A/N: Thank you for all your continuing support for this story. To make up for keeping you all waiting for nearly a month, here is an extra long chapter focusing exclusively on our favorite couple's attempt to reconcile with her family and enter into a state of wedded bliss.
But the plot continues to thicken as Michael faces his own version of the inquisition, as his deadly secret may be exposed, and Fiona finally gets to see her mother. Things are never easy where these two are concerned (that's why we love them!) so there's sure to be more complications in this next chapter!
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Thirty Six
Liam Glenanne lowered his mobile from his ear, the device captured in a trembling fist that threatened to destroy the plastic casing surrounding the cellular phone.
The words his brother had spoken seconds before had reignited the burning rage that bordered on insanity in the heart of the clan leader, which he had just barely managed to bring back under control moments before. Shoving the offending device into his pocket, the younger of the two men let loose a guttural growl of pure frustration.
"Damn tha fecking bitch ta hell fer all eternity. She's gone stark raving mad an' she's gonna take tha lot o' us down with her!"
With his features still twisted in fury, the former medical student produced a bone handled butterfly knife from the inner pocket of his jacket and with a flick of his wrist exposed the deadly three inch steel blade concealed inside. Then, under the eyes of his very wary henchman, he stalked around Gerry Coleraine's pride and joy, viciously stabbing holes in each of the wide rim tires.
"Whot tha feck?" Doyle exclaimed in horror, speaking over the loud hiss of escaping air from the now blown tires, his eyes travelling from the now obviously disabled vehicle to his just as obviously deranged employer while Liam strode purposefully back to where the Mercedes had been abandoned in the middle of the road. "Jaysus, boss, d'ya nae think thar gonna notice -"
"AM takin' tha car," Mr. Glenanne announced coldly as he briefly glanced back over his shoulder. "Ya stay har an' keep watch jus' in case thot bloody sister o' mine decides ta show har face. When I get home, I'll send a coupla o' tha boys back ta keep ya company. If ya see har or thot feckin' bastid she's runnin' wit' then ya put ham down. I donnae care how or whot state he's in at tha end o' it an' ya bring har in."
"Liam, man, ya nae thinkin' clearly. Will ya take a -"
"Jus' do ya job, Davy! An' stop feckin' questioning every friggin' thing I say," came the snarled reply and instantly the other man fell back holding his arms wide in the surrender.
Satisfied he had made his point, the head of the family got behind the wheel of his vehicle and drove away, leaving his bodyguard standing in the middle of the road still trying to make sense of his employer's sudden bout of apparent madness.
On his own, Liam sped away driving as if the hounds of hell were on his tail, tossing the Mercedes around the narrow windy back country lanes as if he was on a rally track.
Just fer once why couldnae everybody do as they war told? he fumed silently.
Ignoring the squealing protests from the brakes and the juddering of the sorely pressed suspension, he pushed the high performance auto ever faster because after what he had heard on the phone, he knew he didn't have long to prevent an even bigger disaster than the one he was trying to clean up.
Didnae he beg har ta come back wit' ham? Hadnae he promised nae ta lay a hand on thot worthless piece o' shite Yank no matter how much tha fecker deserved it? Well, things had gone taa far nar, the council war stickin' thar noses in an' nar McGarry wa' gonna be diggin' inta tha story he'd told Temple...Feck it! He done all he could fer har. Nar it wa' about savin' all thar skins.
Letting out a snarl, Liam braced himself as he stamped down hard on the brakes, bringing his car to a sudden skidding and sliding halt.
Whot tha hell had he been thinkin'? His elbow smashed against the door panel, once, twice and once again before he was able to stop the overflow of emotion. Opening his side window, the PIRA enforcer switched off the engine and rested his head back, breathing deeply as he tried to take back control of a temper that hadn't been unleashed in over a decade.
Thrustin' tha blade inta tham tires had felt good, but pullin' tha battery leads or any o' a dozen things he coulda done ta tha car which wouldnae have been visible, thot woulda been a far more sensible option.
It had been years since he had gone with so little sleep and the strain of the past two weeks events was getting to him and Liam knew it.
If he arrived at his mam's like this, he'd end up shootin' one o' tham fer sure. He needed ta take a coupla o' minutes ta calm down, because he knew when he tol' tham tha way things ware gonna be, thar wa' gonna be hell ta pay.
He sucked on his lower lip, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the distance.
Fiona had made her decision. She'd made it plain she didnae want help fram ham or tha rest o' tha family. He had accepted thot. Nar things had gone taa far fer har ta change har mind.
She'd run off with O'Neill without thinkin' o' tha consequences because she hadnae been prepared ta wait ta take retribution on tha troopers who had murdered Claire. If he hadnae crushed thot partnership early on thar wa' no telling what might have happened... He shoulda done sommit as soon as tha traitor O'Dowd confessed thot McBride wa' a spy... Fi woulda hated ham, but she woulda got over it, jus' like she got over O'Neill...
Even as he thought it, Liam knew he was kidding himself. By the time he had discovered tha truth, Michael McBride, Westen or whoever tha hell tha fecker truly wa' had already gotten his hooks taa deep inta his lil sister an' that's why he'd even given a thought ta tryin' ta turn tha bastid instead o' dropping ham straight inta Keiran's kiln. But none o' thot mattered nar wit' a babby in the mix...
It was no good getting mad at Fiona. She'd always been tha one who'd listened most ta their da, takin' his damn feckin' stupid sayings as gospel... "Thar war living an' livin' free"... Jaysus, thar war always ta price ta pay fer freedom an' nar they war all gonna have ta pay tha cost fer hars.
Turning the key in the ignition, Liam took hold of the steering wheel and began to drive the last few hundred yards to the gates of his mother's home in a far more sedate manner than he'd been driving a few minutes earlier, the rage which had taken charge of his mind now firmly back under control.
He didnae like it, but over tha years he had done a lotta things he didnae like. It wa' all part o' tha job he had taken on when he stepped inta his older brother's shoes. He had responsibilities, people thot relied on him. An' with tha council an' nar McGarry involved, he could nae longer put one rebellious girl ahead o' everyone else an' tha rest o' tha family war jus' gonna have ta fall inta line.
Reaching the tall wrought iron gates which marked the entrance to his mother's property, he came to a stop eyeing the three guards who were standing around idly gossiping when they should have been doing their job. They were Seamus's men, loyal, skilled with all types of weaponry but with none of the discipline of his own unit.
