A/N: Thank you for all the nice reviews for the last chapter of this story. Sorry for the delay in posting, but a mixture of Christmas and bad health have slowed me down. The plan had been to bring Pale Imitation to an end with this chapter. But as I wrote I realised that to do so was going to mean one very very long chapter, I have decided to break it into two.
So now onto part one of the finale of Pale Imitation where her Seamus Glenanne finds himself trying answer a very important question: Whatever happened to the old Fiona Glenanne?
A PALE IMITATION
Part Seven
Standing on the top deck of the Dulcinea, the cool sea breeze in his face and the gentle lapping of the waves hitting the side of the boat in his ears, Seamus Glenanne thought about what was to come and, unusually for the happy go lucky smuggler, he was filled with deep sense of unease.
Without the need of conscious thought, he brought a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and lit the end off of the dying remains of his last one. Sucking in a fresh lungful of nicotine, the Irishman blew the smoke out in a long exhale. The sun would be coming up soon. There was already a faint orange glow on the horizon.
A new day promising to bring new troubles to their door…
As a Glenanne, he liked to think he never worried unduly, especially when it came to life's little problems. In most circumstances the family name was usually enough to prevent any conflict from escalating. If his own skills failed during a trade negotiation, and the threat of his older brother's wrath was not enough to make an enemy pause for thought, then at the end of the day there was always the knowledge that he had every man and woman in the Provisional IRA ready to rain hell down on his behalf…
Of course, thanks to the peace process, that last one was no longer the deterrent it used to be.
Before several of the PIRA grandees had made the decision to move away from bombs and instead throw their hats into the political arena, a man like Greyson Miller wouldn't have dared go after Fiona Glenanne… Though in all fairness, fifteen years ago his fiery little sister would have died before making a deal with government forces to gain her own freedom.
The gunrunner tossed the remains of his smoke over the side of his boat. And that was the cause of his unease….
Because the old Fiona Glenanne would have taken an active part in the debrief, instead of sitting staring off into space like some daydreaming child. She would have been firing off ideas, each one more bloodthirsty than the last for ending the conflict as quickly as possible.
"Why tha hell ar' ya havin' me sittin' in on yar deals if ya're nae gonna listen ta whot I have ta say? Tha bastid is planning on rippin' ya off, Shay! I heard ham wit me own ears. I say while me an' ya turn up as expected, ya have tha rest o' tha men hide out on tha rooftops thar, thar an' thar…" Her finger had stabbed down repeatedly on the map of the Tripoli port. "We can catch tha bastids in a crossfire. They'll never know whot hit tham an' it will send a message ta anyone else thinkin' o' reneging on a deal wit' us."
She had been twenty-one and travelling with him primarily to get her out of Ireland to give her a chance to heal after the events which had brought a sudden end to her graduation party… although it wasn't long before he had realised that instead of protecting her, he was relying on her for not only her language skills but also for her tactical prowess.
In fact, her brother had spoken up vehemently on her behalf with the head of the clan when she had voiced a wish to return to home and join in the fight for a united Ireland.
"I swear, Liam, ya can trust Fiona. I have trusted har wit' me own life more times than I can remember. Regardless o' whot Sean an' some o' tha others are sayin' ya can count on har ta do har part. Jaysus, ya donnae have ta look any further than our own mam ta know whot a woman is capable of... She will never let ya down or make ya sorry fer trusting har."
The old Fiona Glenanne was a professional, if occasionally a little wild. She would have had a full list of contacts to aid in the search for Greyson Miller. But his little sister's recent activities had driven away most of her allies and those that remained had made it plain they were staying neutral in the coming war.
The Irishman sighed heavily, his eyes tracking the path of what appeared to be large yacht maybe a mile away heading for Key Largo. If it had changed course towards them, Seamus would have raised the RPG launcher resting on the floor by his feet to his shoulder and obliterated the threat. The old Fiona Glenanne would have done the same...
She would have also not taken "no" as an answer from her friends and allies. She would have charmed, cajoled and, if that hadn't worked, threatened a few of them to get what she wanted. She had always possessed a certain old testament style when it came to those who attracted her wrath.
"Fiona! No!" He'd once had to stop her from taking a hammer to the face of one of his crew. A new man he had only taken on a few months earlier. A man who had passed all the family security checks, who had then been caught trying to steal from one of their weapons dumps.
"He betrayed us! He wa' gonna steal fram us! Ya cannae be thinkin' o' lettin' ham go!" The little hellcat had turned on him in a fury after he had snatched the tool from her hand.
"If ya bash his teeth in how is he gonna tell us who he really works fer?"
