Show: The Agency

Title: The American Family: Chapter 16

Disclaimer: See Chapter 1

A/N: Last chapter got you thinking and wondering and feeling sorry for Terri. Let's see if I can

make you wonder some more….

*~*~*~*~*~*

Hesitantly, Stiles crossed to the phone, watching it as if he expected it to blow up the second he

lifted the receiver from the cradle. Before the answering machine kicked in, Stiles picked it up.

"Yes?"

"McGinty's, six p.m."

Before Stiles could formulate the thought to ask who the caller was, a click sounded and the

annoying electronic dial-tone flooded his ear.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Three hours after everything had gone black for the second time, Terri's eyes snapped open. She

had been hoping she would find herself snuggled deep within her bed linens secure in the

knowledge that it was all some bizarre nightmare but, the moment her eyesight sharpened and

her head stopped spinning, she knew it hadn't been a dream.

She blinked rapidly and found herself staring into the cold dead eyes of Michael. He didn't even

flinch as he watched the hatred and disgust flood into the brown pools that, twenty four hours

ago, had gazed at him with admiration. They stared at each other in silence before Terri opened

her mouth: "Where is my son?" she asked, her tone fragile.

Michael said nothing, just continued to give her that blank stare.

"Where. Is. My. Son?" Terri bit off, her tone becoming frantic, borderline hysterical.

"Safe," he replied, in the same detached tone his partner had given when asked the same

question a few hours earlier.

"Don't give me that!" Terri exclaimed, struggling against her bonds. Knowing that, with the

adrenaline pumping, if the drugs weren't hampering her movements, she would have leapt out of

that chair and kicked his ass four ways from Sunday. "Where is my son?!" she screamed at him.

"Calm down," he commanded, his tone deceptively mild.

Terri struggled even harder and Michael leapt from his chair and grabbed a loaded syringe from

the table beside him. "Calm down! You don't want me to use this, do you?" he asked. Terri

immediately settled, her eyes following the syringe's every move. "Calm down, Terri," his voice

implored, the tone taking on the same quality as it had when he first met her – when he was

wooing her. She continued to watch him, her eyes wide as she tried to process whether or not he

was being sincere or whether he would become the monster again.

"No harm will come to your son if you just do as you're told," he continued, settling back into his

chair.

Terri kept her eyes on him. "Who are you?" she asked.

"You know who I am, Terri," he replied.

Terri shook her head in denial. "I know who you pretend to be," she countered. "Is your name

even really Michael O'Leary or was he some poor sod you took advantage of, too?" she asked

snarkily.

Michael smirked, ruefully. "Yes, my real name is Michael O'Leary."

Terri continued to watch him. Somehow, she knew that his partner was Jonathan O'Brien, but she

kept her thoughts to herself – from their treatment of her, she surmised they didn't know what she

really did for a living and their ignorance was what was keeping her alive.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, injecting a distinct note of vulnerability into her voice.

"You wouldn't understand," Michael replied, his voice genuinely contrite.

That gave Terri pause, but her curiosity got the best of her. "Try me," she hissed. "I want to know

why you did what you did," the last was interjected as a result of her wounded pride.

Michael actually had the grace to flinch, the first genuine emotion he had revealed since his

unveiling. "The world's not black and white, Terri. It would do you well to remember that," was all

he finally said in cryptic reply before exiting the room and leaving her alone.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Six o'clock on the dot, Stiles stepped over the threshold of McGinty's pub, the Celtic music

transporting him to another time. A waitress stepped up to him.

"A.B. Stiles?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Table nine," she pointed out before walking away.

Stiles headed for his destination and slid into the booth across from his companion.

"Why am I here?" he asked.

"Is tha' any way t'greet a *friend* tha' ye haven't seen in seven years, A.B.?" John-boy asked

mockingly.

The man sitting across from him looked nothing like the Jonathan O'Brien he'd met fourteen

years ago. Gone was the tall, gangly ginger haired boy with the laughing blue eyes; he replaced

instead by a brawny platinum blonde with a hook nose.

Stiles narrowed his eyes at his former friend.

"I have some things tha' ye might want back," John-boy clarified, reaching into his pocket and

tossing an envelope onto the table.

Stiles looked at the envelope then back to John-boy in disdain. He snatched it up and quickly

scanned through the pictures, his face blanching as his brain processed the images. He stared at

him in mild disbelief.

John-boy watched this all with an air of detachment. He had been keeping tabs on his *friend* for

a while now; he knew how to push his buttons. "Am I right, or am I right?" he asked.