"It doesnae take three o' ya ta guard a feckin' gate," he barked out before any of the men could speak. "Two o' ya get back ta tha house an' get tha dogs. I want tha whole perimeter patrolled, right out ta tha road an' thot old barn, anywhare thot could hide a body. Get ta it!"
Without waiting for a reply, he continued down the gravel drive toward the large stone Gregorian manor house. If he kept things short, sharp an' taa tha point they wouldnae be able ta talk ham outta whot had ta be done.
The PIRA's most feared interrogator ran his tongue over his lips and then swallowed thickly, his pale blue eyes focused on the mass of people, of family, who were rushing out of the front door in an effort to reach him first.
His mammy, her sharp features and the quickness of her stride, the twist of her lips as she shouted something over her shoulder, was betraying her anxiety as she led the pack, Seamus chasing after her, clearly angry yet as always not ready to take charge or keep order. Behind them came the rest of them: Aunt Claire trying to distract Shay and run interference for her partner in mayhem, Sean with Rosie at his side clinging onto his good arm in an attempt to slow him down, Colin looking flustered his pale complexion flushed and at the back Belle doing her best to contain the younger element of the family.
Sighing heavily, the head of the clan stepped out of the car to face them, all his mouth set in a harsh unforgiving line, his eyes cold and flat, not betraying any of the anguish he felt at the thought of what he was about to do.
()()()()()()
Colin Glenanne watched with some relief as his family rushed from the living room, along the hallway and out of the front door in an effort to be the first to list their complaints and vent their collective frustrations on the eldest.
Whot he woulda given fer a set o' headphones an' a lock on his door. Thot way at least he coulda hidden out til they all calmed down or wore thamselves out wit' all tha squabblin'.
The noise inside the house had been deafening, the atmosphere a strange mix of frosty anger and simmering rage which had left the computer genius longing for the peace and quiet of his own room back home in Holywood.
"Liam, son, whot's this about thot wer ta wait har?" Maeve Glenanne called out, while shrugging off the large calloused hand of her third born child as she raced down the three stone steps which led from her front door to the gravel driveway and her oldest surviving boy.
"Jaysus, Ma, it's been nae more than ten minutes. Whot d'ya think ya've missed out on?" Unwilling to just give in gracefully to the inevitable, Seamus tried to overtake his mother, but in his rush failed to take into account his equally determined aunt.
"Slow down, young un, an' let tha adults talk." A tiny but surprisingly strong fist connected with the younger man's undefended back.
The insanity had begun as soon after his mam had gotten off the phone with Father Conlon. Without Liam there to take control, everybody had had an opinion on what they should do and Seamus had soon found himself shouted down. Even after the head of the family had issued his order for them all to remain where they were until he got home, it hadn't stopped the fighting.
The two old ladies wanted to rush straight over to the rectory in case Fiona called back earlier than she'd promised, while Sean was pushing for gathering up the men Liam had ordered to protect the family and go off scouring the nearby countryside for the fugitives.
This had then led to arguments about what was going to be the fate of the couple in the center of the storm: Talk of murder and disposal sites, of shotgun weddings, secret births and an even more drastic measure, if there was no reasoning with the mother to be, forced adoption, had all been raised, the last suggestion bringing Belle and Rosie's voices into the fray as the two women had expressed their own thoughts on the matter.
"Ya would tear a babby fram it's mammy's arms?" his wife had been incredulous.
"Ta keep it safe, if Fiona willnae do whot she has ta, aye I would."
"D'ya hear yarself, Sean Glenanne?" his brunette sister-in-law had demanded. "Yer jus' pissed thot McBride wa' runnin' in thot gang o' yars and nar yer wantin' ta take it out on the innocent!"
During all this the family computer genius had done what he always did when all around him descended into chaos, he kept his head down and did his best to become invisible. While all their focus was Fiona and McBride, he was far more concerned about the reaction of the UK and US governments to the crimp being put into their plans for peace.
After spending several arduous hours breaking through a multitude of firewalls and the layers of encryption guarding the American embassy server, he and Murph had only just begun downloading the intel he had been sent to find when the report on the death of one of their senior officers had come through.
Instantly, the agency had taken the precaution of going into lock down and, not wanting to risk being discovered, they had hastily abandoned their cyber-attack and destroyed all evidence of their presence. But in that short window he had learned enough to know there were powerful men within the CIA who were willing to go to extraordinary lengths to get their rogue agent back.
Once they had trashed the hard drives of the makeshift supercomputer, Murph Quinlan had snatched the briefcase full of cash Davy Doyle had brought with him and disappeared into the night, muttering something about how he was going to spend the next five years hiding out in a hut in Nicaragua thanks to the Glenanne family.
"Mam, Claire... We've gotta talk, inside wit' tha lotta ya nar." Liam's stern command cut through the cacophony of voices, silencing them as he slammed the car door shut and then strode past them all without a backward glance.
That was until the head of the clan came level with the man he'd left in charge. "Shay, send two o' my men ta join Davy on tha Bessington Road. Then I want everybody whose nae one 'o us outta tha house. Whot I've gotta say tis fer family ears only."
"Ya wanta give me a clue -"
"Ya'll hear it wit' tha rest. I have nae plans ta repeat meself more than I have ta," Liam answered brusquely before Seamus could finish asking his question.
"Er, Liam, we need ta-" Colin gulped as a pair of pale blue eyes turned to him. "About whot me an' me friend Murph found out. We need ta talk – about…" The words dried up in his throat as he backed up a step under the older man's penetrating gaze.
He hated it when his brother looked at him like that. The cold icy stare accompanied by an equally frosty expression, the aura of barely suppressed violence the older man wore like a cloak, it all reminded the younger Glenanne that at times like this, Liam was less his sibling than head of an army.
"Later, brother, we've got a lot o' things ta discuss, but after I've had me say."
"Sure, I'll -" the information specialist's voice trailed off as Liam pushed by him, continuing on his way inside.
"Son -son, will ya stop an' listen!" Clearly their mother was not taking not right now for an answer.
One small hand tugged on the sleeve of her eldest's jacket in an effort to stop his march. "Did Shay nae give ya me news?"
"Aye he did." Those three little words snarled out from behind clenched teeth caused the matriarch to take a step back and for the first time since his arrival take a good long look at her oldest boy.