"He could write it down... I have a notebook and pen handy," she had shot back.
In the end she hadn't needed to use the hammer, or the pen and paper, the traitor had told them everything before he had died to a single shot to the back of the head. The man had been in the employ of a rival gunrunner sent to discover the locations of the Glenanne's weapons stores.
As they had walked out of the woods where they'd buried the body, she had smiled happily at him. "Donnae worry, Shay. Nar, we have all tha names me an' Sean will take care o' tha rest."
Sean had been correct in his assessment that America had changed their little sister, except none of them had realised exactly how much she had changed. Which was a big problem, because right now she was the only one within four thousand miles with the necessary experience to wage war against a retired British soldier.
Whot tha feck wa' she doin' tradin' guns wit' a man like thot anyway? So, whot thot he never served in Ireland. Marcus Dwyer mighta turned a blind eye ta it, but the old Fiona nae woulda.
This new version of his sister definitely lacked the original's fire and spirit. She was acting as if she was already beaten, though she was trying to hide it. It couldn't just be that living in America had made her soft, there had to be more to it….
"Whot has McBride done ta ya this time?" her brother muttered into the early morning air.
"I asked me contact in MI-5 ta look inta whot happened after all tha arrests. He dinnae come back ta me. But at three feckin' A.M. I wa' woken up by a coupla well-dressed Americans standin' on me doorstep, who politely requested if I knew whot wa' good fer me, I'd back off askin' questions." Seamus recalled the eldest's words and sighed.
It had been after he had updated the head of the family on their nights activities that Liam had confirmed that Westen had indeed vanished from the face of the Earth after abandoning their sibling yet again. But that in itself didn't explain Fiona's attitude, though it did explain her poor choice in a new man.
It hadn't escaped the Irishman's attention that Carlos Cruz was a former gang member. The tattoos being a big give away. Nor had he been impressed when a simple search on google had informed him of the gang's affiliation to a certain South American cartel. A man like Cruz would have never got within a mile of the old Fiona Glenanne. If he had managed to get past Sean and Liam, she would have killed him herself before he had a chance to dare approach her.
Scowling, Seamus reached for another cigarette then changed his mind as the dull ache emanating from his side reminded him that if he was planning on staying on his feet for the duration of the upcoming battle, he needed to take care of his bullet scoured ribs.
Taking one last look out at the spreading mix of red and oranges hues as the sun peeked above the horizon, Seamus turned to walk into the wheelhouse. The gun runner knew he should wake up one his boys to take over the watch; however, he would still be able to see anything approaching from the front of the boat and the fancy radar system which had cost him an arm and a leg would pick up anything other than the smallest of crafts coming at them.
Stripping off his jacket, shirt and undershirt, Seamus looked down at the dressing. It was still clean, which meant the stitches were holding. Carefully easing off the dressing, he exposed the angry red looking wound. When he had last cleaned it, before they had headed off into the night to wreak havoc on Miller's associates and property, it had been showing all the signs of the beginnings of infection. There had been no blood thankfully, but slightly discolored serum had been leaking from between the stitches.
An injection of antibiotics and another of Lidocaine had taken care of the budding contagion and the growing pain… His dear wife would have killed him herself if she knew how much he had been drinking while using a local anaesthetic. Thankfully whot Isabelle didnae know couldnae hurt ham.
The smuggler smiled ruefully and opened the drawer containing the medical supplies bringing out another ready to use syringe. He would need all the help he could get if he was to stay mobile during what was to come. Because if Fiona wasn't capable of coming up with an effective battle strategy, he would have to call in his big brother and if the head of the family got involved things would very soon heat up.
The sensation of his phone vibrating in his pocket stayed his hand. Placing the loaded syringe of lidocaine on the counter top, Seamus answered the call.
"Aye?"
"Is that you Se – er I mean Mr. Glennane?... This is Eduardo, Eduardo Sorayo. I work for the Dwyer family."
Marcus Dwyer, formerly from Belfast and long-time friend of the Glenanne family going back over two generations, was now the premier purveyor of explosives along the whole of the Eastern seaboard. He had family members running his trade from New York down to Florida where he himself had set up a home deep in the Everglades. Sorayo however was not a name which came readily to mind, even though the man seemed to know him.
"Whot can I do fer ya, Mister Sorayo?" Marcus had also made it plain that in this feud, he had no plans on taking a side. Miller was a reliable businessman even though he was English and business was business after all as the Irishman had explained.
"I know Marcus says he is staying out of your dispute and he – but, I... er, I heard about the reward you're offering for information on Grey Miller's whereabouts."
"Thot I am, laddie, whot d'ya have fer me?"
