"To be willing to die for an idea is to set a rather high price on conjecture," Anatole France
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Learjet85, Transatlantic Flight, December 2015, 16:08 Hours GMT
Sam Axe couldn't quite pinpoint the exact moment when his best friend had stopped being Mike Westen and had became Michael McBride.
It wasn't when Mike had finally told him that was the name he had used in Ireland eighteen years ago while they were sitting in the back of the Learjet85 waiting to take off from Godfrey Field at 19:45 hours.
He'd been perched on the lid of the lavatory with his laptop on his knees, his partner leaning against the curved wall by the sink parallel to his position. From this short distance, he could see that Mike was having trouble holding it together while he relayed his conversation with Fiona's brother to him.
The plane reminded Sam of a similar one he'd seen a little over four years ago, except that one had been fully equipped with all the medical technology necessary to ensure that the comatose Sean Glenanne made it back home to Ireland alive.
"What have I told you about my time in Ireland?" the younger man queried, his voice taking on a Gaelic lilt
"Not much."
"Well, my name's Michael McBride and you're just going to have to roll with it."
The older man looked up, waiting for him to elaborate.
"Before we get an air abort," he said, the accent gone.
And that fast the almost Irishman disappeared and Agent Westen reappeared, pushing off the wall and striding purposefully towards the cockpit.
-ooooo-
It was this revelation that had caused the ex-SEAL to try to remember when the change had started. The shift had been so subtle at first that he'd almost missed it, although he hadn't been sure in the beginning what he was seeing. The military man in him had been troubled watching Mike slowly transform into someone else. It was almost like watching someone prepare for a suicide mission, like he didn't expect to come back.
And that was never a good sign.
The road trip that had started with a jaunt down to Key West to hop aboard AA869 to San Juan for a 'quick' four hour visit with Oswald and Sherry, another four hours back to the Keys and a four hour debrief with their secret weapon, Spencer, had ended over twenty four hours later. It wore Sam out just remembering it.
He also remembered being very irritated back when Mike had convinced Spencer to go back off his med's and had set the savant up with his own private compound and suitable companions on a remote key, but he couldn't argue with the results. The intelligence gathered during their visits had allowed the duo to track down the final whereabouts of Simon, Management and Anson. Or more accurately, what was left of them.
They thought they had been close to finishing it a couple of years back, but that rogue quasi-governmental organization that had burned Mike and countless other spies had proven resourceful and lethal once again, as Danni and Max would attest to if they could. Now someone, more likely an organization equally powerful and deadly, had beaten them to to their goal, but Sam had been confident he would figure out who it had been after he'd had time to study the additional intel provided by their own personal geek squad. Now they had a target, just no apparent motive.
When they'd left the loft to go on that road trip, there had been finality in Mike's preparations. The trunk of Charger had been loaded with the few things he still owned that weren't already in storage. The frequency with which they'd had to feed fuel to that big block V-8 440-cid beast was a testament to what they were hauling. Sam had chuckled imaging the look on Raines' face when he got the gas card bill, even though it would only be the Miami to DC portion of the road trip.
Mike had stopped using the loft for a residence shortly after they'd burned the house on North River Drive to the ground and faked Maddy's death. They had finally been able to convince his mother to join Nate and his family in witness protection after their final run in with Larry, when Dr. Fullerton had revealed himself as Management's previously silent partner. After Jesse's death, Maddy and Mike had gotten attached to one another at long last and then the devious bastard had finally gotten the leverage he'd been looking for and had stepped out of the shadows, but not for very long.
It'd been a hard thing, Sam knew, for her to leave and for his buddy as well. Mr. Westen had been so obviously conflicted, so impossibly torn between being elated to destroy a hated part of his past, relieved that his mother was out of the cross hairs and yet sad to see her and his childhood home vanish from his life, that he didn't speak for nearly three days. Like the good wing man he was, Mr. Axe had just kept the fridge stocked with yogurt, beer and Mediterranean carryout and kept on planning their next move while he had waited for his "brother from another mother" to adjust his operational climate.
