "Never mind…"

Michael kissed the top of her head. "Look, if I get into tactical mode, that's just how I function best in these situations. Try not to take it personally. And I'll also try to remember we need to spend some time like this just decompressing whenever we can. Fair enough? Hopefully your appetite for action has been satisfied for the moment?"

"Aye, Mc- Michael…" She took one of his hands and pressed a kiss to the swollen and bandaged knuckles. "Ya can assume thot means yes. I'll try ta behave and do as I'm told, though ya already know how bad Am about doing thot and ya'll try ta remember ta nae treat me like a china doll."

The dark haired man leaned his head down and Fiona met his mouth, lightly touching his lips in deference to how cut and bloodied though they were. She tucked her head back under his chin then.

"But donnae think I donnae know whot yar up ta. Ya keep takin' risks like thot tryin' ta protect me cuz ya think if ya get yarself killed, then I can go back ta me family. Well, ya'd be wrong about thot. How d'ya I'll able ta get back ta them if ya go and get yarself done in? So it goes both way, Michael. I need ya ta be safe as much as ya need me ta be safe. We both need ya alive, understand me?"

"Fine," he conceded. "We're agreed we're going to play it safe." Then the former covert operative laughed for the first time in what seemed like ages. "Wanna take bets on who breaks that first?"

"I bet," Fiona countered as she slowly stood. "That you haven't eaten a thing."

"While you were sleeping actually, so you're the one that needs to eat, as you're eating for two."

The Irishwoman looked up and realized that the sun wasn't far off from trying to peek over the horizon. That meant he had been up most of the night on guard duty.

"Well, then, ya need ta get some proper rest while Am having a bite ta eat and donnae argue with me. Ya cannae protect me if yer fallin' asleep on yar feet."

"Fine…" Michael stood up, his injuries still apparent in the stiffness of his movements. "Wake me up a couple hours after dawn and we'll head farther up into the woods."

She watched as her lover settled down into the sleeping bag before she began to sort through their supplies of tinned food to see what was for breakfast.

()()()()()()()

To say that Mason Gilroy was livid would be a mild understatement at best. But in the finest tradition of his countrymen, he was determined to keep a stiff upper lip and carry on. The first good Samaritan that spotted him trudging towards town in the darkness had the benefit of his good graces, primarily because he was low on ammunition and too damned sore from his fight with Michael Westen to be lugging a body about to dispose of it. Despite all one's training, broken ribs were still broken ribs after all. Nevertheless, it actually entertained him to think about how fortunate the portly old Irishwoman was that she had bad eye sight, poor hearing and a gullible nature, making it easy for him to spin the lie about a hit and run driver leaving him by the road side.

That and the virtual parade of emergency vehicles heading the other way towards the cottage, soon to be followed by a crew of CIA cleaners if he knew Tom Card at all. But the American was the least of his concerns. Mason Gilroy had a reputation to protect and a debt to collect. The Glenanne family was going to get the bill, as it were. He was going to take great pleasure in seeing to it that every one of them suffered a little before they died. But first he was going to bring Michael Westen back in chains for a front row seat at that show before he handed him over to his CIA overlords.

()()()()()()()

"Michael…" A voice was whispering in his ear while a small hand was touching on his shoulder. His hand shot, grasping her wrist before recognition dawned. Fiona swallowed hard, but didn't jerk away from him. "Michael, it's time to go."

It was his turn to sit up slowly, taking his surroundings in more quickly than she had. The kits were already packed, the fire dismantled and its remnants disposed of. All that was left was to wrap up the sleeping bag and destroy the shelter as thoroughly as possible before moving on.

"Good morning, sleepy head…" She leaned over to press a kiss to his whiskery cheek. "I'd kill for a spot of toothpaste right now," Fiona announced before handing him a bottle of water.

"Just wait until tomorrow…" He chuckled at her pout. "How are you feeling?"

"Nasty, but rested…I think me clothes can do tha walkin' fer me after yesterday."

Michael rose and started stowing away the rest of the gear. Fiona sat on the stump, taking her breather while she could. Hopefully, and she felt bad for thinking this, her lover's injuries would slow him down a little. It was the second day that was always the hardest. After demanding that he treat her as still capable, the last thing she wanted to do was ask for him to moderate his pace for her.

"We'll try going a little easier today. The terrain is going to get more treacherous as we get higher up and hopefully they'll mistake us for hikers if they spot us from the air. I don't expect they will have finished processing the scene yet. Tom Card's probably not going to be able to round up air support without having to explain to a lot of people what happened to the last bird he borrowed," he declared, modifying his previous assessment of their situation.

"Whatever ya think is best," she said sweetly as he settled the back pack between her shoulders. "We cannae be taa careful after all."

"You just couldn't resist, could you?" But his smile belayed the sarcasm in his remark.

"Sadly, no," Fiona agreed with a grin. "Shall we find a delightful cave ta set up housekeeping in?"

"Let's hope that's the only thing we find today."

()()()()()()()

Two young men stood huddled together inside the public phone box out on the street corner next to The Anchor public house. Feeding coins into the box, the older of the two clutched the handset tightly with one hand and carefully pressed on the keys as his younger friend read out the digits.

"Hola...?" The voice that came through the ear piece was gruff and definitely not Spanish.

"Hello thar, Tommy, tis Martin, Martin McCullough. D'ya remember me?"

For a moment, the only sound was the other man breathing. Then he finally spoke. "Aye, I remember. Twas ya an' yar brother got me outta Ireland after me bit o' trouble. What d'ya want?"

"I've just heard a tale I thought ya would be interested in... A coupla days ago, some o' Seamus Glenanne's crew wa' passin out word they wanted ta know if anyone saw Fiona around. They wa' ta give Seamus a call... Well, me girlfriend's ma has been telling me an interesting story about Fiona being in Waterford an' we thought ya might be offering more cash fer tha news than Glenanne."

"She still thar?"

"We dunno. She wa' har two days ago. We woulda let ya know if -"

"See if ya can find har. Am comin' o'er as soon as I can arrange a ride. Call me back on this number tomorrow. If ya have a location, I'll make sure yer well taken care of. Don't worry about it, Martin. Thomas O'Neill always pays his debts."