For a moment, there was silence as mother and son locked eyes and then with a slight shudder, as he forced his muscles to relax, Liam looked away first.
"I said we'll talk inside, yarself an' Claire, in yar parlor nar. Tha rest o' ya can wait in tha kitchen. We willnae be long." This time when he moved, everyone fell back to let him pass.
"I tol' ya he wa' pissed." Seamus hissed as he pushed by Sean on his way to find the two men the head of the family had ordered him to send off to keep Doyle company.
"He's always pissed," the younger man shot back. "But at least nar mabbe we can get out thar an' find our sister instead o' sittin' around doin' nothin'."
The wound to his arm had, if anything, made the youngest of the brothers even more short tempered than usual and even more determined than ever to prove himself.
It was something Colin had some sympathy with his little brother. Growing up in the shadow of their father, the legendary bomb maker, had been hard enough, but when you also were expected to live up to the reputation of one brother who fought hand to hand with five Paratroopers before being gunned down in the middle of the street and another who the mere mention of his name could empty a room… It had made him withdraw into himself but with Sean, especially because of his resemblance to Pat Junior, it had made the youngest of the boys even more reckless than the man he tried to emulate had ever been.
"Mabbe nar his self is back, ya'll all start doin' as yer told... I feel like a feckin' sheepdog workin' a flock o' psychotic sheep." Seamus looked over his shoulder to scowl back at his younger siblings.
"Psychotic sheep! Whot tha feck d'ya mean by thot?"
"Sean! Sean, stop it! Remember yar arm... Belle will ya -"
Colin took a step back as young Rosie tried without success to stop her hot headed husband from chasing after his older brother. They were at it again, shouting, arguing, tossing insults back and forth as if they could barely stand to be in the same room as each other, the one wanting nothing more than to be the one in charge and the other grateful to be relinquishing a command he had never wanted in the first place.
"Children, get inside! Do as yar Uncle Liam tol' ya, upstairs nar... Pat, ya watch tham all. Maggie, help yar brother wit' tha young ones... Rosie, leave tham ta it sweetheart. Ya know whot thar like... Sean, donna listen ta thot husband o' mine, ya know he's jus' tryin' ta wind ya up... An' Sean, befer ya go off, tis nae yar fault who yar sister chose ta date. He had everyone o' us fooled an' ya know whot Fiona's like once she's made up har mind." Colin smiled as the older and far wiser Isabelle tried to bring some order to the chaos.
Stepping inside, the computer genius paused to prepare himself for what was to come. Because he was fairly certain from Liam's expression and from what he had learned in the last twenty four hours, things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.
()()()()()()
When you're working under a cover ID overseas it's all about the little things. The farther you are from home, the higher the stakes. That's why you study. You have to know every visa on your passport, every detail on every document, the entire history of the person you're claiming to be. It's true whether you're pretending to be a Russian diplomat or an expatriate Irishman looking to reconnect with his roots.
oo()()oo
An extract from Asset Management by Jedi Skysinger
"Michael Westen meet Michael McBride." The small wiry Irishman whom MI6 had chosen to be his handler and guide for his deep cover foray into the Irish terror groups had reached behind him and picked up a folder full of tightly packed pages.
"Lucky fer ya, tha real Michael McBride is in an Italian prison, poor bastid. Luckier fer ya, he left Kilkenny at tha tender age o' ten when his old wan split fram his da an' she moved back ta Milan. I guess it wa' home fer har in a manner o' speaking... An' even luckier fer ya, his ole man an' his only brother got thamselves blown up in a church bombin' in Belfast two years ago... Deadly fer tham but deadly fer ya as well... An' then, o' course, dear old mam was good enough t'go pass away las' year."
oo()()oo
Facts are the hallmark of a good false identity. It's harder to create history than it is to alter it. Plus, the more truth to your lie, the easier it is to remember... Especially when whichever MI6 analyst had provided his cover ID had done their homework on the spy they were working with.
"Nar then, young fella, I think tis tha ideal time ta finish our little chat. Join me in tha parlor, it should be warmin' up a treat nar thot hole ya made is covered..."
Father Conlon rubbed his hands together and stood back as Michael straightened up from finishing the task of reconnecting the last of the wires he had pulled from the rectory alarm control panel.
"Thar's nae much left ta say. Like I explained befer, Father, me family... Tis complicated an' nae sommit Am comfortable talkin' about – ta anybody." He had already spent the best part of an hour fending off the nosy priest's questions about his background while trying to be as honest as possible under the circumstances about his relationship with Fiona.
"Complicated or nae, Mr. McBride, I would be remiss in me duties both as a servant ta our Lord an' as a close personal friend o' tha family concerned if I didnae at least satisfy me self thot thot young woman upstairs isnae about ta make tha biggest mistake in har life."
Sucking on his bottom lip, the former spy reluctantly followed his future mother-in-law's spiritual adviser into the cozy room at the front of the house. While the Priest stopped in front of the recently lit fire, Michael turned his back to inspect the piece of hard clear plastic he had found in the handyman's cupboard which now covered the hole he had made earlier.
"So, whot is it ya would like ta hear, Father?" He spoke over his shoulder, unwilling to meet the priest's sharp penetrating gaze. Openly declaring his feelings for his fiancée to another person made him feel uncomfortable enough without the man staring back.
"Thot I love har? I think I've made thot very clear if nae ta ya, ya cannae deny Fiona believes thot ta be true. Thot I will be good ta har? How could I be anythin' else? Ya cannae know har as well as ya claim if ya think thot she would still be wit' me if I didnae treat har wit' respect?...I'd be eating a bullet if I dared ta raise a hand ta har and we both know it."
Michael took a deep breath and then concluded, "I cannae say fer sure whot sorta husband an' father I'll be, but I can promise hand on heart I'll do me best ta make tham happy. Whot else is thar?"
The old clergyman sighed and dropped down into his favorite chair, slapping his hand on the arm to attract the attention of the younger man and then nodding to the three seater couch facing him.
"Take a seat Mr. McBride... Ya asked me whot else is thar? I'll answer thot wit' a question o' me own...Why do ya think this reunion wit' har mother is so important ta yar intended?"
"She misses har family, I guess." He shrugged his shoulders, already not liking the direction the questions were going or the way the man of the cloth continued to look at him. Where was Fiona? He knew she liked to soak, but she knew how much he hated discussions about relationships or worse yet discussing his feelings about said relationships.