Sam knew there was a part of himself that Mike kept hidden away. In their business, who didn't? But he also knew him better than almost anyone else, almost better than the covert operative knew himself in some ways. Perhaps that was why the ever-so-slight shifts in the spy's behavior had unsettled the former commander so much.
As they had stood on the beach of Spencer's island near the southernmost point in the United States, his dark haired associate had stared intensely and silently into the sunset and then had improbably traded him the keys to the Charger for his laptop. Mike'd studied the data their visits had produced with such concentration that Sam never did get to ask why he was driving for a change, but he never did stop wondering about it for the next four hours.
He'd wanted to stop in Miami again that evening after the long haul from Key West, but Mike had been insistent. Mr. Axe had grumbled repeatedly while his cohort had typed notes furiously into Sam's encrypted MAC as they had bypassed each storage facility, safe house and overpass in Dade, Broward and Palm Beach Counties respectively where their gear, their weaponry and what few personal mementos they still possessed that weren't already in the trunk of the black muscle car were stored.
All of which he could have dealt with except the minute they'd put the tri-county area behind them, he'd been left at the wheel and Mike had climbed into the back seat and passed out asleep.
Sometimes being Mike Westen's best friend was a serious pain in the ass.
But he hadn't quite been just Agent Westen anymore by the time they had finally put the Sunshine State behind them after a mind numbing- and backside numbing- ten hours even without the stops, traffic or accidents; things which were unavoidable on I-95, day or night. Sam had decided that the military had missed a great opportunity. Driving from Key West straight through to the north side of Jacksonville at night was a torture that truly exceeded water boarding in its simplicity and pain of application.
-ooooo-
A momentary bit of turbulance caused the EX-SEAL look about the cabin briefly before lowering his gaze back to the source of his remembered pique. Mike was awake but inattentive, staring at a CD player that the younger man was slowly rotating in his two large hands. It was faded green, 90's-era, hard shell plastic, portable, good for only a single CD. The momentary jolt in their flight had apparently not even registered. He couldn't remember the last time the covert operative had let his guard down this much.
"Should I get you two a room?" he asked.
Sam watched with some amusement as a small wave of chagrin washed over his long time partner's face before being replaced with a slight smile. This caused Mr. Axe to laugh nervously in response. While he was the only one allowed to catch the spy off guard without serious bodily injury, doing so usually resulted in a scowl, either in jest or for real depending on the circumstances.
In the chair across the aisle from his associate was Ethan Evers. The former Army Ranger, sharp shooter and second newest official member of Team Westen, was sleeping with his head thrown back at an uncomfortable angle. Evers had been picked during their refueling stop in Gander, Newfoundland at 02:22 Hours. Ethan had joined the CIA not long ago and adapted quickly to the life of a spy once his sister had passed away, having never come out of her coma.
Sam didn't miss the look Mike gave Ethan before stowing the CD player and re-inserting the ear buds of his I-Pod into his auditory canals. It was almost paternal. Improbably, his colleague had become something of a mentor to the young spy once he become a part of their team. Agent Evers had even adapted Mike's minimalist speech patterns; something that both amused and irritated the man who was co-piloting the jet, Ryan Pewterbaugh.
He and their pilot, Nick Carnahan, had been members of Mike's first official CIA team after the burn notice had been lifted. They had convinced Raines to arrange for Nick's permanent transfer from Special Forces Delta and his trip through flight school. Kimberly Danielle Pearce had been murdered because they couldn't get there fast enough to prevent it. They now had a private jet and two airman at their disposal. Nobody wanted a repeat of that failure, which still haunted them all
They had put on masterful performance once the mission briefing had started. More accurately, he and the team had. Mike had just contributed the odd word here and there just to ensure that anyone listening back at Langley knew he was still on the plane. The Learjet85 didn't have any functioning surveillance cameras, not anymore, but the listening devices were embedded in the planes structure and impossible to remove. The large-for-an-aircraft bathroom in the rear of the cabin was the only place they could have private conversation once they had boarded.
