A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews for this and all my other stories. Onwards now with the next chapter where Michael Westen is still invading Fiona's thoughts and dreams.

A PALE IMITATION

Part Six

"Our part went jus' like clockwork, it twas jus' like we war back at home, except fer tha water being warmer an' a whole lot smoother than tha Irish Sea an' tham little cigarette boats… well, they war jus' a wee bit smaller than whot wa're used ta goin' after." Dara Glennane looked around the table at his audience, his eyes settling on those of his father.

"D'ya remember thot job we did? Thot one a coupla years ago when we snuck right up under thot massive Spanish trawler? Haha, nar thot really wa' a thing o' beauty, warn't it?" He turned his attention away from his father to the only woman sitting at the table.

"Thare war six o' us… we had ta swim underwater fer nigh on half an hour, thirty meters down, so as ta avoid any o' tha fleet spotting us. We took out tha biggest one in Mendezo's fleet and then we – "

The excitable young Irishman held his arms out wide, blowing out his cheeks before exhaling BOOM! "I tell ya, Auntie Fi, thar were fish swimming along, mindin' thar own business, five miles away who suffered fram concussion after thot blast."

"It surely war a thing o' beauty ya created back then, Dara," Seamus interrupted the elder of his twin boys storytelling before the young man could get into full flow. "One o' yar finest, but right nar yar Auntie Fi donnae need ta know about a job ya did two years ago. Whot we need ta know is how many o' Greyson Miller's little wee cigarette boats ya an' yar brother managed ta blow ta kingdom come and if thar wa any witnesses ya left alive ta yar efforts."

"Am jus' settin' tha mood, Da," the younger man pouted, though his blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "Auntie Fiona has nuttin' ta gauge our work by so Am tryin' ta give har tha bigger picture."

As the discussion between father and son regarding the finer points of how a debrief should be conducted rolled on, Fiona Glenanne smiled and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the surface of the hardwood table in front of her.

After their opening salvo in their war against British arms trader that she had turned in at the CIA's insistence to get her out of jail, the petite Irishwoman and the rest of her family had retreated back to the Dulcinea, the flag ship in Seamus Glenanne's gunrunning business. Once on board, they had regrouped in the former trawler's massive galley to begin the debrief on the operation over several large tots of Irish whiskey.

The sticky bomb was originally developed in World War II for mining tanks. For the homemade variety, tile adhesive works best - sticky, water-proof and it comes in an easily portable plastic bucket.

Her eyes, which had begun to slide shut as she half listened to the family squabble, suddenly opened wide as the voice of her former lover whispered in her ear, reminding her all too clearly of the last time they had stood together with their fingers entwined, working almost as one they had prepared a sticky bomb to be deployed on another boat, a job that now seemed a lifetime ago.

Suddenly, it was as if she had unwillingly been transported back in time… her and Michael, side by side in the kitchen of the abandoned villa Nate Westen had been calling home… His hands as steady as rocks while she poured her own brand of plastique into the sandwich box he was holding.

Then as she wrapped the deadly device in layer upon layer of cling film, his deep blue eyes had never left her face and each time their fingers had touched as she passed the roll of thin sticky plastic over the box, it had been as if a spark of electricity had passed between them.

The ex-freedom fighter swallowed thickly as her other senses began to betray her. His scent enveloped her; the memory of his breath tickling her neck brought forth goosebumps where those lips had trailed down the side of her jaw to her mouth…

With a loud huff of aggravation that drew the eyes of the five men in the room in her direction, Fiona slammed shut the door to those old memories... He had been planning on leaving her on that day too. Just one more favor before he disappeared to chase after his ghosts again…

And yet you still helped me… after joining me in the shower... and you said I was always the one sending mixed signals…

"Sommit ya want ta say, Fiona?" Seamus asked mildly.

"No, carry on," she snapped back, hiding her embarrassment at being caught daydreaming behind a flash of irritation.