"Aye, she misses har family, har mother in particular. Tha Glenannes are… thar a very close knit family, in many ways very traditional. It'll be tearin' tham all apart being at odds like this... I understand fram whot Maeve– Mrs. Glenanne– has tol' me thot yar parents war divorced? Thot yar mammy, God rest har soul, tore yar own family inta pieces, taking ya away fram all ya knew: yar home, yar older brother an' even yar homeland when ya war jus' a young lad."
Michael felt a small flash of anger at the hint of disapproval he detected in Father Conlon's words and expression... Maybe if his own mother had done what Mrs. McBride had done…He pushed down the emotion. This was like any other interrogation or test... Inexperienced operatives abandon a cover ID under pressure; experienced ones just play their roles harder... And he was too damn experienced to fall for the gentle if probing inquiries of some senior country cleric.
"Me mother did whot she thought wa' fer tha best," he spoke firmly, his eyes fixed on the older man. "I wa' ten when me mother finally showed some sense. Thot me older brother wanted ta hang about with tha old man... well... Thot wa' on him. Me da wa' a drunk an' a gambler an' when he had lost all his money an' tha booze had run out, he would stagger back home an' take all his bad luck out on tha rest o' us."
When you're undercover, you often fight your emotions. If the operation demands you be a target's best friend -you do it, no matter what you're feeling. But there are times emotions can help sell a cover ID.
"It sounds like yar father wa' a troubled soul-"
"Me father wa' a -" Michael gulped, swallowing down the words which had bubbled to the surface. It was one thing to use his own feelings to sell his cover, but not to the extent that they left him vulnerable. "Yer right, Father. Am sorry." He dropped his head as if repentant for his outburst.
"Forgive those thot tresspass against ye an' our heavenly father will forgive ye," Father Conlon muttered softly. "Matthew 6:14. Tis sommit ya should keep in mind, especially when yer ta be a father yar self... As tha good book also says, let him who is without sin cast tha first stone, heh, lad? Am sure ya have more than one or two sins o' yar own thot ya might want ta cleanse ya soul of befer tha wedding... When wa' yar last confession, son?"
Confession? What have you got to confess? Please tell me you're not buying into this crap? Jeez Kid, what we did – we did to save lives. American lives. We were goddamned heroes. Michael blinked away the images of the bodies of innocents burning before his eyes, and the screams of the dying echoing in his head as the voice of his old partner whispered poison into his ear.
"Michael, are ya feelin' alright? Yer lookin' abit green about tha gills."
"Am fine, Father. I havenae thought about me family fer so long... Old memories, ya know how thot is?" Realizing his slip, the former spy looked up, his face a perfect mask, showing nothing of the turmoil lurking underneath. "Me last confession...? It wa' a while ago."
"Mmm, I thought as much... Ya will need ta remedy thot. Tis plain ta me thot sommit is troublin' ya. Nar, whot wa' it we war talkin' about? Ah yes, family matters..."
()()()()()()
Feeling thoroughly relaxed now that she had bathed her worries away along with the grime from crawling about the upper floor of the Coleraine's barn, Fiona Glenanne descended the wide dark oak staircase, one hand lightly skimming along the highly polished bannister. The hot bath had soothed the aches caused by spending a damp spring night sleeping in a car and also cleared her head of the last few remaining doubts she'd had about reuniting with her family.
The photographs decorating the walls of the elderly priest's home no longer brought a melancholy pain to her heart as she passed by, but rather were a reminder that she could have found no greater ally in her quest for reconciliation than Father Conlon. With her da's best friend and mother's confidante on their side, she was positive it wouldn't be long before her family would forgive all the troubles their flight out of Dublin and over the Irish countryside had caused.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, the petite paramilitary paused, cocking her head to the side at the muffled sounds of voices coming from inside the room across the hallway. She wasn't foolish enough to believe that her relatives would ever welcome the father of her child with open arms, especially Liam and Sean. But at least she wouldn't have to worry about her siblings dismembering the love of her life… unless of course Michael said or did something to-
"- it wa' getting' outta Italy or getting' ta spend tha next twenty years inna high security prison. So thot's when I decided ta come home... I'd heard rumors a few years ago about me da changin' his ways. Thot he'd left Kilkenny an' moved ta Belfast, sommit about he'd found God... Not thot I believed tham, but I thought… well, I thought as I had nowhare else ta go, I'd see if any o' it wa' true... An' thot's when I learned thot he an' me brother war dead, murdered by an UVF bomb planted a church no less."
"Oh, Michael..." Fiona bit down on her bottom lip as her eyes looked upwards as if expecting a bolt of lightning to strike down her deceitful boyfriend at any second. "Lying ta a priest…"
She knew his cover story back and forwards, inside and out. Much to her own shame, she had fallen for it herself. A vivid image flashed through her mind of how she had comforted him, held him close, her fingers carding through his hair before her lips had sought out his after he had told her of his dear sainted mother's valiant fight against the cancer ravaging her body and his father's untimely death just as he found redemption... A true Irish tale of tragedy and woe guaranteed to tug at the heartstrings of the easily moved.
"Such a terrible thing, my son. Ya should take comfort in Corinthians: For we must all appear before the judgement seat of Christ, so that each of us may receive what is due us for the things done while in the body, whether good or bad."
It had been one of the many things which when she'd finally come to her senses and realized that Michael McBride was not who he claimed to be had sent her into a close to murderous rage...It had taken her a while ta put all tha little clues together, ta see past all tha illusions and distractions.
They had liked the same things, from food and drink to the make of firearm. He'd changed sides for her, or so she'd thought, now helping her work against the RIRA instead of campaigning for them and they certainly couldn't keep their hands off one another...
It still rankled now, nearly a year later, that she could have been so naïve.
"Yer right, Father. I should take comfort in yar words but tis nae easy."
But out in the hallway the auburn haired former terrorist frowned as the conversation coming through the wall reminded her of all those niggling doubts she'd had about her new lover. Because once she'd looked past the charming smiles and their scorching bedroom antics, Fiona had finally seen what she'd been no doubt wilfully ignorant of all along.