Sam smiled as he contemplated what kind of audio mayhem he could cause back here if he really put his mind to it. Aggravating Mike's superiors as much as possible had become one of his favorite pastimes in recent years. So they had put on a show for the Virginia farm boys who wanted to keep tabs on Team Westen as they tried to determine who had finished off Anson and company before they could.
"So, gentlemen, as you can see from the debriefing notes for the two couriers that were picked up in Marseilles, this group is powerful, well connected and ruthless. Even the jihadists are afraid to cross these guys."
Mr. Axe loved doing that, knowing full well that the "clerks and the jerks" in the surveillance room had no visual on the documentation he was referencing.
"They have a hand in almost everything: black market, money laundering, arms dealing, international espionage, bribery at the highest levels of government, the IMF and they own several casinos and even a couple of UK football clubs."
Even as he'd enumerated their criminal activities, Sam had been struck by what was missing: no drugs, no prostitution, no human trafficking, no racketeering.
"So was Anson's organization being run by these guys or were they running from them?" Nick queried.
"The sixty four billion dollar question."
"Is that what we're up to now on this op?." Ryan asked jokingly, not really expecting answer but rather expecting to irritate whoever was listening.
"Part of Unione Corse?" Ethan questioned.
"No, but give the man a prize, anyway," he answered. "The man believed to be the current head of the organization is the son of Jean Baptiste Andreani, who was the right hand man of the Marseilles mob boss and clan leader Antoine Guérini."
"Sixties turf war with Marcel Francisci," Ethan commented.
"French Connection," Mike added.
"Kennedy Assassination Team on the Grassy Knoll," Mr, Evers returned.
"Will you guys stop that?" Mr. Pewterbaugh requested.
"The head spooks think there's been a possible change in management based on their recent business activities."
"Hostile takeover?" Mike proposed.
"Could be, brother, or they successfully resisted the merger," he concluded.
Mr. Westen did very much want the answer to that particular question and it was the real reason that Raines had given them a plane originally, as well as a satchel full of international currencies and fake ID's they now had, but Sam knew that while they fully intended to use the resources, it would not be in the way nor for the purpose the director had intended.
They would be meeting Cole Matthews, formerly dishonorably discharged Marine and one-time assassin, when they landed at Heathrow in London. Cole had been cleared of the charges against him as part of his recruitment as the newest member of the team. Mike had left Raines no choice.
The older man felt relief as his body told him the aircraft was coming down from its traveling altitude. He could feel it in his bones; bones that had gotten cranky of late. At his age, he was supposed to be drinking too much, getting early bird seniors discounts at all the restaurants and sponging off of rich widows, not chasing homicidal maniacs all over the globe. Former Commander Axe chuckled. He wouldn't have had it any other way.
Well, actually, in his version, the body count was a lot lower on their side.
Cole and Ryan would allegedly be leaving Heathrow to take the underground through the Chunnel and proceeding by train to Berlin. Once there, their assignment was to investigate the scene where Simon had finished off Management and a bloody scene it had been, too. Mr. Escher had parlayed his love of all things explosives into some disgustingly creative methods of torture. The security forces that had tried to protect their employer had fared only marginally better.
Nick and Ethan would purportedly be dropping off Mike and Sam in Geneva to meet with Mr. Andreani and then they would be flying to Marseilles to examine the site where Anson Fullerton had met his much deserved end. Whoever had put Anson out of his misery had made sure he was intensely miserable before being granted that privilege. After this, the former Green Beret and the young spy were to take the Company's jet, meet up with their team mates in Berlin and await further instructions. All of which was to be performed under radio silence as soon as they departed the UK.
That was the official plan at any rate. What was going to actually happen was an entirely different matter.
They would be the ones slipping into the Underground near Terminal Four at Heathrow International once they landed a very short time from now. Mr. Matthews and Mr. Pewterbaugh, the two closest to their height and build on the team, would be loitering out of sight and quiet on the Learjet while Mike and Sam joined the multitude of rush hour commuters, becoming one of the many anonymous sardines packed, racked and stacked into the tubes departing the city centre.
