A/N: Hi guys! I decided to skip a little bit of Michael's career so that I could move forward to the time he spent with Fiona. I think this is an interesting part of his life and I could not wait to write about it. I hope you guys enjoy. Also, as a little note, I changed a little bit about how they met in the show.
Contact.
June of 1997.
Belfast, Ireland.
I chose the busiest night and tried to blend in with the crowd, worming my way through drunken weekenders, out-of-towners, and tourists from all over the world. In places like this, people tended to talk too much – about music, about mayhem, about pest problems. Even as I poured over the objective in my head, I could have picked a dozen criminals out of that crowd, all of them boasting about their accomplishments to try and garner some attention, some sympathy, believing the Irish pop music blasting through the speakers and the heavy haze of cigar smoke would hide their voices, and their faces. But they were wrong.
Fortunately for them, I was here for someone else.
She was sitting at the bar, surrounded by young men who were miles out of her league. Fiona Glenanne. She had a file as thick as a telephone book, detailing her nasty reputation, from bomb-making to gunrunning. Under the service of the IRA she had orchestrated half a dozen bank robberies across the country and left her mark in the form of gaping holes in the walls of safes. She could concoct an explosive from paper clips and sheer force of will, and her little hands had traded enough weapons to fuel the war for years to come.
But while she sat there, sipping innocently from her drink, she looked above suspicion. Harmless. Looking around with doe eyes, running one foot up and down her leg like she was fidgeting. She wore a split dress that revealed the top of her thigh, a staple of her summertime wardrobe, giving the young men something to fantasize about when she inevitably turned them down.
Fiona was stunning, certainly, but I let my eyes get caught on her with another objective in mind. She saw me looking, so I played the part, pretended to work up the nerve to approach.
It was finally time.
I crossed the bar, going straight through the crowded dancefloor with renewed purpose. Fiona peeked at me in the mirror that lined the bottom of the liquor shelf, keeping tabs on me without raising the suspicion of any of her gawkers. She seemed awfully tranquil, and well-trained. She slid her drink slightly to the right, giving herself an excuse to angle her body that way, to keep me in her peripheral vision, again, without appearing to be doing anything.
Cold approaches were historically least likely to succeed.
In my career only a handful of them had gone well. Regardless of their crimes, people hated being propositioned for anything by a stranger. It was a dangerous game. I knew only of her crimes. I had enough dirt on Fiona and her gun-smuggling family to put them in an Irish prison for the rest of their lives, and before I reached her I had to come to a decision about how to use that threat. Fiona probably had a block of C4 hidden in that dress somewhere – if my approach failed, if I miss-stepped at all, the company would have to deliver my smoldering ashes to my mother.
When I got to the bar, I leaned against it, putting myself in her view, and held out my hand. One of the essential skills in my profession was conveying serenity despite perilous situations, and this was one of the times I had to rely on it.
That, and my brand-new Irish accent.
"Care to dance?"
Fiona cocked an eyebrow at me, and a giggle erupted from within. She seemed genuinely surprised by that, perhaps expecting me to shank her, or try to buy a gun off her. I could tell that the men around her, as openly as they ogled her exposed leg, would never be so brazen. She would eat them alive. She might still eat me alive.
Just like that, the situation became fluid.
Fiona pressed the barrel of a gun against my belly. Every muscle tensed around the contact. Her jaw tightened and she spoke lowly, teasingly, "You're very brave."
In the field you never have the option to call a timeout, whether someone starts shooting and you have two seconds to decide whether to flinch or fire back, or you find yourself in a pub in Ireland with an explosion-happy bank-robber holding a gun to your stomach. In every situation you put yourself in, you have to be prepared for all variations of the original plan, no matter how farfetched.
Psychologists like to believe that people are at least mildly predictable. I disagree.
But there was a reason I had been assigned to this case. I had an excellent poker face. Fear was not one of my weaknesses. I thrive on confidence.
"I assume that means yes."
I kept my hand out despite the metal bruising my liver, and let my expression drift into intrigue. It was a genuine emotion. Fiona was just as feisty as her file had made her out to be, so, if anything, this was going to be an interesting night.
Fiona narrowed her eyes and slid closer to me, tucking the gun into a holster on her thigh. I had a brief, foreboding view of the black knife sheath wrapped around the other leg. The jagged blades, separated by thin ribbons of fabric and loosely buttoned for easy access, were a sharp contrast to her pink satin underwear, which, it seemed, she also wanted me to see. She was like a hybrid Barbie-commando doll.
She hopped off of her stool and took my hand, leading me out to the dance floor.