He was too good with whatever type weapon he was given whether a handgun, rifle or something more exotic. He'd been careful to hide his skills, but he'd managed one too many so-called 'lucky shots' when he'd needed to make them to save their necks. He could fight and not just the street style every boy picked up scrapping in the playground and later on at the end of a rowdy night out, no, he had training. That too he had tried to explain away, that he knew some martial arts, but he had too much precision when he took down an opponent in the heat of battle.
"If it wa' easy, son, ya wouldnae be human wit' tha weakness o' mankind... I understand tis yar fervor fer tha hardline in, er, Irish politics which has led ta young Liam's suspicions about ya an' yar intentions wit' his sister?"
"Am hopin' thot this meetin' will go a long way ta provin' ta Liam an' tha rest thot I only want whot is best fer Fiona."
"Ah, thot's all we all want, son... Preghiamo tutti possiamo arrivare a un accordo su ciò che è meglio per tutti."
"Oh!" Fiona's hand went to her mouth, her eyes going wide as the priest, speaking in the faultless Italian he had picked up during his annual pilgrimage to Vatican City in Rome, suggested that her dissembling boyfriend might like to join him in prayer.
Mother Mary, have mercy, Father Liam knew! He had ta... It was if history was repeating itself. She had done the self-same thing, after weeks filled with growing doubts, a final test to see if the man she had given her heart to really was who he claimed to be.
The day of reckoning had come after the warm summer night when he had insisted on going out alone, returning hours later with exciting news of a new cell of RIRA volunteers which was about to unleash a fresh wave of terror on the streets of Belfast, unless they worked together to stop them.
"Fiona, I didnae expect ya ta still be up." He had snuck back into their home barely making a sound and then come to a stop as soon as he had spotted her sitting at their small dining table.
"An' I didnae expect ya ta stay out tha whole night." She'd banged the beer bottle she had been drinking from down on the table as she had got rather unsteadily to her feet. "D'ya have a good time? Ya stink like ya've been rollin' in tha dirt."
"Fi…" As he'd spoken, he had stepped towards her, the lopsided apologetic smile on his lips a ploy he'd used countless times before to deflect her questions. But not this time! She hadnae spent half tha night tearing apart their flat looking fer clues an' then tha other half puttin' things back in place fer him ta distract har nar wit' a charming smile an' tha firm touch o' his hands on har body.
"I donnae want ta hear it, nae nar. Nae until ya've showered." She'd raised a hand sharply to stop his excuses before he could talk his way back into her arms.
"I know yer mad I went out wit'out ya, but I heard sommit while we war in tha pub an' I wanted ta check it out by meself, thot wa' all... An' Fi, thot new RIRA group Sean wa' sayin' about, I found tham. I followed tham back ta thar safehouse. They're plannin' on bombin' a nightclub tonight, Lavery's on tha Golden Mile. We donnae have much time ta stop tham."
She'd cut through his fine speech, telling him she didn't want to hear another word until he'd cleaned up, shoving him away when he tried to touch her, refusing to answer when he asked what was wrong. She had wanted him unarmed and ideally vulnerable enough that he wouldn't be thinking of running before she got some honest answers from him.
She had given him a minute or two and when she hadn't heard the water beginning to run in the shower she had thrown the bedroom door open. All her pent up anger had erupted as she yelled at him in a language which, if he had truly spent fifteen years or more living in Milano, he should have understood immediately.
"Quindi, esattamente come ingenui pensi che io sia?" The empty beer bottle still clutched in her hand had banged against the door frame, acting as a question mark. "Si alza al pub ogni sera, giocare a freccette, bere birra, andare in cerca di guai, come sei uno dei ragazzi."She continued to use the smack of glass against wood to punctuate her rapidly spoken sentences. "Quindi queste informazioni appena cade in grembo? Un nuovo gruppo, appena istituito e si sa dove trovarli."
He had stood there partially undressed and bare chested, staring at her wide eyed as his brain tried to translate her rapidly spoken accusations, and while she stared into those deep blue eyes, she had seen guilt there and had known without a doubt she was right and that was when she had hurled the bottle straight at his cold, traitorous heart.
"Who tha bloody hell are ya? Is Michael McBride even ya real name? Answer me damn ya, who ar' ya workin' fer?"
Neither one of them had expected what had happened next. As she'd fired off her questions, Michael had deflected missile away from him. It had caught against the edge of the wardrobe door and bounced back, hitting him just to the right of his heart, the thick glass shattering into pieces, several of the shards buried into his skin.
They had both stared in silence as blood had begun to bubble out around the pieces of glass embedded in his chest. Even after he put his hand over the worst cut, blood had still continued to trail down his torso. But she still hadn't lowered the weapon she'd drawn from her waistband while he was distracted. "Who tha hell are ya? Answer me or it'll be more than a glass ya'll be diggin' outta yar chest."
"O God, who hast commanded us to honor our father and mother -"
The sound of her mother's spiritual advisor offering up prayers for the departed souls of Mr and Mrs. McBride brought a sudden end to Fiona's trip down memory.
"- and grant unto me the joy of seeing them again in the glorious light of everlasting life."
She had to put a stop to this now before Father Conlon became even more suspicious of the spy in his midst. She had no idea if Michael would know the proper response for the prayer for the dead. Tha larger concern wa' if her mammy got ta hear about this, she would kill tham both. Lyin' ta har family wa' one thing, but lyin' ta tha family priest…
Sucking in a deep breath, the young woman swung open the door and stepped inside.
()()()()()()
Liam Conlon shouldn't have been startled when the door opened and the youngest Glenanne girl abruptly appeared. It did almost seem as though the pair could read each other's minds sometimes.
"Ah, thare ya both are," she smiled broadly, purposefully avoiding the disapproving gaze of her da's boyhood best friend. "Michael, isnae time ya got yarself cleaned up? It will be lunchtime soon an' me mother will be hare befer we know it.
"Fiona, ya have no idea how much I've missed ya." Michael was on his feet the instant the mother of his child entered the room, his relief at her appearance evident in both his expression and speech.
"-Through Christ our Lord, Amen." The good father's voice took on a stern tone, bringing the young couple's words to an end as they both ducked their heads, muttering "Amen" and making the sign of the cross as was proper.
"Fiona, ya seem ta have forgotten yar manners while ya have been away fram home," he reprimanded his favorite parishioner's daughter while rising up from his chair.
"Am sorry, Father. I – I didnae think. I wa' worried about tha time. Ya know me mother isnae tha most patient woman in tha world."