"Er… no offense… but payment?"
"If yar information proves valuable and ya do indeed work fer Marcus, then tha money is guaranteed. Ya have me word."
He waited as the man took a few deep breaths. "You have to understand, Senor, I am doing this against orders to stay neutral. I really need to know that the reward you offered is for real."
Seamus closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths of his own as he recognized the beginnings of a negotiation. He just hoped that this guy was desperate enough for the reward that it wasn't going to take until the sun was fully up.
()()()()
"Fiona... Fi... Oh fer tha love o' –"
"Seamus!" The sleeping redhead woke with a start as her big brother stepped through the door. "What are you doing barg– ?"
"Nae nar, get up an' join me up top." Seamus took a long disapproving look about the room before turning his attention back to his dishevelled sister. "I'll get tha coffee maker on. Ya look like yer gonna need it." The metal door was pulled shut with a bang which echoed not only in the narrow corridor but right through the Irishwoman's aching head.
With a groan, Fiona sat up and turned so she could put her feet onto the floor. Looking down at her sock covered toes, she realised that sometime during the night she must have pulled off her boots. Had she really drunk that much? A quick look at the empty bottle lying on its side on the locker top answered that question.
Knowing she didn't have long before Seamus would be back demanding to know what was keeping her, Fiona headed into the cramped en-suite, just a toilet, sink and shower head. After finishing her ablutions, she couldn't help but stare at the reflection in the mirror over the sink. Wiping a hand over the surface to remove the condensation, Fiona studied the face staring back.
Swallowing thickly, the former paramilitary saw what caused the disapproval in her brother's eyes. She looked a fright, blood shot eyes, pale blotchy skin and her hair was beyond a mess.
Fiona frowned, remembering how she had lost at least one of the extensions she had added to darken, thicken and lengthen her own auburn locks. It was one of the many changes she had made since coming to terms with Michael's betrayal. She had thrown out all her old clothes.
Her Miami party girl persona had gone out too, being replaced by one far more suited to her new life and her new man. Carlos didn't own a single piece of Armani or Prada and if he owned a pair of dress shoes, she had yet to see them. So tiny summer dresses and high heels had no place in her new wardrobe either.
Pulling her hair back, the redhead twisted it and then used two bands and a couple of hair clips to secure the messy bun, Fiona washed her face in the sink, hoping that the cold water would not only help sober her up but also rid the puffiness from under her eyes.
After patting her face dry, the groggy woman came to the conclusion the water had had little effect. What she needed was a long shower, but that wasn't going to happened because Glenannes notoriously lacked patience and her brother was waiting for her. Swirling some Lysterine around her mouth, she spat out the minty liquid into the sink. At least she didn't have to go through the morning with her breath sinking of stale rum.
With one final look in the mirror, Fiona turned away. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled on her boots and then headed back along the corridor to the galley where she found her nephews already up and looking far fresher than she felt.
"Morning, Auntie Fi, hare take this. I've put a couple sugars in it. Our da is waitin' fer ya up in tha wheelhouse." Fiona gratefully took the mug of black coffee from the younger man's hand.
"You're all up early." She took a sip and grimaced at the sweetness.
"Da called us tha same time he called yarself. Said he had some news but wanted ta talk ta ya first," Patrick explained.
"I'd best go see him then." Without another word, she headed outside, the fresh salt air and slightly swaying horizon making her stomach flip. Steeling herself, the one-time guerrilla walked slowly up the narrow steel staircase and entered the Dulcinea's bridge.
"Shay, Pat said ya wanted ta speak ta me." Her eyes skimmed the room looking for a clue for the wake-up call. She spotted a street map of Homestead spread out over one of the control panels.
"Aye, I hadda call fram someone calling hisself Eduardo Sorayo. Claims he works fer Marcus. Though I have no way o' confirming thot as Dwyer isnae takin' any o' our calls... He said he saw Miller and three car loads o' his men pulling into a storage unit in Homestead an hour ago."
"An hour ago?" Her stomach flipped again, but she willed sensation away. The Irishwoman would not allow herself to be ill. There was no time for it and it would also highlight her lamentable lack professionalism. "We're less than half an hour away. He could be on his way out here now." She gulped down the rest of her coffee, wincing as the hot black brew burnt its way down her throat.
"Chill yar beans, sis. D'ya honestly think Miller would come after us at sea? Wit' tha local Coast Guard probably less than a coupla miles away or tha fact thot anyone out fer an early round o' golf on Key Largo would get ta witness tha whole thing? Jeez Fi, mabbe ya really would do better taking up knitting an' leavin' tha fighting ta tha men."
