A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews for the last chapter. We both really appreciate you all taking the time to leave comments and feed back; it means a lot to us.

As Bette Davis so famously said, "fasten your seat belts, it's going to be a bumpy night." So hang on tight, #burners, because this day (spread out over the next several chapters) is going to be one bumpy ride for our fav couple and everyone chasing them.

BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL

Chapter Twenty Five

An interrogation typically begins with deprivation and discomfort. In the spring in Dublin, that means a thermostat cranked all the way down, uncomfortable furniture, dim lights that strain the eyes and if there's food, not much of it. A nice pint of the Black would be totally out of the question as well. It's all about making sure you're exhausted and vulnerable before your interrogator even sets foot in the door.

After spending the night shackled to a cold metal table and a wholly uncomfortable chair in a frigid cell with nary a dram to calm his nerves, Ryan O'Keefe was relieved to feel the brisk morning air on that part of his head that wasn't covered by a blindfold. Still, the light sweat on his face stung the abrasions on it.

While being marched out and then shoved into a car that smelt like his own and hopefully was, he'd tried to remain calm. They wanted something from him, so he was fairly certain they weren't about to kill him and dump his body somewhere. They could have done that already if they'd wanted to.

The motion stopped and then one of Dublin's premiere underworld figures felt the press of plastic into his palm and the barrel of a gun into his guts.

"Here's your cell phone, Mr. O'Keefe. I suggest you make that call."

The weapon was withdrawn and then the sounds of what he was certain were his three tormentors leaving him behind graced his ears. He knew better than to claw the material from his eyes right away.

When Ryan did remove it, he found himself in the backseat of his own car in a deserted parking garage and while he had every intention of making the contact his captors had coerced him into, Mrs. O'Keefe's only son was not some green recruit. He was not about to call his cousin from a cell or from inside a car that had been in their custody too, which was a damned shame because really liked his new Audi TT Coupé. He was going to hate having to tear it apart looking for listening devices.

The Irishman exited the backseat and got behind the wheel, again assured that as they wanted something from him, they weren't about to blow him up, though he did wince as the ignition caught and then the motor engaged. Fiona had really stepped in tha shite an' the lot o' tham war now covered in it.

As he drove out of the concrete and steel structure, he realized they had dumped him in Kilmainham behind the Museum of Modern Art. Cursing under his breath, Ryan drove east heading back towards the center of Dublin, his eyes focused on finding the first newsagents or a petrol station with a shop. He needed a cheap pre-pay phone and a cigarette, though not necessarily in that order. They'd left him only five or six kilometers from where they'd snatched him but it might as well have been fifty due the road improvements taking place on the Kilmainham Road slowing the traffic to a crawl.

"My goodness, someone forgot to turn the heater on in here. I'm sorry I've kept you waiting". The dark skinned woman had adjusted the thermostat, which he appreciated as they'd taken his jacket and overcoat. He was less grateful when she'd pulled out a fag and taken a deep drag before blowing a plume of smoke in his direction. "I needed that."

Ryan ground his teeth and wiped the slight moisture from his forehead, feeling the cuts and then looking over the bruises in the rear view mirror. In addition to the nicotine cravings that were driving him mad, somewhere in the middle of the night, the woman's two associates had come in and done a jig with their knuckles on his face and other body parts before she had called her dogs off.

"Well, you have to forgive my men. They take the craziest things personally. Like the murder of fellow CIA officers."

And as cold as he had been, it was nothing compared to the chill that had run through him when she'd laid out the photographs of the wreckage of a helicopter and informed him that Fiona Glenanne had been responsible for killing the men on board. That she had blown something up was no surprise to him.

That his sometime partner in crime had somehow managed to kill US government intelligence operatives in the process was an extremely unpleasant revelation at that hour under those circumstances.

"I donnae know feck all about thot," he'd returned, trying to keep his voice neutral. "Tis news ta me."

"That's not surprising. That's how you people operate in this part of the world. But it's a shame to see you suffering for the sins of your cousin. Just give me something I can use. I can make all this … stop."

And her two friends had come back into the room at that moment, standing in the background with menace on their faces and his blood still on their fists and staining their no longer immaculate shirts.

"Tha carrot's nae much good without tha stick is it?"

"I need to find your cousin and you need to help me… help you. What do say, Mr. O'Keefe?"