The toothy smile and wide eyes didn't fool the old priest for a minute. He could remember other times when not only Fiona but also her siblings had given him that same look after committing some transgression.
"Thot's she's not," he agreed with a slight incline of his head but then added. "But thot does nae mean ya should break me door down tha same way ya broke me window."
"Wer both sorry, Father," the man who was calling himself McBride said, putting a protective arm about the waist of the woman he loved, drawing her close to his side. "With all thot's happening we've grown used ta bein' always in sight o' one another."
"Am sure ya have... " the clergyman assented in a wry tone before removing the last of the disapproval from his features. "Well, as ya har nar, why dontcha join us? Michael has been tellin' me all about his family."
"Ya must have a magic touch, Father, Michael does nae like talking about his family, do ya?"
"Ya know tis hard fer me," he mumbled, looking at the floor. "I had nae seen tham fer so long an' then ta find out about tham being killed so soon after me mam had died..."
The man wa' a good liar, thot wa' fer certain. If indeed this was nothing more than a tale told to garner his sympathy.
"But I have a family o' me own ta worry about nar." He smiled back at her, his whole attention fixed on the woman at his side, one hand drifting towards her stomach before he remembered where he was and snatched it back to hook is fingers in the front pocket of his jeans.
Tha man wa' an enigma... The good father was finding it hard not to like the spy who was the cause of all the Glenannes troubles. He watched closely as the couple drew apart, trying to decipher the pair's body language as much he was listening to the words being spoken.
"So if it's alright wit' ya, Father. I'll go get me self cleaned up befer Fiona's family turn up... They already have such a low opinion o' me as tis, I would nae want ta make it any worse."
Liam Conlon found it hard not smirk at the younger man's wish to escape the inquisition he had been put under, but somehow he found the strength to remain aloof.
"Aye, lad, a wash an' a shave would be a step in tha right direction... Fiona, me dear, why don'tcha take a seat while we wait fer yar young man ta clean up and then we can all have a bite ta eat before yar mother gets har? We both know she'll nae wait fer long."
"Thot'll be perfect, will it nae, Michael?" Fiona beamed up at her lover.
"If yer sure…" His hesitation was no doubt partially caused by the knowledge he would be leaving his beloved alone with his inquisitor and partially due to the imminent arrival of Mrs. Glenanne.
"Am sure…"
The man of the cloth watched as the young couple gazed at each other as if they were the only two people in the world, her hand raising to stroke her fingers along her man's beard covered jawline.
He coughed, loudly as if to clear his throat and concealed his smile at the way they jumped apart.
"Time is passing Mr. McBride, and as Fiona said, her mother is nae one taa be late."
"Yes, Michael, go clean yarself up." She gave him a light push to send him on his way and then, after the door closed behind him, she turned back to face their host.
"Well, whot shall we talk about?"
The good father pursed his lips, and glanced at the large wooden carriage clock sitting on the mantelpiece. Fiona was right, there wasn't much time left before the matriarch of the Glenanne clan would come calling and he had still hadn't completely come up with a solution to the problem facing the daughter of a hard core republican family and the American spy she had fallen for.
Sighing heavily, the elderly priest gestured with a wave of his hand the space on the couch recently vacated by the man who called himself Michael McBride. "Take a seat, m'dear. Am sure yar young fella will be back soon an' I think thar ar' a few things we need ta talk about befer thot happens."
He had thought about bringing up the subject with the man himself. But having spent an hour in the company of the faux Irishman, he had realized that Michael McBride or whoever he was was just too good a liar for him to be sure he was getting the unvarnished truth. Aiming his questions at the woman whose earlier confident façade was beginning to show some cracks as her toothy grin grew even wider would be far easier as he had known her all her life.
Settling back in his own chair, he let the silence lay heavily for several seconds, his eyes never leaving the petite red head whose resemblance to her mother seemed to grow with each passing year. Right now the youngest of Maeve's children was sitting as if at attention, her back straight as a rod, her hands folded neatly on her lap as she tried unsuccessfully to hide her true feelings.
Finally, he cleared his throat and began to speak in a low measured tone. He was fairly certain that the person they were going to be discussing had not yet gone to prepare for the upcoming visit of the dowager queen of the clan. There was a loose board on the fifth step on the stairs and so far he hadn't heard the tell-tale creak which gave away the presence of anyone going up or down.
"I've been giving a lot o' thought ta tha best way ta bring an end ta tha conflict yer facin', an' I believe thar is, if nae an exact answer, a sign post if ya will, in tha Psalms. Am thinkin' specifically o' chapter one hundred an' one, verses six an' seven. Yar mammy has already mentioned ta me thot ya rarely manage ta attend church, but Am sure ya have nae forgotten all tha lessons o' tha past."
"F-father, I -"
He tutted, recognizing all the signs of an oncoming attempt at dissemblance about to come out of the young woman's mouth and he held up a hand to stop it before she could compound her sins.
"My eyes will be on tha faithful in tha land, thot they may dwell wit' me; tha one whose walk is blameless will minister ta me..." He continued even as she paled, her forced smile falling away as she ducked her head. "No one who practices deceit will dwell in my house; no one who speaks falsely will stand in my presence."
She swallowed thickly as her gaze was locked on the hem of his robe.
"Ya donnae understand," Fiona mumbled. "Tis-"
"Tis nae simple, is it me girl, when ta love a man enough ta allow ham ta turn ya inta a tout?"
"How…?" She raised her eyes to stare back at him in surprise.
"Ahhh, me dear, young people, yer nae quite as crafty as ya think ya ar'." He leaned forward and then stretched a hand out to pat her on the knee. "Ya have nothin' ta fear, ya know ya safe hare? Am nae gonna judge ya taa harshly, but I cannae deny under tha circumstances I have me doubts about yar expectations when ya see yar mammy."
He let his vision stray to the wooden door where he was positive Fiona's partner was still standing. The fact the young man hadn't burst through the door as soon as he had let it be known he knew that they had a bigger and potentially more dangerous secretspoke volumes to the elderly priest.
He'd spent many years in central Belfast, much of that time during the height of Na Trioblóidí and during that time, he had counselled and offered sanctuary to many desperate and dangerous men.
