Show: The Agency
Title: The American Family: Chapter 15
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
A/N: I'm loving all the in-depth reviews I'm getting… it's great to know this story is so well liked.
I'm always interested in sharing so, if you'd like to archive this story, just get into contact with me
and let me know where it's going. I'm trusting my muse here and letting my fingers do the
talking… meaning, I have no idea where this chapter will take us, so just stick around and find
out.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Terri drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware of her surroundings. She tried desperately
to hold one to one tiny shred of reality and, with a supreme effort, she just barely managed to
pluck it from the cloud of unconsciousness and pull her way back to the surface. The images
blurred in front of her and she was just barely conscious of the cold of the room and the icy
metallic texture of the folding chair she was tied to. Her head lolled to the side as she tried to
keep down last night's dinner and her world continued to spin cartwheels.
"And she lives," came a slightly amused Irish brogue from her right.
As though her head weighed a ton, Terri turned her head to face her captor. Her eyes narrowed
in hatred and contempt for him. His smirk grew… he seemed to find that small measure of
defiance highly amusing. She continued to glare at him in silence as he crossed the room to
stand before her.
"Where's my son?" she hissed, hoping he couldn't read her fear in her voice.
He could barely hear the fear but he could definitely see it, lurking in the shadows of her
fathomless brown eyes. "He's safe," he replied.
"Safe," Terri scoffed, straining against the ropes that held her down. "He is in the company of a
sociopathic terrorist."
John-boy laughed outright. "I've been called a lotta things in my life, but never a sociopath. You're
funny… I like tha'."
Terri kept her narrowed gaze trained steadily against him, even as her heart butterflied in her
chest. She was so scared, more so for her son than for herself… disgusted that she had allowed
herself to be taken in, only to learn that Michael was a monster.
John-boy watched her. Even chained to the hard unyielding metal chair, her hair in disarray, dried
blood hardening from the wound on her head, she was an exceptionally beautiful woman. He
could see her soft feminine curves beneath the smooth silk of the robe that barely covered her
nakedness. It wasn't hard to see why he was taken in. Why both of them had been taken in….
"He always did like beautiful women…." He whispered more to himself than to Terri.
Her eyes narrowed further in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
John-boy studied her in contemplation. "Nobody," he all but finally spat in reply. "*He* is nobody!"
Keeping his baleful gaze on her, he strode over to a cloth-covered table. Tossing aside the cloth,
he picked up a bottle of translucent liquid and a syringe. As he loaded the syringe, Terri renewed
her struggle with her bonds. She had no idea what was in the syringe and she certainly did not
want to find out.
Jonathan set the bottle down and pumped the syringe, ensuring that the tip was loaded. He
turned his menacing blue gaze to Terri.
"No," she begged, struggling harder. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head to the side,
exposing her throbbing tendons and cruelly sinking the needle into her flesh, pushing the barrel of
the syringe emptying its contents into her bloodstream.
Instantly, Terri could feel herself weakening. She barely managed to whisper, "No," again, before
she slipped back into unconsciousness.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Stiles studied the photograph, and all the secrets he had kept buried deep within him for so long
came floating toward the surface. It had been taken a mere six months after he'd first met Robert
Quinn, the only person who knew of his relationship with John-boy.
When the first bombing had occurred in Belfast, the scenes had looked eerily familiar as he
watched in the mess room of his barracks. His mind was taken back to a conversation seven
years earlier, when he was barely fifteen and had been living with his grandfather for six months
since his father was stationed in the South Pacific. He'd known Jonathan for five of those six
months and the two of them had become instant friends. They'd been watching similar footage on
the pub-TV elevated over their heads – The Brigade had set off a bomb at St. Patrick's Purgatory,
killing 38 people present for midday mass. John-boy had been filled with anger, his contempt for
the Protestants evident in his words.
"If I wanted to get back at those dirty Prots, the firs' place I'd hit is St. Mark's…"
Sure enough, seven years later, he was watching the smoking remains of St. Mark's Cathedral.
Fifty-five dead, mostly old men, women and children, there for the vicar's blessing. He could only
watch in horror as the new campaign wreaked havoc over Northern Ireland - setting churches on
fire; kidnapping politicians – before, one day, he found himself sitting across a metal desk from a
bald-headed CIA agent with the coldest eyes he'd ever seen.