Something softer took the place of the departing pop song, drawing a few more couples out with us. Some were known associates of Fiona, criminals themselves, but I expertly pretended I saw nothing, and suspected nothing. If worst came to worst, I could handle myself.
Fiona was almost disarmingly beautiful. Her pictures – mostly mugshots in various stages of rage and undress – did her no justice. She had angular features and wide eyes, captivating in the soft light of the bar, with a sensual hazel gaze that bore into me, captivating and curious. Her skin was an olive tone, smooth under my hands, reflecting the fluorescents and making them seem more like gentle sunlight. She smelled like wildflowers, like she had spent her afternoon dancing in the vast open fields that dotted the countryside.
A lot more went on in the background. She was trying to figure out who I was, and how she should deal with me. She scanned my face and tried to discern my intentions, and she was drawing a blank, becoming frustrated. I was very good at keeping a lid on my emotions, and for all of her training, she seemed unable to do that.
Finally, she spoke, and though I could barely hear her voice above the music, I caught every word. It was distinct, much softer than before.
"So do I get a name, mystery man?"
"I like mystery man."
She smiled, running her hand down my chest, inconspicuously checking me for a wire. She slipped her fingers through the buttons of my shirt, her fingertips brushing my stomach.
I caught her hand before she could go any lower. "Michael." I kissed the back of it, breathing in that smell again – like summertime, and roses, and open air.
Fiona puckered her lips, pulling her hand gently from my grasp and returning it to my shoulder. "What brings you here, Michael?"
Ironically, she whispered my name like it was a secret.
I returned her smile, leading our dance out of the spotlight. We made it to a quieter corner of the pub, where it was darker, and the musk of farm workers could not overwhelm her pleasant smell. I let my eyes drift down her body, giving her the impression of a mysterious stranger, and not a spy seeking a new asset. It was easy to pretend to be attracted to someone when they were genuinely gorgeous – but I had to be careful not to let myself get carried away with it. Her real identity was there in the back of my mind, and I read the words that preceded her file over and over again – armed, extremely dangerous. Do not approach.
I spun her, and when she returned she was flush with my chest. She peered into my eyes, trying to categorize me. Friend or foe?
"I saw some bad stuff on the news," I murmured, leaning in a little to speak, and appreciating the way her eyes became hooded. "I was surprised when I saw you in here… I thought a pretty thing like you would be far away from the bad men with guns."
Fiona tipped her chin up, a glimmer of interest in her eyes. "Oh? What fun would that be?"
It was like 'gun' had been her first word. She was completely unbothered.
"None, I suppose," I responded. "I always prefer to be around guns." I took her hand again, putting it around to my back waistband, so she could feel the gun hidden under my suit. "It gives me a sense of security to come prepared. You never know what unsavory types you might meet in a pub."
Her interest became reserved and she glanced around, perhaps seeking allies in the crowd. I took her hand and spun her again, pulling her close to my chest. It was the perfect moment to make my sales pitch. I had her isolated in the corner, equidistant from both exits, and my team waited out front to follow through with my threats. I just had to say the words, to offer her immunity from her crimes if she played nice with the company – everything was perfect.
Everything was too perfect.
When I looked up to signal the agent camping out in the corner, I realized what I had walked into. I was no longer surrounded by her allies, but outnumbered by her enemies. Since my arrival a few more had entered the pub, taking our place at the bar, and Fiona and I had been so consumed in one another that neither of us saw the imminent threat.
I recognized the first face – the face of an Italian gangster responsible for dozens of execution-style murders down the coast – and my blood ran cold.
He pulled out a gun, pointed it in our direction, and started firing.
Having quick reactions is one of the reasons I was recruited as a covert intelligence agent. When something goes wrong you have to improvise, often within seconds of a situation unfolding, or say your prayers and hope they can identify your body when the dust settles. Reacting quickly is also one of the reasons a lot of spies die near the beginning of their careers. Having the right reactions to unexpected situations is absolutely essential in combat.
When I saw the gun the soldier came out of me.
I tackled Fiona, shielding her behind me on the way to the floor. A bullet struck my left arm. Hitting the ground was like being stabbed. For half a second, my vision blacked out and the sound of gunfire was nothing more than a loud thumping.
And then the world rushed back to me.
Just like that, adrenaline surged through me, the pain-gate closed, and the dorsal horn was silenced. It was a red-hot combat fix that would spare me for at least three minutes.
I had three minutes to get out, then, or risk becoming useless.