He'd found what he was looking for sooner rather than later and had the pre-paid cell out of the case the moment he'd exited the newsagents and walked far enough away from his vehicle not to be over heard if it was bugged. If they had expected him to drive straight to Liam Glenanne, they were about to be sorely disappointed. Maeve's nephew was many things, but stupid was not among them.

"The person you are calling is unavailable please try later."

Two more calls had garnered the same results and he sighed heavily.

As he alternated between sucking on his cigarette and sipping on some really dreadful tea from a paper cup, Ryan remembered when the encounter had suddenly become even stranger, albeit less painful.

"Mr. O'Keefe, I'm terribly sorry about this," the older man had said when he had cleared the room of his less than pleasant associates. "I took the liberty of getting you something to drink… tea I hope."

"Tis nae poison is it?

"Only with cream and sugar… I truly am sorry for your treatment. My colleague tends to be a bit over enthusiastic, but she doesn't have the full picture I'm afraid."

And so the gray haired man had sat down across from him, gesturing for the handcuffs to be removed and giving him a sympathetic smile as the younger man rubbed at his sore wrists.

"Let me fill you in on the situation, Mr. O'Keefe. Your cousin, Ms Glenanne, has unfortunately fallen for the charms of an American operative, you know him as Michael McBride..."

"McBride? A yank spy? Yer havin' me on, so ya ar' an'—" and his disbelief had been clear.

"Please, Mr. O'Keefe, time is of the essence here, so just listen," the other man had interrupted. "Michael had been tasked with neutralizing the threat of the Real IRA to the peace process; however, it seems now that he has decided to go rogue and he has convinced your cousin to go on the run with him. I'm sure you can understand how dangerous this situation is for everyone involved, especially for Fiona."

More surveillance photographs and pictures of the crash site joined the others already on the table.

"Losing the tactical team and raining down wreckage all over the Irish countryside has everyone's panties in a bunch. The CIA and MI6 would like nothing better than to -"

"Ya donnae have ta spell it out fer me, I take yar meaning. Whot I donnae understand is why ya think I can do anything ta help ya thot ya cannae do on yar own."

"Well, let's just say I'm here in an unofficial capacity. I trained Michael. He's like a son to me and there's nothing a man won't do for his family, am I right, Mr. O'Keefe? Now I happen to know her big brother is out beating the bushes hunting her down and I'd like to offer my assistance. I would like to see your cousin Fiona back in the bosom of her family, especially right now, and I would like to see Michael not get killed in the crossfire between your family and every intelligence agency on this… lovely island of yours."

Then the American had slid a card across the table towards him with the name of a café and a time on it.

"Now I'm gonna go out on the skinny branches here. Have Liam Glenanne meet me there today."

"An' why would I wanta do thot, Mister -? Or is it Agent -? Like ya said, family is tha most important thing and, begging yar pardon sir, I donnae think I'd been doing mine any favors by blindly taking tha word of a yank spy regarding another yank spy. If whot ya say is true, Am sure me cousin will come ta har senses soon enough an' if not -"

"And if not, are you willing to gamble dear sweet Fiona's life on her big brother being able to find her before even more bodies begin to pile up and MI6 runs out of cover stories?"

"Fiona is a big girl she can look after har self." He had stubbornly resisted the smooth talking bastard.

"I can see now that Mr. Glenanne has being playing his cards very close to the chest. Let me read you in."

The exhausted Irishman had sat there dumbfounded, as tha arsehole in tha fancy suit and his thousand watt smile had proceeded ta explain ta him tha exact depth o' tha shit hole Fiona and her yank spy had dropped tham all inta, and why there was no other way out of their now mutual problems.

"It's not just the US and UK intelligence agencies hunting them down. I have it on good authority a man named Thomas O'Neill has crossed an ocean to settle a score and there are also rumors coming out of Russia. You should know Michael has made some very, very dangerous enemies during his time working for the agency. Very bad tempered men, who once they hear he is no longer under the protection of the CIA, will be looking for some payback."

He had then tapped the card with a manicured fingernail. "No CIA, no IRA, no MI6. Just Liam and me trying to figure out how to make this all happen where we both get what we want: Fiona home at Chez Glenanne in Dublin and Michael alive and on a plane outta here…Think of it as just a great big circle of bliss for everyone, don'cha love it? As one family man to another, Mr. O'Keefe, I'm asking you to help me make this happen for all the wee ones that might get caught in the crossfire if this goes on any longer."