Flashback:
Pensacola (1990)
Gunnery-Sergeant A.B. Stiles did not flinch or look away from his interviewer. He had no idea
why his presence was requested by none other than a senior CIA agent but, it was not his place
to question the orders of his superiors, in this case Colonel Isaac Shaw, a man well-respected,
but known for his dislike of the 'covert-sneaks' as he referred to the CIA. His instructions were
simple: tell the Agent whatever he wanted to know.
Robert Quinn had hung up his field boots for the CIA a long time ago and had settled himself into
the role of bureaucrat, although no one would ever dare mistake him for a pencil pusher. He
surveyed the stony-faced Marine standing at attention across from him with a critical eye – he
was good-looking but not too handsome, with bright blue eyes and regulation cut dark hair, he
was tall and well-built, but most of all, he didn't flinch or show any fear or even curiosity (although
he was sure it was lurking there somewhere) in Quinn's presence. Yes, he liked what he saw a
lot.
Quinn flipped open the file detailing Stiles achievements and contribution to the Marines. He had
joined the Corps at eighteen, fresh off the plane from Ireland. After only four years, he had been
promoted from a mere squib Private at WestPoint to Gunnery-Sergeant. At the rate he was going,
he'd probably be a General before fifty. But not if Quinn had anything to do with it. He saw great
potential for Stiles to become the ultimate CIA operative.
Finally looking across the table he asked, "What's your name son?" as if he didn't already know.
Stiles wasn't at all fooled by the aloofness in Quinn's voice. Quinn wanted something from him.
He just didn't know what. "Gunnery-Sergeant A.B. Stiles, reporting as requested, sir," Stiles
replied staring at a spot on the wall behind Quinn's head.
"At ease Sergeant. Take a seat," he indicated the metal folding chair in front Stiles.
"Thank you, sir," Stiles conceded, sitting upright and returning his gaze to Quinn's.
"Where were you born, Sergeant?" Quinn continued.
For the briefest of moments, Stiles' aloof façade faltered. Quinn lifted a colourless brow. He
rallied quickly. "New York City, sir."
"When did you move to Ireland?"
**Ireland?** He couldn't help it, Stiles was intrigued. "Seven years ago, sir. I was fifteen."
"Tell me about your life there."
"Sir?" asked Stiles, curiosity emblazoned across his features.
"Tell me about your life there," Quinn repeated.
Stiles paused, choosing his words carefully before beginning. "I was sent to Ireland to live with my
grandfather and cousin when my father was stationed in the South Pacific –"
"Your father…?"
"Yes, sir. Colonel Joshua Stiles."
Although he knew very little about the military, Quinn did know who Colonel Stiles was – the sub-
commander of over seventy thousand troops stationed in the Middle East at that time, second
only to General Macmillan.
Gunnery-Sergeant Stiles came from good stock.
Quinn nodded. "Go on, Sergeant. How long did you spend there?"
"Three years, sir."
Quinn looked at him, his pale eyes piercing Stiles. "Why didn't you follow your father to Hawaii,
Sergeant?"
For the first time, Stiles briefly dropped his gaze before returning it. "I must confess I was a bit of
a troublemaker then, sir. It was hard for even the Colonel to control me. Would be even harder to
keep face in front of ten thousand troops, sir."
"So he sent you to Ireland?"
"Yes, sir. My grandfather believed in hands-on discipline," Stiles replied ruefully.
Quinn smirked. He could imagine. The man who raised Colonel Stiles had to be someone
special. "Sergeant, while you were there, did you receive any news on the Northern Ireland
conflict?"
It was an obvious question. Who in Ireland at the time didn't know at least *something* of the
country practically on the brink of civil war?
"Of course, sir. Every day," he replied automatically.
**Where the hell is this conversation leading to?**
"What about it do you remember most?"
"Sir?"
"Was it the car-bomb at Fleming's or the bombing at St. Patrick's Purgatory?"
"What do you mean, sir?" asked Stiles in utter confusion.
"Just answer the questions Sergeant. What do you remember most?"
"I remember them all, sir," Stiles replied, barely remembering to keep his temper. "It's hard not to
when its all practically happening in your backyard."
Quinn nodded in satisfaction, admiring the fact that Stiles only appeared moderately ruffled.
"What about recently, Gunnery-Sergeant?" he asked, shrewdly awaiting his reaction.
Stiles' lids shielded his gaze. "I won't forget those either, sir."