"Okay then, let's wrap this up. Tha twins did a grand job on tha boats, Milo lit up tha arms cache like an expert... Which is sommit Am gonna be discussing wit' Sean when I get back home…" Seamus scowled at the youngest of his sons present. "So, wit' his money launderer running fer his life, his short range boats gone an' one of his arms caches either destroyed or in tha hands o' tha law, if thot lot donnae bring tha bastid Englishman out inta tha open, I donnae know whot will." He leaned back with a happy smile on his face.

"He has to come to Miami to deal with this war he started or he will lose face. Nobody will trust him. No sellers will risk their merchandise in the hands of a man who lets his business be destroyed and does nothing to stop it… He has to come," Fiona replied, her anger dissipating as quickly as it had risen.

Now the excitement was over and they had all lived through it, all the former paramilitary wanted was a return to her new life, a quiet life with her new predictable boyfriend. There was something very comforting about knowing that at the end of the day the man she loved was going to be there for her, not preparing to run off to chase down the next government conspiracy waiting to destroy their lives.

"Aye, ya're right, sis..." Seamus looked around the table, seeing post-operative fatigue in the eyes of every face there.

After the adrenaline rush of an operation comes a crash. Heightened reflexes and awareness don't last. Several boring hours later back on board their floating home base and even the sharpest guerilla fighter lets their guard down.

"I think tha best thing ta do nar is get some rest… I've put tha word out ta some trusted sources an' they'll let us know when Miller shows his face. Tis no good all of us sitting up… I'll take tha first watch, tis three o' clock nar. Pat, I'll wake ya seven though, I think we'll have heard sommit by then anyway. Thot Brit bastid wa' nae one ta avoid a fight."

The four boys nodded their agreement and got to their feet, after a series of 'goodnights' which Fiona thought made them sound like the characters of an old TV show, the twins, Pat and Milo all left the room, heading for their shared quarters below deck.

"Ya should follow tha lads an' go get yar head down fer a few hours, Fi. Ya look fair done in, sweetheart." Seamus spoke with concern as he took in his only sister's drawn features and pale complexion.

"Am fine," she answered automatically, covering her mouth with a hand to hide a yawn.

"Fine, is it?" He smiled and got to his feet to pour coffee from the large coffee maker on the counter top. After adding a large dose of whiskey to each mug, he sat back down facing his sibling. "In tha old days, ya used ta be buzzing after an op like this. So, tell me nar, whot ar' yar plans fer after we get rid o' this little annoyance?"

The former paramilitary took a sip of the strong Irish coffee, feeling the warmth of the alcohol slipping down her throat bringing another wave of homesickness and with it a strong dose of regret.

She could never go home again, thanks to Thomas O'Neill outing Michael McBride as an American spy. Once upon a time, she thought she had accepted that fact… But now…

"I will go home to my new house and get back to my new job… my new life."

"Wit' yar new boyfriend, heh, lass?"

"Yes with Carlos, he's a good man. He treats me –– he wants to be with me. He's always there for me, unlike someone else." Why was it every time the name of her new lover was brought up did she feel the need to defend him?

"Thot's fine, sweetheart, Am happy fer ya, if thot's whot ya want. But whot I meant ta ask is whot ar' ya gonna tell them government types about slipping yar leash an' blowing up half o' Miami?"

She swallowed and licked her lips. Once she had been swept up in all the excitement, the ex-PIRA operative had forgotten all about what damage her actions might have caused to her hopes of a quiet life with her new man.

"Nobody knows I'm involved," she answered at length. "By the time the police arrived, you'd gotten away from Jojo's boatyard. I don't think any of those idiots at the barn would tell on us, at least not to the authorities. As long as we get this tied up quickly, I am positive I can cover why I was off the grid for a couple of days."