He'd hesitated, the mere thought of getting into bed with an American spy turned his guts. He had never been part of the cause that ruled the Glenanne's lives, but he had the same deeply ingrained distrust of authority and the same dislike for outsiders sticking their noses in family business.

"I tell you what… this is going to be my one time, never to be repeated final offer. You do what I ask, you get me a face to face meeting with Liam Glenanne, today, and I will get rid of your Francis Duggan problem. How does that sound, Mr O'Keefe? As soon as Duggan gives you the location for your men to pick up the arms he's shipping, you just say the word and we will close up his shop there for good."

"The person you are calling is unavailable please try later.…"

"No feckin' kiddin' ya bloody machine," Ryan muttered in disgust, shoving the device back into his pocket and running his hands through his sandy-colored hair. With another heartfelt sigh, he dropped his head back against the brick wall he'd been standing by in the alley.

In between calling his wife to let her know that he was still alive after disappearing all night and then to various business associates regarding the fallout of his midnight meeting with Francis Duggan, Ryan had made ten phone calls to the head of Clan Glenanne with no luck at all in reaching the man.

"Let's face the facts here; the longer your cousin hangs around with my operative, the more likely it is there'll be more than one life in danger. What do you think would happen if she found herself up a pole as well as out on a limb? What d'ya say, maestro? Can we orchestrate this meeting now, hmmm?"

"The person you are calling is unavailable, please try later.…"

Whatever Liam was up to, it was important enough that he wasn't taking calls on his emergencies only phone number. Well, if anything qualified fer thot, this wa' it. Someone needs ta meet wit' tha man. Even if tha bastid wa' making things up about Fiona, Thomas bloody O'Neil deserved a proper welcome.

With time running out, Mr. O'Keefe reluctantly decided that calling his aunt was his next best move.

()()()()

As soon as Eileen Garretty had had her eyes opened to what her younger lover had done, the middle aged widow had started talking.

"His job takes ham fram Limerick ta Wexford an' sometimes even Dublin. H-he mostly c-carries TVs, c-computers an' -"

"An' whar does he go when he's nae here or on tha road? Does he have another place thot ya know of? Have ya ever been ta whar he lives? He must have place o' his own."

He had poured out a generous measure of Gordon's Gin into a tall glass, almost to over flowing, and as she had continued to ramble on, he had handed her the drink, encouraging the devastated blonde to keep talking in the midst of the nightmare she had woken up to.

"H-he took me once, months ago, w-when we war first dating, took me back ta a little flat above a bookmakers, Ladbrookes I think it wa', a tiny place. I dinnae like it. Thot's why he always came har... Tis in Mallow, about fifty kilometres -"

"I know whar Mallow is an' ya say tis a flat above Ladbrookes?... Thanks fer thot." He had narrowed his eyes then, staring into her soul, impressing upon her the gravity of the situation. "Nar as long as ya keep yar mouth shut about our little chat, ya will never hear fram me again. But if I ever hear o' ya talking…"

He hadn't needed to finish the threat. The widow had nodded mutely before downing the remainders of the hard liquor in one go. That had been one problem resolved.

The second had presented itself as soon as Liam Glenanne had strode from Mrs. Garretty's house.

"I hate ya! Ya feckin' bastid, whot did ya have ta do thot fer?"

Robin had rounded on him as soon as they had left the widow's doorstep, swinging a punch at his head.

Luckily for him, the tears filling her eyes had caused her aim to be off and the reflexes he had acquired while earning two black belts had served him well. He'd deflected the blow and had used her momentum to spin her around into his arms.

"I hate ya! I hate – Get yar feckin' hands off me, ya bastid, get 'em off! I swear if ya donnae let – let me go – I - I h - ate ya."

"Quiet down, girl," he had growled low. "It had ta be done."

As the enraged gypsy had continued to struggle, he had spun her back around to face him and took a firm grip on her biceps, shaking her hard enough to make her brain rattle.

"Stop yar nonsense, Robin! I warned ya right at tha start. I warned ya befer we blew up yar Da's home, but ya would have none o' it. Ya wanted yar revenge an' ya swore ya would do whotever I told ya ta. So I took ya at yar word. Ya knew tha plan."