There were a few mad dogs, who he had genuinely feared and deep in his heart he had known he was aiding a monster, who if he had been free to act he would have put down as surely as he would have any rabid beast. But he was fast coming to the belief, regardless of what his dearly departed best friend's widow had to say on the matter that Michael McBride was not one of the monsters, nor was he a smooth talking devil coercing her girl. Smooth talking, yes, a devil, no.
"Whot are we gonna do, Father? I willnae leave ham. Wa're a family nar, no different ta Seamus an' Belle or Sean an' Rosie. They'll have ta understand... I swear, he's done nothin' ta betray any o' us."
"He has lied ta ya, ta them. He stood before meself an' tol' a fine tale I suspect wa' designed ta gain me sympathy and worse still he got ya ta lie taa, ta turn against tha family thot love ya," Father Conlon cut her off before she could continue to deceive herself.
"He woulda had ya stand befer God an' bear false witness on yar weddin' day," he tsked noisily and fixed the horrified young woman with his stern gaze. "This is gonna take more than a simple penance an' ten Hail Mary's, me girl..." He paused until he was positive she had taken his words to heart. "Nar, tha question is, ar' ya ready ta clean up this terrible mess ya have gotten yarself inta, an' will ya young man consent ta do tha same?"
"Whot d'ya want us ta do?"
"I think some honesty is tha first step an' nae just wit' me but wit' yar mam when she gets hare... I wa' thinking when I first learnt tha truth thot I would be counselling ya ta consider adoption fer yar child, ta give it a chance o' a decent life in a stable an' Godly home... But nar, havin' seen tha love – and tha trust ya two share, Am thinkin' wit' a little guidance, a wee bit o' luck an' a lot o' tha Lord's blessings, ya both can be brought back onta tha correct path. But it willnae be easy."
"We'll do whotever it takes ta be a family. I will nae leave ham or give up me babby, Father Liam, nae while thar's breath in me body."
If the situation weren't so seriously, the elderly priest might have smiled at the look of stubborn determination on the face of the young woman that he's seen all too often on her features over the years. She wa' as bull headed and idealistic as her Da an' just as naive sometimes about getting tha world ta bend ta har wishes.
An' he would be remiss if he did nae attempt ta straighten har out on thot.
"Ya know whot it says in tha Good Book. Ya need ta count tha cost befer ta undertake sommit an' tis no small thing yer proposing ta do har, lass. Ar' ya thot sure o' yar young man?"
"Am sure, Father Liam. He gave up everythin' ta be wit' me an' our babby,"
"Then ya'll need ta be rememberin' thot, me dear Fiona, when yer asked ta do tha same."
()()()()()()
He had walked into the small cozy room which was Maeve Glenanne's private sanctuary and had gone immediately to the fireplace, resting both hands on the mantle, staring down at the hearth and resting one booted foot on the raised brass guard.
There he had stood in silence until he heard them close the door and both take up their seats.
"Am nae gonna mess around hare, thar's nae time." he had begun slowly, each word ground out in a low icy cold tone. "So please jus' keep yar opinions ta yarselves til I finish... Hare ar' tha facts an' whot wa're gonna do about it. I warn ya nar, none o' this is up fer discussion... I've hadda enough o' lettin' this family get run by committee...
And if his countenance hadn't been so severe, Maeve might have risked teasing him about that.
"Fiona isnae gonna be 'phonin' the priest ta get our answer. Am ninety percent sure she and McBride ar' already thar right nar, sittin' as cozy as can be inside tha rectory wit' Father Liam. An' tha reason why I know this is me an' Davy found thar car hidden, abandoned off tha Bessington Road. An' nar…after everything, all tha feckin' trouble she's put us through she wants a weddin'?"
He had shaken his head and then turned his face towards them, as cold and uncompromising as a statue he stared into his mother's eyes. "It ain't gonna happen, thar will nae bloody weddin', no bloody reunion an' befer ya both start up, listen an' listen close."
Maeve Glenanne sat in the passenger seat of her sister-in-law's aged estate car, her eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead while her son's words played over and over in her head. She had known bad news was coming as soon as she had stopped and taken a good look at her boy's face.
Only once before had she seen that look and that had been the day he arrived home with the rest of her children in tow, all except for Claire, her golden child, who had been brutally cut down on the streets of Belfast. Today he had come home with that same look to tell her—
The dowager queen of the clan sniffed and wiped her nose, doing her best to hold herself together.
Until today she had thought the day Seamus had come to her door and told her of Claire's senseless death was the worst day of her life. But now…At least this time she wa' going ta get a chance ta say goodbye ta har girl…
Familiar countryside still rushed by, even though Claire was driving at a far more sedate pace than she had on her way from Lullymore.
"Wa're all in trouble nar. I've hadda call fram Val. He wa' passin' on tha word... Tha council isnae happy wit' everything thot's happened: tha yank chopper fallin' outta tha sky, one o' thar top men dead in a car crash, nar tha O'Neills have been wiped out along wit' most o' thar gang. All thot is getting' tham nervous. Sinn Fien ar' sticking thar oar in it taa nar... Wa're makin' waves an' thar about ta get kicked outta tha talks again."
But Maeve was uncaring about the view. All her thoughts were still on what had brought them to this point and what her eldest living boy had told her would be the result.
"I did whot I had ta. Tha old fella who wa' aiding Fi and McBride tol' me thot McBride had been askin' about airfields, so I figured thot they wa' planning on flying outta tha country. Thot they'd be gone by nightfall.. So I made up a fine tale about tham leavin' on a plane seconds befer I could stop 'em an' then I told Val an even bigger tale about an American Special Ops team workin' against tha Real IRA, thot they wa' tha ones thot killed tha O'Neills. I've also hinted at this Special ops team is nar lookin' ta take out tha Provo. Thot thar working wit' tha Continuity bunch ta do it. I've involved cousin Ryan in this, seein' as he wa' tha one snatched up by tha CIA.
"Val bought it all, hook line an' sinker, an' is passin' it up ta tha ladder. It won't be long befer Sinn Fien ar' accusin' tha yanks o' assassination an' then tha Brits will have ta jump in an' either defend thar special friends or throw tham under tha bus. But whotever happens, it'll muddy up tha water fer quite awhile."
"Ya plannin' on startin' a war, lad? Jaysus, Mary an' Joseph."
Claire had found her voice first, her hands pushing down on the arms of her chair to aid rising out of her seat. But before she had been half way up, Liam had turned on her, taking the two steps necessary to tower over his aunt, forcing her to sit back down.