Seamus nodded his agreement. "Still, tis best ya nae make any contact wit' any o' yar friends until this is over in case tha Feds are listening in. Whot they donnae know cannae hurt tham." Reaching across the table, the older man lightly placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Are ya sure ya donnae want ta get some sleep befer tha shite really hits tha fan, sweetheart?"

Fiona knew who her brother meant when he had said friends, though she chose not to rise to the jibe. "Are you sure you're going to be able to stay awake with the amount of rot gut you've been supping?"

"Rot gut!" Shay's eyes went wide in mock indignation. "Rot gut! Are ya insulting me fine single malt ambrosia?"

"Am more questioning yar sobriety, brudder dear," she replied, slipping back into her native accent. Fiona got to her feet and moved around the table to lay a soft kiss on the top of his head. "Fine, I'll go. Wake me the minute you have any news… Keep an ear on the scanner for any police activity near 947 Northwest North River Drive." She trusted Carlos… she wouldn't have sent him there otherwise, but Miller had a lot of resources…

And he's no Sam Axe or Jesse Porter… an unwelcome voice whispered in her ear.

Damn you, stay outta me head, Michael, she answered the ghost. He'd had no trouble disappearing out of her life over and over. Why the hell did he keep showing up where he wasn't wanted…?

Leaving her sibling to his watch, the weary Irishwoman walked along the narrow hallway and then down a set of steps which lead to the sleeping quarters. Passing by the boys' room, she heard low laughter and whispered conversation which told her that Seamus Glenanne's sons just like their father used poker as a way to unwind.

Opening the door opposite, she entered her own room, the one that had been her own when she had worked with her brother. The room looked more or less the same as it had when she had last stayed there…so many years ago….

The only difference was where before there had only been one double bed, there now were two singles. This must be the room shared by the twins, she thought. Proof of her theory came when she discovered a photograph on top of the small locker separating the beds. It was Brendan, one arm draped over the shoulder of a young woman with long dark brown hair dressed in jeans and a cream colored jumper. In front of them sitting on a carpeted floor sat a large black sleek coated dog.

She looked closer at the picture, no ring on the woman's finger, but from the look of love in the couple's eyes, she had no doubt there soon would be.

"Please, you're not going to get any baby fever from me. Michael is too busy running around with a gun to take care of a hamster, much less a child."

Madeline Westen's words from over two years ago came back at her in a rush. Was that what was wrong with her? The unexpected arrival of her family and witnessing how well they were all getting on without her? The fiery Irishwoman shook her head. No way, absolutely not.

Flopping down on the bed, she stared up at the ceiling. What was it she really wanted?

Returning to Ireland was nothing but a dream. She had come to terms with the loss of her family years ago. Besides, even before Thomas O'Neill outed Michael McBride as an American spy and herself as a collaborator, she hadn't been home for nearly a decade. She definitely didn't want kids of her own… that was another decision she had made long ago.

"What do you think, mommee? A little Carlos junior running around… Hey, not right now but maybe in a year or two?"

So Carlos had different ideas... Maybe she would too in a year or two…. Now that she wasn't getting shot at daily while running around after a man who was never going to be there… maybe it was a possibility…?

She shook her head, pushing away the thoughts of babies. She had never wanted a white picket fence, a baby on the hip and husband working nine to five. It wasn't her…

Only it had been once, long ago… well, maybe not the working nine to five part… But when she and Michael had spent those long cold nights in their Dublin flat snuggled up together, talking about a future without planting bombs or dodging bullets, where peace would finally take hold in her homeland, there was talk of what their life could be… together…

Bloody hell, thot is it! ENOUGH!

She sat up swiftly, a scowl on her face and her hands in tightly formed fists. He was a spy! Spies lie! They tell you what you want in order to get what they want…

And she had fallen for it time after time!

Getting to her feet she began to rake her fingers through her long auburn hair, her nails snagging on some of the long dark extensions she had added a few months earlier… A new look to go with her new life...