Fiona and I were on the ground behind a low stone wall, a short burst from the kitchen with adequate cover to make it to the door. But the Italian was unloading his automatic into the wooden wall behind us, spraying us with splinters and producing a billowing smoke. Others were joining in on the gunfire, diving for cover, so I chose to wait out the Italian.
He got clipped in the leg.
I grabbed Fiona and made a break for the kitchen door. People were screaming, dropping like flies all over the dance floor. Someone else had an automatic, using the bar as cover, mowing down the crowd in an unbelievably ineffective effort to take out the Italian, who was on the ground, way below his firing level. He was in for a terrible surprise when the Irish gangsters lingering in the front parking lot made it inside.
When we made it through the door, the sound of gunfire was muted. Pain was returning to my shoulder, making the muscles throb, but years of experience had taught me that this kind of pain was only temporary. I gritted my teeth and pushed through it, dragging a chair against the door to protect us from pursuit.
But, again, and this is critical, situations change in a heartbeat. One of the worst mistakes spies can make is assuming they're in the clear.
I turned back and found a man standing there, his arm wrapped around Fiona's throat, applying just enough pressure to make her cough and gasp. He was dragging her back toward the door. I was wrong. They were not trying to kill her. They were trying to take her.
I drew my gun and cocked it.
He froze, tightening his hold on her, completely cutting off her air. He had a gun to her head. It was one of those pieces that would reduce any body part to a pile of bones and flesh.
Hostage standoffs are sometimes just a matter of distraction.
"Wait." I held up my hand, giving him something to look at, and took a step toward him. "Wait, don't hurt her. Let her go." I looked to the side, startled, and his gaze followed mine. I took another step closer. "Wait, please listen to me."
He didn't seem inclined to talk, but he was following my cues like a sheep. It was the oldest trick in the book – diversion. I glanced to the side again, shaky, and he followed my eyes once more. I stepped closer. I dropped my hand, and then held it up again, edging up. Someone banged on the kitchen door and he looked that way, giving me another chance to approach.
He finally caught on and held the gun up to me instead of his hostage. It was the worst move a kidnapper could make. With her life in the clear, I could advance.
Hand-to-hand combat was my first proficiency in the army.
I lunged at him, knocking the gun aside just as he pulled the trigger. The shot rang painfully in my ears, but I got a hand on his wrist and twisted it back, forcing him to release Fiona, snapping the tiny bones that held his wrist to his arm. Fiona stumbled away, coughing, staggering. The punk tried to punch me, but I caught his hand, and twisted them both until he was forced to his knees. He careened toward me, trying to stop me from breaking his arms, and I kneed him in the chin, hard enough to break his jaw. The lights went out.
He hit the ground.
I took the rifle from his back, slinging it over my shoulder, and kept my own gun out, ready for the barrier to break and bring more of her friends into the kitchen. She leaned against the counter, struggling to breathe, her eyes wild.
I went for the back door, ushering her toward it. "We have to leave."
She drew her gun on me, looking disoriented. "Who the hell are you?"
"Is this really the time for that?" The door was about to give way. "Listen to me. I was trying to help. I think those men were going to kill you."
She backed toward the door, still pointing the revolver at me. Her eyes were wide. She looked at my shoulder, at the blood mushrooming out from where I had been shot, and used it as a basis to decide I wasn't working with them – or, at least, that I wasn't a serious threat. She lowered her weapon and pushed the door open, beckoning me. "Let's go. Now."
We ran out together. I looked back and found a legion of gangsters arriving in the kitchen, guns blazing. I drew my own and fired on them, sending them into various cover points. It made Fiona jump away from me, startled, but it bought us a few precious moments.
"My car is out front," she said, gasping as we made it into the back parking lot. She looked around, debating our options. "Where did you park?"
I scanned the lot, my eyes catching briefly on two dead agents who had accompanied me here, and decided on the vehicle with the most horsepower, and the simplest wiring. With no time to pick the lock, I broke the driver's side window.
"Cover me!" I shouted, sliding inside and popping the steering column off. I teased the wires out, using my pocket knife to remove their sheaths. It was hard work with blood pouring down my arm.
Fiona took up a position at the passenger's side door, holding them off like a natural. Her shots were not aimed at the men trying to get out, but at the frame of the building. She wasn't trying to harm them, just to keep them at bay. She was doing what I would have done.
Halfway through my work her gun clicked, empty. I tossed mine over the roof of the car, earning a strange look from her. She fired a few more shots, the bullets ricocheting off the metal doorframe, and then she slipped into the passenger's seat. I got the engine going and peeled out of the lot, sliding onto the main road like it was made of ice. Several cars honked and someone almost hit us, but I found a place in traffic and did my best to blend in.