Quinn reached for another folder on the desk and slid it towards Stiles who looked at it warily
before opening it and surveying its contents. Photos of the dead, of crumbling buildings and
smoke-filled skies stared back at him. His gaze swung up to see Quinn watching him shrewdly.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
Quinn arched an eyebrow. "Of course, Sergeant."
"What the hell does the CIA want from me?"
Quinn couldn't help but smirk grimly as he leaned forward and informed Stiles exactly what his
country required of him….
Present:
Stiles dropped the photo back into the envelope.
**Assess, approach, infiltrate, attack… destroy.**
That was what his country had required him to do. With regards to Sumac Cell… and Jonathan
O'Brien, criminal mastermind, known only to a select few within the Intelligence community.
Seventeen years ago, the U.S Government was more concerned with Saddam Hussein and his
invasion of Kuwait than the everyday violence of Northern Ireland. But the second military
equipment was mentioned, it became their business. The IRA was suspected of dealing with
Akbar Hasani, a Pakistani weapons dealer. Their deal included a newly formed, small but deadly
terrorist cell called the Sumac Cell. It was suspected that the Sumac Cell was planning to attack
American interests in Northern Ireland and it was Stiles' job to see that that didn't happen.
As time wore on, it became obvious why they had chosen *him* a Gunnery-Sergeant to do this
job. How they had even discovered his friendship with Jonathan O'Brien was beyond him.
Perhaps walls really did have ears.
They coached him on his story – how he would convince John-boy to include him in the Cell and
eventually the plans… etc. He had done well, stole in under the cover of night, adapted well, only
to discover the rumours were false. The IRA and Sumac Cell were not linked in any other way
besides the fact that they were pro-Catholic. Thus ended the Government's interest in them and
so he had left, back to the land of the brave… not utterly convinced he had convinced his old
friend entirely.
He had put his friend out of his mind, until 2000 when the bombings started again… waiting
somewhat with bated breath for the master of disguise to pop back up…. No one else in OTS or
the IRT knew of his connection besides Quinn, not even Gage or Reese. He had a feeling that
wasn't going to be the case much longer.
The phone rang. It's shrill call startling him from his dream. He watched the telephone. Some part
of him had been waiting for this call….
TBC…
A/N: That's it for now folks. I hope you enjoyed. I promise to write more soon. Don't forget to
R&R. Ciao!
Title: The American Family: Chapter 15
Disclaimer: See Chapter 1
A/N: I'm loving all the in-depth reviews I'm getting… it's great to know this story is so well liked.
I'm always interested in sharing so, if you'd like to archive this story, just get into contact with me
and let me know where it's going. I'm trusting my muse here and letting my fingers do the
talking… meaning, I have no idea where this chapter will take us, so just stick around and find
out.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Terri drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware of her surroundings. She tried desperately
to hold one to one tiny shred of reality and, with a supreme effort, she just barely managed to
pluck it from the cloud of unconsciousness and pull her way back to the surface. The images
blurred in front of her and she was just barely conscious of the cold of the room and the icy
metallic texture of the folding chair she was tied to. Her head lolled to the side as she tried to
keep down last night's dinner and her world continued to spin cartwheels.
"And she lives," came a slightly amused Irish brogue from her right.
As though her head weighed a ton, Terri turned her head to face her captor. Her eyes narrowed
in hatred and contempt for him. His smirk grew… he seemed to find that small measure of
defiance highly amusing. She continued to glare at him in silence as he crossed the room to
stand before her.
"Where's my son?" she hissed, hoping he couldn't read her fear in her voice.
He could barely hear the fear but he could definitely see it, lurking in the shadows of her
fathomless brown eyes. "He's safe," he replied.
"Safe," Terri scoffed, straining against the ropes that held her down. "He is in the company of a
sociopathic terrorist."
John-boy laughed outright. "I've been called a lotta things in my life, but never a sociopath. You're
funny… I like tha'."
Terri kept her narrowed gaze trained steadily against him, even as her heart butterflied in her
chest. She was so scared, more so for her son than for herself… disgusted that she had allowed
herself to be taken in, only to learn that Michael was a monster.
John-boy watched her. Even chained to the hard unyielding metal chair, her hair in disarray, dried
blood hardening from the wound on her head, she was an exceptionally beautiful woman. He
could see her soft feminine curves beneath the smooth silk of the robe that barely covered her
nakedness. It wasn't hard to see why he was taken in. Why both of them had been taken in….
"He always did like beautiful women…." He whispered more to himself than to Terri.