For half a minute, there was complete silence inside the wheelhouse as her brother stared her down. Twice she opened her mouth to answer his unfair appraisal of her worth, but each time the words dried in her throat.
"Befer ya start throwin' yar fists about, think about it. Apart fram tha obvious, Miller's boats, those thot ar' still viable, ar' up along tha coast outside Tampa, so even if he wanted ta come after us out har, he cannae."
Forcing the tension out of her shoulders, Fiona leaned against a nearby countertop. "I'm not going to forget that comment, but go on," she conceded.
"Sommit else ya appear ta have forgotten about, though ta be fair ya war but a child during tha height o' Na Trioblóidí… Miller used ta be a soldier, a British Paratrooper... Ya surely remember tham?" She had been fourteen the last time soldiers forced their way into the Glenanne family home. "Har royal feckin' majesty's stormtroopers we used ta call tham, at least thot wa' tha most polite name we used…"
In spite of herself, the younger woman couldn't quite block out the memory of Claire's terrified screams and her own rage on that black day uniformed monsters had smashed down the doors and then murdered her eldest brother in the streets. She'd sworn to fight from that day on…
"D'ya recall thot one o' thar old tricks wa ta grab some stout supporter ta tha Cause off tha street, convince tham wit' thar fists or wit' cash ta lie fer tham ta trick other party members into ambushes? Thot misinformation wa' a solid part o' how thot branch of tha army worked. It meant we could nae really trust anyone outside o' tha family. It wa' how Liam earned all tham lovely punts thot took us out of tha gutter. Huntin' tha traitors down an' makin' an example of those who broke..."
"I donnae need a history lesson, Seamus. Ya have a point ta make. If ya donnae want me ta kick ya ass inta next week, get on wit' it."
"Jaysus, ar' ya havin' me on? Do I truly need ta spell it out fer ya? Me point is if ya want ta be around ta go back ta playin' house wit' yar boy toy when this is all over, ya need ta get yar head outta yar ass and get it back in tha game right nar!" Seamus shouted.
He stepped closer, reaching out and she flinched when his hand cradled her cheek. "Tha point Am makin' is thot ya seem ta need a history lesson after all. Ya've forgotten whare yer fram an' who ya ar'." The look of concern in her sibling's blue eyes and his soft words were a knife in her heart, hurting far worse than his loud accusation from the moment before.
"Ya're Fiona Cairin Glenanne… whotever McBride has done ta ya this time donnae matter."
At those last words, she flung her head back away from his hand and then pushed her brother away, stepping around him as her blood began to boil. "How many times do I have ta tell tha lot o' ya ta stay outta me life? This isnae about Michael!"
"Aye, tis so... It always is wit' ya," Seamus answered, continuing in a calm low spoken tone so different from his sister's mounting fury.
"No! Ya –" Fiona clamped her mouth shut stopping the torrent of words she had been about to utter in her defense.
Swallowing thickly, she spoke again this time matching her sibling's volume. "No, not this time, this time I mean it. I have moved on." She drew a deep breath and shook herself. "Alright, let's put our heads together and sort out this little problem."
"So, yer back in tha game? Nae more dreamin' o' yar borin' boyfriend an' a dull normal life?"
She laughed lightly. "Carlos isn't boring and chasing down bail jumpers is far from dull... They even make TV shows about it, you know."
"Aye, if ya say so," Seamus assented before turning his and her attention to the maps laying all over the ship's console. "Nar, whot I wa' tryin' ta say is we need ta work out if we believe Mr. Sorayo and if we do, whot is Miller planning and how we can use thot ta our advantage?"
"First of all, Eduardo Sorayo..." Fiona rolled the name around her memory and then shook her head as she drew a blank. "But I haven't seen Marcus or any of his boys for at least a year. He could be new."
"Ya know whar this storage company is? Ya know tha area?"
"Sure." She pointed it out on the map. "It would be a nightmare to approach unseen. There is another entrance around the back, so we'd have to cover both sides." She suddenly frowned and pinched the bridge of her nose as a wave of pain hit. The first sign of a hangover settling in… "Besides I can't believe Miller would be so stupid to show himself like that unless he wants us to know he is in town."
Her long fingers drummed on the table as she tried to work out what was going on.
"We have intelligence, but we can't verify it without sending in a scouting party. So if we decide to attack, we're going to have to go in blind. Miller is either going to be ready for us, or not there at all." She continued, thinking out loud.
"So, ya agree wit' me nar? Miller willnae be comin' after us at sea?" Seamus asked.
"Not unless he plans to go after you when you head for home." She barred her teeth in a smile. "Sink ya at sea an' then come fer me once things have quieted down... Tis whot I would do."