This ensured that while Mr. Carnahan and Mr. Evers were pretending to drop off the senior members of the team in Switzerland and then conducting their own investigation in the south of France, they would have back up awaiting them on the aircraft if needed. The amount of time it should have taken Cole and Ryan to travel by train from England to Germany would align precisely with the plane's arrival in Berlin, not coincidentally home to one of the most secure US airbases in Europe. They were not taking any more chances than necessary, particularly after what had happened the last time they thought they were close to the end.
And Sam knew now just as surely as he knew it was always five o'clock somewhere, it was also no coincidence that, of the multitude of homes and estates Mr. Andreani owed throughout the world, Mike had chosen to schedule a meeting with him on his massive stud farm in County Kildare near the Currargh, which was a short drive as Americans figured such things to the town and specifically the pub where he'd been instructed to meet Sean Glenanne.
Mike Westen had always been about the answers, answers he had been willing to die for. Who did this to me? Why was I burned? But the questions had only gotten bigger and broader until it had encompassed an international conspiracy and all their lives.
But it appeared that Michael McBride was also seeking answers; answers to questions that were apparently just as vital.
Sam stretched as best he could. The seats on the Learjet were more comfortable than those white leather bucket seats he'd sat in for twelve hundreds miles, but he was still stiff from the inactivity. He looked over at the leader of their team again.
Mike's eyes were closed now and he was nodding his head in time to whatever music he listening to. The movement had been so slight he would have missed it if Sam hadn't already been looking for it. He'd seen Mr. Westen do that with greater frequency on their road trip as they had gotten closer to DC, albeit with only one ear bud in place while he was driving.
Now it was the Navy man's turn to be embarrassed as he stared at the white I-Pod in his partner's hand and remembered what he'd done.
-ooooo-
Mike had left it up front when he had unceremoniously slid over into the back seat to sleep, abandoning the device and the laptop on the passenger seat. At first, Sam hadn't given it a second thought. But, as the miles had gone by, the visual distractions had gotten fewer and farther between and his eyes had gotten heavier, he began wondering what had been downloaded onto his computer.
It was almost as though the spy had wanted to make sure he got to go through the intel first. Sam had found himself wondering if Mike had changed or altered anything. That errant thought had been followed immediately by a stern self rebuke. Still, his best friend's unpredictable odd behavior had him unsettled.
Thoughts about powering it up and trying to use it while driving had become almost overwhelming. He felt a momentary surge of envy for his many cop buddies who could do that, though admittedly the Charger was in no way equipped to perform that task. The more he had glanced at the contents of the passenger seat in a bid to keep himself awake by thinking about the currently unobtainable information housed there, the more curiosity about something else began to overcome him.
The little white piece of electronics had laid innocuously on his MAC for hundreds of miles, but then it had called to him like the last Mojito before closing time.
Sam had told himself his interest was justified. The amount of time the younger man now used the I-Pod was reason enough to be concerned.
Mike really wasn't much of a music fan, other than that odd request he'd made a couple of years back to find out everything about the guy who was the fourth runner up on the fifth season of American Idol. Sam thought the guy should have won, based on what little he saw of it while doing the research his buddy had asked for. There had been a small improvisational jazz period during their association with Max, but other than that...
So what was it? Intelligence briefings? Informational audio books? The Art of Warfare by Sun Tzu? Zen Buddhist meditation? Gregorian Chants?
-ooooo-
As he looked at his partner again and remembered the words that must have been burning a hole in his friend's soul, Sam Axe found himself wishing for blissful ignorance again.
-ooooo-
You never said, you never said, you never said that it would be this hard. Love is meant to be forever, now or never seems to discard.
There's gotta be a better way for me to say what's on my heart without leaving scars. So can you hear me when I call your name?
And when you fall apart, am I the reason for your endless sorrow? There's so much to be said.
And with a broken heart your walls can only go down but so low
Can you hear me when I call your name? When I call your name?