Her eyes narrowed further in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
John-boy studied her in contemplation. "Nobody," he all but finally spat in reply. "*He* is nobody!"
Keeping his baleful gaze on her, he strode over to a cloth-covered table. Tossing aside the cloth,
he picked up a bottle of translucent liquid and a syringe. As he loaded the syringe, Terri renewed
her struggle with her bonds. She had no idea what was in the syringe and she certainly did not
want to find out.
Jonathan set the bottle down and pumped the syringe, ensuring that the tip was loaded. He
turned his menacing blue gaze to Terri.
"No," she begged, struggling harder. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head to the side,
exposing her throbbing tendons and cruelly sinking the needle into her flesh, pushing the barrel of
the syringe emptying its contents into her bloodstream.
Instantly, Terri could feel herself weakening. She barely managed to whisper, "No," again, before
she slipped back into unconsciousness.
*~*~*~*~*~*
Stiles studied the photograph, and all the secrets he had kept buried deep within him for so long
came floating toward the surface. It had been taken a mere six months after he'd first met Robert
Quinn, the only person who knew of his relationship with John-boy.
When the first bombing had occurred in Belfast, the scenes had looked eerily familiar as he
watched in the mess room of his barracks. His mind was taken back to a conversation seven
years earlier, when he was barely fifteen and had been living with his grandfather for six months
since his father was stationed in the South Pacific. He'd known Jonathan for five of those six
months and the two of them had become instant friends. They'd been watching similar footage on
the pub-TV elevated over their heads – The Brigade had set off a bomb at St. Patrick's Purgatory,
killing 38 people present for midday mass. John-boy had been filled with anger, his contempt for
the Protestants evident in his words.
"If I wanted to get back at those dirty Prots, the firs' place I'd hit is St. Mark's…"
Sure enough, seven years later, he was watching the smoking remains of St. Mark's Cathedral.
Fifty-five dead, mostly old men, women and children, there for the vicar's blessing. He could only
watch in horror as the new campaign wreaked havoc over Northern Ireland - setting churches on
fire; kidnapping politicians – before, one day, he found himself sitting across a metal desk from a
bald-headed CIA agent with the coldest eyes he'd ever seen.
Flashback:
Pensacola (1990)
Gunnery-Sergeant A.B. Stiles did not flinch or look away from his interviewer. He had no idea
why his presence was requested by none other than a senior CIA agent but, it was not his place
to question the orders of his superiors, in this case Colonel Isaac Shaw, a man well-respected,
but known for his dislike of the 'covert-sneaks' as he referred to the CIA. His instructions were
simple: tell the Agent whatever he wanted to know.
Robert Quinn had hung up his field boots for the CIA a long time ago and had settled himself into
the role of bureaucrat, although no one would ever dare mistake him for a pencil pusher. He
surveyed the stony-faced Marine standing at attention across from him with a critical eye – he
was good-looking but not too handsome, with bright blue eyes and regulation cut dark hair, he
was tall and well-built, but most of all, he didn't flinch or show any fear or even curiosity (although
he was sure it was lurking there somewhere) in Quinn's presence. Yes, he liked what he saw a
lot.
Quinn flipped open the file detailing Stiles achievements and contribution to the Marines. He had
joined the Corps at eighteen, fresh off the plane from Ireland. After only four years, he had been
promoted from a mere squib Private at WestPoint to Gunnery-Sergeant. At the rate he was going,
he'd probably be a General before fifty. But not if Quinn had anything to do with it. He saw great
potential for Stiles to become the ultimate CIA operative.
Finally looking across the table he asked, "What's your name son?" as if he didn't already know.
Stiles wasn't at all fooled by the aloofness in Quinn's voice. Quinn wanted something from him.
He just didn't know what. "Gunnery-Sergeant A.B. Stiles, reporting as requested, sir," Stiles
replied staring at a spot on the wall behind Quinn's head.
"At ease Sergeant. Take a seat," he indicated the metal folding chair in front Stiles.
"Thank you, sir," Stiles conceded, sitting upright and returning his gaze to Quinn's.
"Where were you born, Sergeant?" Quinn continued.
For the briefest of moments, Stiles' aloof façade faltered. Quinn lifted a colourless brow. He
rallied quickly. "New York City, sir."
"When did you move to Ireland?"
**Ireland?** He couldn't help it, Stiles was intrigued. "Seven years ago, sir. I was fifteen."
"Tell me about your life there."
"Sir?" asked Stiles, curiosity emblazoned across his features.