He had released her so suddenly that she'd almost stumbled. "And ya knew thot after whot I said ta har, thot old biddy warn't gonna talk ta me. Nar, get inta tha car. We've gotta get down tha road."

It had taken just over half an hour to drive the fifty five miles from Livisigeen to Mallow; but once they had found Moffatt's bolt hole, yet another problem had cropped up. With the sun rising, people had begun to leave their homes, heading off to work or delivering their offspring to school. Even though entrance to the flat was through a small courtyard at the back of a row of shops, it had still been too risky to chance an armed assault.

So, they had sat and waited while the shops opened and deliveries were made, which wouldn't have been too bad if it hadn't been for the tension inside the car.

Making the young gypsy confront her attacker's girlfriend had served two purposes. Liam had known before he had picked that front door lock that once Moffatt's woman realized the severity of her situation, she would fall to pieces and it would take a gentler, more feminine touch to calm the older woman down and get her to talk. His other reason had been for Robin's benefit, though he had no intention of ever admitting to it.

Since the attack and the murder of her father, the young woman had been running on nothing more than hate and fury. He'd witnessed something similar before. When Claire had died, his only remaining sister had taken all her grief-fueled fury and wrapped it up in the Cause, getting mixed up with a local hooligan out to make a name for himself while he had been otherwise engaged in official IRA business.

And for an instant, he wasn't conducting surveillance on Pat Moffat's front door, he was back in that old abandoned garage in the middle of the night on a deserted stretch of road on Colin Mountain. The place where he had ruthlessly jerked Fiona off the deadly path she had been about to follow.

"I seem ta be havin' some communication problems... I tell people ta do one thing an' they go off an' do sommit completely different. An' then I've got other people who see me own family ignorin' me orders and they start ta think they can disrespect me taa."

"Liam, donnae do this. Don't, please, it wa' me... I got sick o' waitin'. Blame me...donnae do this."

But his little sister's pleas had fallen on deaf ears. The man tied to the chair had gotten her the arms to start her own private little war against the British. As he had walked slowly towards his prisoner, the head of Clan Glenanne had reached into his jacket pocket and had produced a steel headed hammer.

When he'd finished, Thomas O'Neill had been reduced to a bloody mess, slumped in the chair, his jacket front covered in red and more blood bubbling out of his torn mouth and from between his broken teeth.

"If I see ya round me sister again, I'll make sure ya choke on whot's left off yar teeth, ya get me, boy?"

No, he hadn't been about to let Robin Hennessy make the same mistakes Fiona Glenanne had. He'd brought her along because he was positive if he had left her alone she would have followed the same destructive path Fiona had been on. It had just been a fortuitous coincidence that he'd found the means to get her to open up about what had happened to her and now hopefully she could begin to heal.

"And now thot tha courtyard is cleared, tis time ta pay Pat Moffat a little visit," he told his associates.

Liam glanced to the left and then to the right before easing the shotgun he had hidden under his coat out of the way so he could crouch down to pick the lock of the heavy steel door which was blocking his entrance into the flat belonging to their target.

The faint click told him he was now free to open the door. Getting to his feet, he pushed against the steel but the door only opened a few inches and then came to a stop, held fast by a narrow piece of chain. Liam gritted his teeth at another unfortunate turn of events.

He had wanted to sneak in nice and quiet and, if the piece of scum was there, to surprise him. Sucking in a breath, the Irishman quickly scanned the surrounding area. The only witnesses were his two young companions waiting in his car.

Satisfied wasn't going to be seen or heard, he raised one of his booted feet and kicked the door hard enough to break the chain free from the frame. Liam went inside in a rush, the shotgun in his hand cocked and ready to fire as he quickly checked out the sparsely decorated living area.

"Whot tha feck?"

The shout came from behind a flimsy looking door at the far side of the room, but before Liam had a chance to investigate, a man with a stocky build and a shock of dark curly hair appeared in the doorway.

"Whot tha bloody hell are ya doin' in me pad? Feck off out befer -"

Then he spotted the shortened barrels of the sawn off shotgun pointing in his direction and then he took a good long look at the man standing behind that gun and swallowed thickly.