Stiles stared at him, trying to dampen the fear and concern for his son and Terri, but he knew

John-boy well enough to know that he wasn't fooling him. "You bastard!" he hissed, barely

suppressing the urge to leap across the table and strangle the blonde, not wanting to attract

unwanted attention.

"So, I've been tol'." John-boy took a calm sip of his Guinness, anticipating the next question.

"What do you want from me?" asked Stiles, gritting his teeth.

"Not much," he replied matter-of-factly. "I jus' want Martin Archer dead."

Stiles blanched. "You can't be serious."

"As a heart attack, I believe th' correct American response is."

"You're crazy. What makes you think I would do something like that?"

John-boy's eyes narrowed. "If ye ever want t'see yer son an' that pretty little brunette alive again,

ye will," he hissed in reply.

Blue eyes clashed with blue. It was hard to even fathom that these two men were ever friends.

"Where are they?" he asked.

John-boy shook his head. "Why d'ye ask a question ye *know* I won't answer, A.B.? All ye need

to know is they're both alive an' well an' they'll stay that way unless ye do somethin' stupid like go

tell your friends over at th' CIA," he continued.

Stiles could swear he saw a flash of sympathy in his eyes, but he knew Jonathan was deathly

serious; he wouldn't hesitate to kill Terri, Alex and maybe Stiles himself if it were a means to an

end – he wanted to know why.

John-boy knew he wanted to know the reason for the Cell's latest target after staying out of the

limelight for so long. What he knew could set the world of covert Intelligence and politics on its

head. What he knew was so important that, even after his betrayal, he could count on know one

but Stiles to see it through.

Without difficult, John-boy kept his gaze on Stiles. "I know ye think I'm a monster, A.B.—"

"You are a monster," he spat in reply, clenching his fists.

"Maybe I am," John-boy continued, as if his friend hadn't interrupted. "But they're a lot o' people

who think I'm not."

"And who would those be?"

"The people who no longer have any loved ones because they got blown up by the Brigade," he

countered just as heatedly.

"Why are you telling me this, John-boy? Trying to justify your sins?"

Jonathan's eyes narrowed. "Lyin's a sin, too, A.B. or have ye conveniently forgotten tha' as well?"

Stiles bit back a retort. That statement was enough to let him know that his past transgression

was well-known. Later, he would come to realize how lucky he was to even be alive.

"Everythin's not black an' white, A.B. We live in a grey worl'. That's a lesson ev'ryone oughta

learn from birth – everythin's not good *or* evil, nothin's ever so cut an' dried; *nothin's* ever

*that* simple. Take our friend Martin Archer for example. The worl' sees him as a brilliant liaison

officer – he's who helped 'unite' dear ol' Ireland, after all – an' me, well I'm jus' yer av'rage

overzealous pro-Catholic Irish terroris'. But I know better." He paused and took another sip of his

lager. "Tell me, A.B., whilst ye were his bodyguard, did ye ever once give 'im the indication than

ye were Catholic?"

A.B. kept quiet.

"I bet ye didn't, 'cuz in private, we all know he had a filthy temper where we were concerned."

"Is there a point, John-boy?"

John-boy resisted the urge to chuckle. "There's always a point, A.B."

"Well, I suggest you get to it."

"Have ye ever heard of St. Michael's Army?" At Stiles' blank look he continued. "I s'posed ye

haven't. They're th' private burr in every Catholic's tail. For two years we tracked 'em. They

popped outta nowhere. I s'pose because they posed no direct threat to you Americans they

weren't even a blip on yer intelligence radar. You shoulda paid closer attention."

"Why?"

"It's their job t' systematically undermine everythin' the Irish Government's doin' to aid th'

Republic. They started quietly, takin' a shot here, takin' a shot there, slowly but surely ekin' away

at the country's faith in our P.M. Now comes the ace in their hole – election day – and Archer's

arrival in Belfast sets th' las' play in motion."

"Stop speaking in riddles," commanded Stiles, his confusion and fear finding its way into his

voice.

"Martin Archer is part of this syndicate, A.B. and it's his job to make sure that Prime Minister

Thompson or any other Catholic doesn't make it into office – by any means necessary, otherwise

known in *my* world as imminent assassination. And it's *your* job," he pointed at Stiles, his blue

eyes, "to make sure that that doesn't happen."

TBC…

A/N: The story takes yet another twist. Can't wait to hear from you, so R&R. I hoped you had a

wonderful Christmas, or Hanukkah, or Kwanzaa or Winter Solstice or whatever it is that you

celebrate. I hope you have a HAPPY NEW YEAR, as well!

HAPPY 2004!

Cara