"Ta protect this family, I'll burn tha whole feckin' country down," he had snarled, before stepping back and taking several deep breaths. "Am sorry, I – look I tried it yar way an' every time I caught up ta har, I got shot at fer me troubles. Tha las' time she tossed a smoke grenade in me face.
Maeve's anger over Fiona's stubbornness brought another tear to her eye, which she quickly swiped away with the back of her hand. If only that had been the worst of it, but there had been more…
"But nar thar's nae choice... Because o' all tha death an' destruction goin' on, Sinn Fien have ordered an investigation. They've brought Dessie McGarry outta retirement an' I can guarantee ya he'll be comin' hare an' if he finds one sign thot I've lied, he'll pull me whole story ta pieces in days. Fiona has ta go nar, as soon as Shay can find a way ta get har out, befer she's seen, an' Am sorry but she can never come back. She has ta be dead ta us or we'll be tha ones walkin' ta our deaths."
"No!" She had wanted to howl her denial, but instead she had held all her grief inside and whispered the word, her hand covering her mouth before she could say anymore.
Her heart was breaking and yet at the same time her mind was forcing her see the reality of the situation. Her only surviving girl would be called a tout, a grass. If it ever came out who she had willingly taken into her bed, they would rip her to pieces as a warning to others foolish enough to follow in her idiotic footsteps. And now her oldest surviving boy had lied to the ruling council and his actions were designed to start a bloody civil war. Thar wa' no going back fer any o' them.
"Maeve, Maeveen, me dear... Ar' ya alright thar, love?"
"Am fine."
She looked over, realizing that Claire had brought her old car to a stop at the side of the road and was now twisted around in her seat concern showing in her pale blue eyes.
"Yer a bad liar, Maeve Glenanne, fine, me arse... Yar world is crashin' down about ya, how could ya be fine?" the older woman snorted and then dug into the pocket of her coat and produced a neatly folded white cotton handkerchief.
"Hare, dry ya tears an' gird ya loins. Just 'round tha corner yar daughter is waiting ta hear fram ya... She needs ya ta be strong an' ya have ta be strong ta make har see tha truth. Ya might not agree wit' Liam, but thar is nae other way."
"O' course he's always bloody is. He's always one step ahead o' tha rest o' us an' has been since befer he started grammar school," she grumbled. But as she looked up and spotted the edge of the large imposing church and then up at the tall bell tower where she spotted the tip of a sniper rifle sticking out, all the sadness which was weighing her down was burnt away in fiery fit of temper.
"Thot's ham up thare, watchin' us through a sniper scope... Tha bastid! How could she do it ta us all? Throw away everything fer a spy?"
"I dunno, me love... Maybe I'll ask ham about thot while yer talkin' wit' Fiona... Ya have ta make har understand. She has nae choice."
"She's me little girl, me last girl... How can I send har away?"
"Ya will do it because it is tha only way ta save har. Ya want ta lose har? Lose yar boys? D'ya think they'll spare yar grandchildren either? Ya want thot?"
Maeve bit down on her bottom lip. Her sister-in-law was right. There was only one way to end this. She looked up one more time. Wa' Michael Westen watching her break down?
"Jus' keep thot American arse outta me way, cuz I swear I cannae guarantee I willnae put a bullet in ham on sight."
"Thot's me girl." Claire beamed. "Maybe befer the pair o' tham get picked up tonight, I'll give Mr. McBride a slice o' me famous almond cake as a goin' away present."
()()()()()()
Up in the high bell tower, Michael had tensed immediately as an old sedan had come into view and then paused on the side of the road. Through the scope of Fiona's Hectate, he could make out the two elderly women in the front seat and he didn't need a clearer vision to know it was Maeve Glenanne and most likely her favorite cohort, the equally formidable Claire Glenanne
He had first met Fiona's legendary aunt about a year ago at the christening of Sean's second born child. The last time he had seen her had been at the family Christmas dinner this past December. At the time he had found it difficult to reconcile the vision of the grey haired old lady with a loud good natured laugh and what had looked like boundless energy, who was an obvious hit with the younger generation, with the interpol and MI6 reports which had described her as a suspect in at least six murders over the last twenty years and probably quite a few more no one knew about.
Scanning the surrounding area for signs of surveillance, pursuit or just plain trouble, the former Ranger let out the breath he had been holding when the vehicle resumed its slow journey towards the church yard proper. He waited patiently as he had been trained by the Army to do but could see no other opposing forces moving towards their position.
When the pair had exited the car and began walking slowly towards the rectory, the tightly controlled mask on Maeve Glenanne's face gave away none of the emotions he was certain had to be boiling beneath. The woman was considered one of the most dangerous of her day and her threats were by no means idle. After assuring himself that there was no one else in range, Michael quickly packed away the weapon and hurried through the church using the unseen passageway that Father Conlon had been good enough to point out to him in his quest to get into the building before their guests arrived.
The faux Irishman knew better than to be anywhere in view once Fiona's mother and aunt were present. Secreting himself on the upper landing of the staircase, he waited with a nervous anticipation he hadn't felt in decades. This entire operation was a tactical nightmare from beginning to end. But he had pledged his beloved he would try to help her reconcile with her family and he'd broken her trust too many times before to break faith with her now.
He heard the surprise in the old priest's voice, presumably about the unanticipated arrival of Claire, but he couldn't be certain as they were now speaking rapidly in Irish and he was too far away to make out the whispered hastily spoken words. He exhaled silently trying to relieve some of the tension. This wasn't a job he could focus all his energies on, this was his future family whether he would be seeing them ever again or not.
Maybe it was all the talk of his alleged family from Kilkenny or the stress of what Fiona was about to attempt with her family... Maybe it was the knowledge that Father Conlon surely knew he was a spy or maybe it was the sad certainty that he knew how this scenario would have ended in his own family and might possibly end here the same.
Whatever the reason or for all those reasons, when he heard the rushing of Fiona's feet to greet her mother, her exclamation of joy mixed with sorrow followed by the sickeningly familiar sound of flesh impacting flesh in a vicious slap and then an explosion of voices filled with anger and anguish, the ex-spy did not let his experience or his training dictate his actions.
The only thing on Michael's mind as he leapt to his feet and raced down the stairs was protecting the mother of his unborn child from her own righteously enraged mother.