She had given up so much for her dark haired spy… She had faced banishment without hesitation. She had accepted that loving him put her in danger. That she would never be his top priority, that he would always drop everything including her whenever the call came from his faceless government masters. She had gone to prison, a place with dark memories of her past for him.

Letting her eyes close, Fiona tried without success to concentrate her thoughts away from the former man in her life. Carlos would never lie to her or willingly place her in danger. Her new Latin lover would never put her in a position where she had to turn herself into the authorities to save his soul. Carlos would never have abandoned her in the first place to chase after his old job…

Staring down, she opened her hands to reveal the long strands of both real and faux hair on her palms and caught between her fingers. The last six months of contentment hadn't prepared her for a return to the battlefield. The adrenaline still coursing through her veins hadn't been diminished by a long through admittedly lively debrief.

She watched the hair fall to the floor and then looked up. While she had been in the company of her brother and nephews, she had been able to control the itch which needed scratching.

Now, it hit her like a blow to the stomach, all the air was knocked out of lungs as in her mind she was back home, in Ireland, around the back of Derry police station in the dark with soft drizzling rain in no way cooling the fire in her and her daring lover's loins.

"Michael, we cannae stay har."

He had looked back at her with that cool hard intense expression which made her knees go weak. Michael McBride had been a dangerous man; he'd had certain style where violence was concerned and a confidence which had more than matched her own.

"Ya told me all about yar bad experience around this place – when ya fell in ta tha hands o' tha Derry police... I jus' want ta show ya… ya never have anythin' ta fear when I'm around."

He'd slammed her back against the cold brick wall and then after one careful look each way along the alleyway which separated the back of the police station from the restaurant next door, he had roughly cradled her cheeks in his hands and drawn her into a bruising kiss.

Gasping loudly, the petite ex-paramilitary fell back against the cold hard steel of the side of the hull… What the hell was she doing? It wasn't as if she didn't have an active sex life, a wonderful sex life with a man who loved her with his whole heart.

Snapping her eyes open, Fiona looked about the room, the fury and indignation which came whenever unbidden thoughts of Michael Westen filled her mind was now rampaging through her blood. She needed to break something, tear it to pieces just like he had done to all their lives.

Her blue-green orbs settled on the one object not screwed or nailed down in the room, the photograph of a soon to be happy family. One slender hand reached out, fingers forming claws. It wasn't much, one small picture in a narrow wooden frame, but hearing it smash against the steel wall and then grinding the shattered glass protecting the image of domestic bliss denied to her…

But as soon as her fingers touched the frame, the angry Irishwoman let out a muffled expletive. Snatching her hand away, she covered her mouth to stop the cry which was building in her throat.

With nothing to break, all that was left was to drink… and that meant rejoining her brother in the galley and having to explain her moisture filled eyes and more than usual cranky temper.

Taking another look about the twins' room, Fiona nearly ripped open the door to the locker and finally a smile lit up her face. A half full bottle of dark rum stood on the upper shelf along with two plastic tumblers.

Not bothering with the glass, she snatched up the bottle. Twisting off the cap, the former guerilla fighter took a long slug of the eighty per cent proof spirit.

Shay would give her hell if he discovered her drinking herself to sleep but right then she didn't care.

()()()()

On a second floor balcony overlooking St. John's Episcopal Church in downtown Tallahassee stood a man of medium size and build, his dark brown hair neatly cut and his lightly tanned face smoothly shaven. Leaning out over the railing, he let the end of his still lit cigarette drop down, uncaring if it hit any of the people strolling along North Monroe Street. This man had big plans, plans which didn't involve any of the citizens passing beneath where he stood. Plans which once completed would see him back at the top of his particular trade.

Less than three hours after his arrest, Greyson Miller had received a visit from the same well-dressed sonuvabitch who had lead the team of FBI agents who had taken down his whole enterprise, apparently with the help and full cooperation of Fiona Glenanne and Michael Westen.