"Tell me about your life there," Quinn repeated.
Stiles paused, choosing his words carefully before beginning. "I was sent to Ireland to live with my
grandfather and cousin when my father was stationed in the South Pacific –"
"Your father…?"
"Yes, sir. Colonel Joshua Stiles."
Although he knew very little about the military, Quinn did know who Colonel Stiles was – the sub-
commander of over seventy thousand troops stationed in the Middle East at that time, second
only to General Macmillan.
Gunnery-Sergeant Stiles came from good stock.
Quinn nodded. "Go on, Sergeant. How long did you spend there?"
"Three years, sir."
Quinn looked at him, his pale eyes piercing Stiles. "Why didn't you follow your father to Hawaii,
Sergeant?"
For the first time, Stiles briefly dropped his gaze before returning it. "I must confess I was a bit of
a troublemaker then, sir. It was hard for even the Colonel to control me. Would be even harder to
keep face in front of ten thousand troops, sir."
"So he sent you to Ireland?"
"Yes, sir. My grandfather believed in hands-on discipline," Stiles replied ruefully.
Quinn smirked. He could imagine. The man who raised Colonel Stiles had to be someone
special. "Sergeant, while you were there, did you receive any news on the Northern Ireland
conflict?"
It was an obvious question. Who in Ireland at the time didn't know at least *something* of the
country practically on the brink of civil war?
"Of course, sir. Every day," he replied automatically.
**Where the hell is this conversation leading to?**
"What about it do you remember most?"
"Sir?"
"Was it the car-bomb at Fleming's or the bombing at St. Patrick's Purgatory?"
"What do you mean, sir?" asked Stiles in utter confusion.
"Just answer the questions Sergeant. What do you remember most?"
"I remember them all, sir," Stiles replied, barely remembering to keep his temper. "It's hard not to
when its all practically happening in your backyard."
Quinn nodded in satisfaction, admiring the fact that Stiles only appeared moderately ruffled.
"What about recently, Gunnery-Sergeant?" he asked, shrewdly awaiting his reaction.
Stiles' lids shielded his gaze. "I won't forget those either, sir."
Quinn reached for another folder on the desk and slid it towards Stiles who looked at it warily
before opening it and surveying its contents. Photos of the dead, of crumbling buildings and
smoke-filled skies stared back at him. His gaze swung up to see Quinn watching him shrewdly.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
Quinn arched an eyebrow. "Of course, Sergeant."
"What the hell does the CIA want from me?"
Quinn couldn't help but smirk grimly as he leaned forward and informed Stiles exactly what his
country required of him….
Present:
Stiles dropped the photo back into the envelope.
**Assess, approach, infiltrate, attack… destroy.**
That was what his country had required him to do. With regards to Sumac Cell… and Jonathan
O'Brien, criminal mastermind, known only to a select few within the Intelligence community.
Seventeen years ago, the U.S Government was more concerned with Saddam Hussein and his
invasion of Kuwait than the everyday violence of Northern Ireland. But the second military
equipment was mentioned, it became their business. The IRA was suspected of dealing with
Akbar Hasani, a Pakistani weapons dealer. Their deal included a newly formed, small but deadly
terrorist cell called the Sumac Cell. It was suspected that the Sumac Cell was planning to attack
American interests in Northern Ireland and it was Stiles' job to see that that didn't happen.
As time wore on, it became obvious why they had chosen *him* a Gunnery-Sergeant to do this
job. How they had even discovered his friendship with Jonathan O'Brien was beyond him.
Perhaps walls really did have ears.
They coached him on his story – how he would convince John-boy to include him in the Cell and
eventually the plans… etc. He had done well, stole in under the cover of night, adapted well, only
to discover the rumours were false. The IRA and Sumac Cell were not linked in any other way
besides the fact that they were pro-Catholic. Thus ended the Government's interest in them and
so he had left, back to the land of the brave… not utterly convinced he had convinced his old
friend entirely.
He had put his friend out of his mind, until 2000 when the bombings started again… waiting
somewhat with bated breath for the master of disguise to pop back up…. No one else in OTS or
the IRT knew of his connection besides Quinn, not even Gage or Reese. He had a feeling that
wasn't going to be the case much longer.
The phone rang. It's shrill call startling him from his dream. He watched the telephone. Some part
of him had been waiting for this call….
TBC…
A/N: That's it for now folks. I hope you enjoyed. I promise to write more soon. Don't forget to
R&R. Ciao!