"Ya – yer har..." Patrick Moffatt backed up as the menacing figure strode toward him. "Twas nae me!"

"Twas nae ya doin' whot?" The IRA's premiere interrogator took note of the bag on the bed and the stack of clothes waiting to be packed away. "Ya goin' somewhar, Patrick?"

"I – I" The younger man couldn't get the words out.

"Paddy, Paddy, man, pick up yar fecking phone... I donnae whot ya've got yar self inta lad, but Liam Fecking Glenanne is lookin' fer ya. I heard it fram Ray Docherty in Killarney. Yar need ta get outta tha country nar."

Ever since the young truck driver had woken up this morning to discover over twenty messages on his phone, most of them from a cousin who worked part time as a cleaner in the pub where he had picked up the old gyspy the other night, Mr. Moffatt had been panicking and rightly so.

"Am guessin' I donnae have ta tell ya how much shite ya've stepped in, Paddy. Ya an' yar friends have been askin' about me sister, so I'd like ya ta tell me whot ya know an' who yer workin' fer."

Moffatt ran his tongue over his lips, as his brown eyes flickered past the man with the shotgun blocking his only way out of the room. "I wa' just doin' a friend a favor, thot wa' all. I donnae why he wa' askin' after yar sister. Honest, Mr. Glenanne, I donnae have anythin' ta tell ya." Moffatt poured every bit of faux sincerity he could muster into his words.

But an instant later, he was cringing back for real as all of a sudden the PIRA's most notorious interrogator was directly in front of him, the twin sawn off barrels of the shotgun pressed up under his chin.

"How about ya fill me in on yar friends an' why ya ar' nae still wit' tham?"

"Am not like tham, Mr. Glenanne," he whined. "They rang me, they wanted ta know if I'd heard anythin' about yar sister bein' in tha south. I said I'd ask around, thot wa' all. I swear ta ya on me mother's grave, thot's all I know."

Sometimes tha biggest obstacle ya can face in an interrogation is yarself. When yar own feelings, yar own anger, yar own desire fer revenge can get in tha way – tha stronger those feelings are, tha more yar hate burns, tha more important tis fer ya set it all aside...

The shotgun's dual muzzles dug in even deeper, stopping the snivelling lies coming out of the younger man's mouth... But sometimes wit' some people, as hard as ya try, bottlin' up all thot hate an' desire is impossible.

During his long hours of research, one of things Mr. Glenanne had learned was not only was Mr. Moffatt the youngest of four siblings, but also that his two sisters and one brother were all living in Limerick to be close to their aging but very much alive parents, who were happily spending their twilight years together in an old peoples home by the sea.

But that was only part of Liam Glenanne's growing ire.

The words of the young gyspy girl came back to him at that moment. Battered and bruised, struggling to keep a grip on the pain and fear which was etched upon her near unrecognizable features, Robin had hesitantly given him her account of what had happened that night in the caravan and that was the second reason why Patrick Moffatt was seconds away from meeting his maker.

"Whare… Tha… Feck... Can… I… Find… Yar… Friends? If I have ta ask again – "

"Kevin went north ta Cashel an' Martin said he wa' gonna look around Clonmel. He thought yar sister might try hidin' out inna town, an' Clonmel wa' tha nearest big town ta whare – "

Moffatt bit down on his lip, hoping against hope that Liam Glenanne didn't know where or how they had gotten their information and didn't bother to ask.

"Let go o' me, ya little bastid!"

"How about doin' as ya wa' told fer once, ya daft mare!"

The yelling was followed by the sounds of a scuffle and then the sharp primal cry of a man being hit in a place where no man wants to take a blow.

"Whot tha bloody hell?" Liam growled lowly and thrust the younger man away before turning to face the wild woman rushing towards him.

"Slow down thar!" He stuck out an arm, barring her from entering the room. "Whot tha feck do ya think yer playin' at? Get back outside an' do yar job."

"Ya donnae know whot he did ta me! Ya promised I could face ham, ya promised," Robin shrieked back. She was past all thoughts of reason as memories of that fateful night played over and over in her head.

Of hands pawing over her, their tongues, mouths – their teeth and fists, but mostly of their callous invasion of her body even when she was barely conscious and too broken to fight anymore…

"Whot d'ya say, Kev? I think we deserve ta find out whot's so special about tha skinny bitch befer we hand har over ta Tommy O'Neill."