He had known as soon as this smarmy faced Yank had sat down opposite him and opened his mouth that he was going to be offered a deal and after spending three hours sitting on a hard plastic chair in a small brightly lit room with the A/C cranked right up he knew he would, after a bit of negotiating, do whatever was required of him to get free.

He hadn't been surprised to be told that Westen was working for the CIA. It was after all an open secret that the man was a disgraced former secret agent. What had surprised him was the news that Glenanne had willingly set him up to earn her freedom from federal prison. That a woman of her pedigree in the underworld would commit such a crime was unforgivable in his mind.

It had taken a week for a deal to be struck. The agent with the ready smile and a degree in sarcasm had been looking for a way to purchase high end weaponry off the books and what kind of businessman would he have been to turn down the offer of such a lucrative deal? The only cost to him was that Glenanne and Westen were strictly off limits, which again at the time was no hardship.

There was always a way around any agreement, a quiet word in the right ears and the offer of large sums of money to keep his name out of it…

And that was what he had done… sure, the two of them were off limits per se; but that didn't include their money launderer nor did it include making sure the word spread that Glenanne was a snitch.

But then a few short months later, the man with a million dollar smile was dead, killed by Westen and all of a sudden all deals were off. He was free, clear and in possession of whole container of brand new shiny weaponry which no longer had an owner. It was a blessing from upon high.

By murdering Operations Chief Tom Card, Michael Westen had got himself off Greyson Miller's shit list. And then six months later, Westen was gone and Fiona Glenanne had taken up with a bounty hunter by the name of Carlos Cruz…

Greyson Miller, formerly a soldier in Her Majesty's British Armed Forces, smiled grimly. All that had happened over a year ago. Yes, he still had the bounty on Glenanne's head, but the girl was no longer part of the gunrunning crowd and had a new CIA guard dog watching over her. Whatever deal Westen had struck for his freedom had left his friends having their every moved watched.

That left three possibilities. One: Westen had negotiated with the CIA to protect his friends while he was off working for them. Two: the CIA were using his friends as leverage to make him work for them. Or Three, which was the most likely given that the man was a rogue agent who had murdered his boss in cold blood, that Michael Westen had somehow gotten free and had run off, leaving the CIA keeping watch on his friends in the hopes of catching him if he ever came back.

None of that was his business though. What was his business was that two hours ago, at the exact same moment, not only had his money launderer, a man he had known for half his life been forced to flee Miami, one of his largest weapons caches had gone up in flames and four of his fastest cigarette boats, all recently fitted with the most up to date anti radar technology, had been blown to pieces.

It hadn't taken a genius to work out that this was retaliation for one of his own supporter's actions when they had spotted Seamus Glenanne coming ashore at an out of the way harbor on the outskirts of Miami.

So now he had the whole force of the Glenanne family lining up against him. But Greyson wasn't concerned. All he had to do was take care of the six in Miami and then get word to his few friends left in the British Army back home to speak to some of their friends who had once served as members of the loyalist paramilitary to take care of the rest of the clan.

Yes, things were definitely looking up and with no Michael Westen to worry about, there was no one to step in and spoil his fun.

"Boss, we've found them... They're anchored out by Totten Key." Greyson turned to face the speaker, one of his best and most loyal soldiers. "What do you want us to do?" the man asked when all he had gotten was a smile on the face of his employer to his original announcement.

"Tell the men we're heading back to Miami… Homestead to be precise."

"Benny's Place…" His second in command wrinkled his nose. "Isn't that Glenanne's home ground?"

"That is what makes it so perfect." He flashed his teeth in a wide grin.

The tough thing about setting up an ambush in a place of business is that it only works if the business is still running. Usually that means getting the cooperation of some very unhappy business owner while you set your team up some place out of sight and waiting for your target to arrive.

If Fiona believed a friend was in danger, she would come running regardless of the risk and with no Michael Westen to back her up… His grew wider. She was a dead woman walking.