-ooooo-
Sam had thumbed the I-Pod, changing to the next song and then the next and next.
-ooooo-
No matter how many miles stand in between / in my heart is where you'll be / holdin' on to all our dreams / with everything, everything but me / do you know how much it hurts to know / and leave it all behind, leave it all behind / i see you in my mind / 'cause you are right there all the time / far away in another place/ give my soul just to see your face / wherever you are is where i want to be
-ooooo-
It was the same, song after gut wrenching song, the same male singer's voice as haunted as his buddy's heart surely was.
-ooooo-
All the chances that you've taken / Promises that I keep breakin down / Writings on the wall / Can't make out all the letters / But I know its getting better now / The writings on, the writings on the wall / Get me through.. / There's nothing I can do / I believe you can get me through / It's you that I believe in /
Nothing else will do. I believe you can get me through, so can you stop the bleeding.
-ooooo-
Longing, loneliness, hope, fear, regret, guilt, sorrow, apology, pleading for redemption, looking for salvation, living on a promise that might not ever be fulfilled in this lifetime.
-ooooo-
I want nothin more than to be with you here at home / Yeah, I know it's been so long / What I did was wrong, yeah / And only you and me, and only you and me / Well even though I'm not there with you / It's good to keep me close / Closer to your skin, you gotta keep me deep within / Cuz where I am right now I couldnt be tomorrow / Close enough to see, Close enough to hear you breathe. Close enough to feel the warmth of you, cuz I am so cold, yeah
-ooooo-
Sweet Jesus, no wonder the guy never talked. What could anyone say while dragging around that kind of emotional baggage?
-ooooo-
The miles are getting longer, it seems, the closer I get to you. I've not always been the best man or friend for you.
But your love remains true and I don't know why. You always seem to give me another try.
So I'm going home, back to the place where I belong and where your love has always been enough for me.
-ooooo-
Sometime later, he had noticed Mike's face in the rear view mirror. Decades of silent communication allowed the moment to pass between them without anything needing to be said. Sam had deposited the I-Pod into the outstretched hand and had turned his attention back to the highway, no longer sleepy by any stretch of the imagination.
No, he wasn't sure of the exact moment when the man across from him on the descending jet had stopped being Mikey and had become Michael.
He knew it wasn't when they'd arrived at long last in Langley, Virigina for their meeting with Raines. It wasn't when Mike had parked the Charger in the CIA's secure garage and given the keys to the attendant with instructions to turn them over to Ruth Westen in an appropriately obscure manner. It wasn't after hours of meetings and exchanged of intelligence and provisions. It wasn't when they had met with their team mates on the tarmac at Godfrey Field and loaded their bags and their gear into the Learjet, nor was it when they had changed into the heavier, warmer, darker, low key clothes they would need to blend in, the team all wearing similar garb to aid in the confusion of their identities.
No, he wasn't exactly sure when it had happened.
But Sam Axe knew one thing for certain as he watched the words his best friend was listening to form noiselessly on his lips.
-ooooo-
So I'm going home, back to the place where I belong and where your love has always been enough for me.
I'm not running from. No, I think you got me all wrong. Do I regret this life I chose for me? But these places and these faces are getting old,
Be careful what you wish for, 'Cause you just might get it all. You just might get it all and then some you don't want.
-ooooo-
When the man who'd had his back for decades stepped off that plane, walked into the English winter night and headed towards the Emerald Isle no matter what happened when they got there, it would be Michael McBride who would be going home.
-ooooo-
I said these places and these faces getting old.
So I'm going home. I'm going home.
-ooooo-
And Sam had no idea whatsoever if Mike Westen was ever coming back.
-ooooo-
A/N: Thank you so much to amazing Amanda and always awesome Purdy's Pal for their reviews, comments, suggestions and encouragement. Thank you also to the wonderful and hilarious Daisy Day for keeping me laughing while I was channeling miserable Mike for this fic. Mega huge thank you to everyone who reviewed, fav'd and alerted this fic and for being patient during the gap between updates. RL just so gets in the way sometimes. Enjoy!