"Aye, yer right thar, Pat. If we get our hands on Fiona Glenanne, Am gonna have me self a piece o' har... Though, I likes 'em wit' a bit more flesh on 'em."

"C'mon, Kevin, hurry up thar, tis me own turn wit tha pikey whore... Hey girl, wake up! Open yar feckin' eyes or I'll smack ya again! Nar tell us whot we wanta know or tha old bastid is gonna pay fer it."

"She's keeping har trap shut cuz she's enjoyin' it so much."

"He – whot he did ta me…" Robin reached over Liam's arm pointing an accusing finger at the figure standing in the corner of the room. "They war laughin' and boastin' about how they wa' gonna do tha same ta yar sister."

"Wa' he now?" Liam began to turn to face Moffatt, when the fool made what could only be described as a fatal error.

"Shut yer feckin' mouth, yar stupid pikey whore, ya ware gaggin' fer it. Ya couldnae get enough o' us. Begging us ta go again so ya war... I'm tellin' ya Mr. Glenanne ya cannae trust a stinking gippo, she's nothin' butta cheap slag I swear she'd lay down in nettles, thot one."

The young woman stamped down hard on her protector's foot and then ducked under his guard to reach her target. Before Liam or the still pale and limping Joey Lovatt could stop her, Robin plunged her hunting knife into Patrick's heart over and over again, sending them both crashing to the floor.

"Jayuz!" Liam cursed. It had only taken him a second to recover and another to reach the girl and disarm her but it was a couple of seconds to late. The man was a bloody mess; the girl looked almost as bad.

"Go get cleaned up." he snarled, as Robin hurriedly left the room and then he stared up at his driver.

"An' ya, ya idjit… why did ya let har come up har?... No, donnae answer thot... Jus'…"

The head of clan paused to look around the room. There was no way they had the time to clean up the blood that was pooling around the body and splattered up the walls.

Taking a deep breath, Liam picked up a jumper and a pair of jeans from the pile of clothes beside the bag on the bed. "Go put these on and then take Robin yar clothes. She's gonna need sommit clean ta wear an' thar's no way she's gonna wear anything belongin' ta thot bastid. Once she's changed tell har ta put all her bloody stuff in a bag an' we'll take it wit' us... An' then come an' help me wit this."

While he waited for the younger man to return, the PIRA interrogator dragged the duvet cover off the bed and began to wrap Moffatt's bloody corpse up to make it easier to transport elsewhere. It was then he spotted the man's mobile phone. It must have fallen from his pocket during the scuffle with the enraged gypsy.

Scrolling through the messages, he found the one from somebody named Tracey, warning Moffatt to get out of the country. It seemed Mr. Docherty was going to need a rather fatal lesson in keeping his mouth shut. Then, further along, he found what he was looking for:

Fuck all here, just a bunch of tourists. No sign of FG. Pick U up B4 noon. C U then - Kev.

"So, tha lamb is bringin' itself ta tha slaughter." Smiling grimly, he headed over to where Joey, now dressed in the slightly larger jeans and jumper, was standing outside the bathroom door. "Robin, get out har. We gotta get this dump cleaned up. We have a visitor on tha way."

Sending Joey off to repair the damage to the front door, Liam took a moment to check his own phones. His eyes widening when he saw all the calls he had missed from his cousin Ryan. For a second, his thumb hovered over the call key and then he thrust the mobile back into his pocket. He wa' taa busy.

Besides Ryan was a big boy. Whatever his problem was, the criminal genius would have to deal with it himself.

()()()()

And while her brother awaited his prey, his little sister and her lover were keeping a watch of their own.

Sitting just below the top of the rise in the middle of a grassy field, Michael and Fiona had been staring out across the rolling countryside for over an hour, hoping to catch sight of Community Nurse Sara Moran's distinctive green Mini Cooper with a white roof.

Talk of leaving the farm and their efforts to make sure any fallout from the various intelligence agencies hunting them down or from the Glenannes didn't endanger the lives of the elderly trio, who had given them shelter and shown them such kindness, had eventually turned to where they would go to next and if they would ever be able to find a safe place to put down roots.