Seamus grinned back. "Thot's me girl. I was wonderin' whare tha old Fiona had got ta."
She gazed at him, suddenly seeing again how worried her brother had been her recent behavior. "Am older, wiser – an' Am… Am tired, Shay," she admitted.
"People like us cannae afford tha luxury o' being tired, Fi. Ya know thot. One day thot tiredness will get ya killed – or worse. Ya'll be walking up on some building lookin' fer a bail jumper an' ya'll drop ya guard, ya'll be chattin' away an' tha next thing ya know, ya'll be pinned down wit' nothin' ya can do but wait ta be finished off."
"I thought you promised no more lecturing?"
"I donnae remember saying those exact words. But let's get back ta tha problem at hand. If we say we believe Sorayo, as thare is no way ta check ham out, whot should we do wit' thot information."
"Fine, truce..." Fiona thought about her brother's question. "Senor Sorayo is either telling tha truth an' all he wants is tha reward or he is lying an' really works fer Greyson Miller. Either way I think we can agree, Miller is close by." She studied the map. "Benny's... He has to be holed up at Benny's place." She looked up, her eyes wide.
"Why Benny's when he could go ta ground anywhere in Miami?" Seamus countered.
"Because he would want to end this feud as quickly as possible. Before someone else gets caught up in it, like Jojo did the other night. Sooner or later people will start taking sides... No, he will go to Benny's first. Benny hears everything that goes on along the Eastern seaboard."
"I dunno, sis. If he hits Benny, he'll have every smuggler along tha East Coast gunning fer him," Seamus pointed out the obvious.
"He isn't going to hurt Benny. He's there for information or he's setting a trap. Miller didn't exactly sneak into town, did he?"
"I still think Benny's is a long shot," the Irishman persisted. "Grey Miller is nae fool an' threatening Benny or his bar is a sure way ta make a powerful enemy."
"Right and today's enemy might be tomorrows customer, so thar's nae room fer grudges..." The petite woman did a fair impression of her older sibling before reverting to her American accent. "You taught me that, remember? How many times has your asset in Ciaro taken pot shots at you?"
"Thot's because he works fer tha Port Authority an' cannae be seen ta be takin' sides... If ya remember it wa' yarself who shot his uncle."
"That was because his uncle worked with the US Navy to stop one of our transactions."
"And now fram whot Sean says ya ar' nar best buddies wit' one o' tha men who tried ta arrest ya. Sam Axe, wa' it…?"
"That was too many years ago, but I think we've both made our point... We're agreed that either Sorayo is working for Miller and he expects us to ride to Benny's rescue or Sorayo isn't a rat and Miller has just arrived in the area and is now waiting for us to make the next move." She sighed heavily and then broke into a big smile as Patrick walked in with a fresh pot of coffee.
There's a reason they call the spy trade the hall of mirrors. You can never know for sure whether you're in control or you're being played. But if you do it long enough, you learn to trust your instincts.
The smile faltered as a voice from the past whispered in her ear. But this time she didn't try to brush away the spy's help. After the roasting she had received from her brother, she wasn't about to let thoughts of Michael Westen throw her off her game again. Besides, he had a point….
She accepted a refill of her cup and thought through the problem. Michael, or the ghost in her head, was right. She had to trust her instincts, which were born out of a life time of experience in battlefield tactics.
When you have to get information about an enemy position, you have a choice. You can watch from a distance, slow and safe. Or you can go inside and take a look… Quick, but potentially fatal…. Slow and safe wasn't an option. There was no way Miller was just going to sit around and wait for them to make a move. She had always hated surveillance, unless it involved a sniper rifle, and they didn't have the time to sit around on their hands.
There had to be a way to get the intel they needed without getting their heads blown off…
Her smile re-emerged as a plan began to form. Or you can take a child's toy which has had a bit of an upgrade and do surveillance without being bored or killed in the process...
"I agree we have no real evidence that he is actually going to Benny's." She was finally ready to reveal her strategy. "But I still think we need to head to Homestead. We need to get a look at the storage unit and check out Benny's just to be sure."
"And how d'ya propose we do thot wit'out gettin' ourselves shot ta pieces? If he is thare thot is."
Her grin was now ear to ear. "Tell me you're still carrying one of those little drones Sean told me about?"
Seamus chuckled. "Yer devious, so ya ar' an' I might jus' have a little extra surprise fer Miller." He went to the door of the control room and wrenched it open. "Patrick, get yarself up har. Yar Auntie Fi has got a bit o' mischief fer ya."
Greyson Miller would never know what hit him…