"Yes, you're right. We need to start thinking about where we're going to go after we reach France," the ex-spy had agreed to her declaration that it was well past time to start planning on their final destination. Now it seemed like a lifetime ago that they'd first had this conversation whilst he was staring out the window of their little cottage hideaway when in truth it had only been just a week and a half.

So much had happened since then...

"You should make a list of all the places you've been over the last, oh say, ten years. Anywhere your family has friends or contacts or you've vacationed – anywhere you've dealt in weapons, robbed banks, you know, all those places where you've practiced your extra-curricular activities."

She gave him a bright smile at his coyness regarding what he usually complained about her doing. "Ya already know thot's a mighty long list, Michael. I've been a busy girl most o' me life."

"True, but once we've gone over that list we can narrow down our choices of destination. It's a still big world out there and lucky for us the UK and the US doesn't have extradition treaties in every corner."

Leaning into each other, Fiona rested her head against her man's shoulder. Resisting the urge to snuggle closer in deference to his sore ribs, she reached out and took his hand linking their fingers together as they continued to keep watch with all the patience of two highly skilled snipers while she thought about all the places she had visited over the last ten years.

Her life had changed enormously in the past decade. Her graduation from Trinity College with a degree in languages seemed like a dream now, but the nightmare of what had happened at graduation still lingered in the back of her mind. How different she would have been today if that had never happened… If she'd never gone into the family business or met Armand Andreani while working with Seamus.

Forcefully shaking off thoughts of the Frenchman, her first long-time lover, Fiona smiled at the love of her life, remembering how badly her initial attempt to get him to open up about where he'd been had gone. It seemed as though he'd been a little more open recently, so perhaps it would go better this time.

"Parlez-vous français?" She'd been to Paris, the French Alps and of course the Riveria many, many times, as well as living in various mansions throughout the French countryside… and around the globe for that matter… and Michael had already admitted he had not visited those places, although he hadn't exactly admitted to not having been to the country itself during their prior conversation.

He glanced at her just out of the corner of his eye and then surprised her by replying to her question in impeccable French. "Oui, mais je ne suis pas dans un tout. Pourquoi?"

"I wa' jus' wonderin' as tis a big country taa an' we could hide thar fer weeks, months even." Fiona reverted to English, her curiosity piqued. "An' when ya say a while, how long is thot exactly?"

"A very long while," Michael replied cryptically.

"This is the life, Kid, tailored suits, private planes and all on an expense budget. Sure beats the hell outta jumping outta helicopters into some damn hot jungle LZ in the dead of night, doesn't it, Michael?"

The words of his former mentor floated out of the ether and just for a moment he was back there, getting comfortable on a private jet supplied by the company on his way to Algeria via a stop in Tunisia.

"Here's something to keep you busy." Larry had casually tossed a CD case onto his lap as he had explained. "French for beginners... When in Algers, international men of mystery do their deals in l'français unless they want to get noticed. That killer smile of yours won't always get you outta trouble, kid... Study hard, they'll be a test before we land."

"Ar' ya gonna make me beg, Michael?" He was brought back to the present by a bony elbow making contact with his hip as she bumped him playfully.

"W-what, sorry… What did you say?"

Rolling her eyes at his uncharacteristic lack of attention and sighing heavily, she repeated her question. "Ya've already said ya've nae been ta Paris. Where'd ya learn yar French? Where've ya been in France?"

He shook his head, hoping that she would take the hint and drop the subject. He would have liked to have the opportunity to take her to Paris like he had promised her earlier, but the chances of that ever happening now was so slim it wasn't worth mentioning again. He'd broken enough promises to her without focusing on another, besides he'd been through the country more than he'd been to France.

"Well, yar accent wa' a bit off, so am thinkin' further south, maybe?"

A lot further south…he hid his smirk behind his hand as the fingers of his free hand brushed over the bridge of his nose.

It had been at the Tiddis ruins outside Beni Hamidene after surviving a battle to the death with a former Algerian special forces operative. That was where as the victor in the brutal knife fight he had claimed his prize, some fancy gold rimmed aviator sunglasses, which were now languishing in a storage locker back in DC along with the rest of his personal belongings: made to measure shirts, Armani suits, his collection of shoes, watches, even a variety of designer cuff links, all bought on the company dime.

"I've spent alotta time in Paris, but I'd like ta go thar again wit' ya, stay in thot five star hotel like we talked about. We could walk along tha Champs Elysee, or maybe ya would prefer ta climb up tha Eiffel Tower; tha view is ta die fer. I cannae think o' no better sniper perch. Ya can see fer miles. Though it might be more trouble than tis worth ta sneak tha guns past tha security... Am I talkin' ta meself har?"

"No, I'm listening, sorry," He shook off his distracted reverie. "But I don't think it'll be safe for us to do the whole tourist thing… Maybe in a few years, when people have forgotten about us."

Sighing heavily, she decided she wasn't going to be put off from her chosen topic.

"Then if France is nae ta be our final destination, how about Germany? It's gotta nice easy border crossin' an' they donnae check yar passport. Wie ist dein Deutsch?"

"Viel besser als mein Französisch... and before you ask, most of eastern Europe or Russia is completely out of the question." He turned to face her, untangling their fingers before he reached up to tenderly stroke her cheek. "So's the Middle East for that matter… There...You've gotten blood outta stone. Happy now?"

"I've been ta too many gun deals in tha Middle East meself to even consider it." She smiled mischievously. "So, you have been ta France, but nae Paris, an' yar German tis better than ya français and yer a wanted man behind tha Iron Curtain… I think Am beginning ta unravel tha mystery o' who is Michael Westen."

"Look, Fiona, I told you I'm not going to discuss past missions with you. What I did before, it's a – "

"Really, Michael, ya would think Am tryin' ta drag state secrets outta ya."

"It's completely different. I worked for my government; the places I've been are a matter of national security. I can't discuss where I've been anymore than I can talk about what I've done." He dropped his hand and turned his face back to the road.

"Habla Espanol?" she asked, changing tactics to end the blossoming argument. .

"What?" His brow creased into a frown. "Huh – no, I've never learned any Spanish."

"Mmmmm, so you've been ta Spain, but nae long enough ta learn tha language, so I'm guessing thar war no mysterious trips ta South America in yar past either."

He continued to stare at the road, but took her hand in his hand, giving it a light squeeze, probably as much to ward off a punch as anything, she decided. But in truth, Michael was remembering those trips to South American during his Ranger days and on the whole, they were not pleasant memories. Thoughts of Bolivia in particular were very troubling and he shook his head to clear the recollections, but his lover misinterpreted the gesture.

"Then how d'ya propose we discuss whar war goin'?" Fiona countered, staring at his profile and trying to curb her rising temper.

"I know where I've been and where we can't go," the ex-operative answered logically. "We just—"

"So, I've told ya about me life and whot I have nae told ya, ya've probably read in me Interpol file. D'ya think thot's fair? Or yer jus' telling me everythin' east o' here is outta tha question until we get ta whar? The Indian Ocean..? The South China Sea…?"

Michael dropped his head and bit his bottom lip while he formulated his answer. "Something like that."

They'd been down that road too many times before. But regardless, in the end, he had chosen her. He had run off with her and left everything behind... that was as much of betrayal of his country as anything else he could possibly be asked to do. The Irishwoman shook off her anger.

"So whot yer telling me is thot ya've nae been anywhar thot warn't fer work, so ya cannae talk about it?"

He looked in her eyes then, nodding quietly, tensing for the anticipated explosion. But instead, the petite redhead grinned at him broadly, a merry twinkle in her blue green orbs.

"Yer no fun, Michael Westen, d'ya know thot?" She took the sting out of her words with a quick brush of her lips over his. "Whotever shall we do about thot?"

"Well, then, ya'll just have ta teach me, lass," He pressed his mouth over hers, running his tongue enticingly along her gums until she surrendered to his kiss, sinking into his arms and sighing contently.

Sitting on an exposed hilltop, wrapped in the embrace of a beautiful woman wasn't exactly a sound tactical decision. But he had learned a long time ago that no training manual in the world could help him when it came to Fiona Glennane.

()()()()

A/N:

You can find the answers to what happened after Fiona's graduation, Claire's murder at the hands of a British soldier and Fiona's first brush with the hooligan Thomas O'Neill in Jedi Pal's first multi-chapter story, Victims of War, as well discover why Arthur Meyers hated the Glenannes so much.

You can also discover how Michael got his signature sun glasses in our story Life with Larry, Chapter 6, Bene Hamidene, Algeria.