"It is human nature to think wisely and act foolishly." Anatole France
-ooooo-
Private Helipad, Castleknock Hotel & Country Club, Dublin, Ireland 10:00 AM GMT
Sean was a Glenanne and, as such, waiting patiently was not in his blood unless it involved a sniper rifle or something that required a detonator.
He paced around the perimeter of the helipad on the grounds of one of the Andreanis' and Dublin's finer four-star hotels, making a perfectly square circuit around the Eurocopter EC 135 P2 helicopter while his mind went in endless circles.
As a young boy in Belfast, he'd never thought his life would come to this. Of all the things that had happened in his forty five years of walking this earth, everything he did or said or thought for the past decade or so had been centered around a very small set of relationships that had come to define his very existence.
Somehow he had always felt as though he were pushing the proverbial boulder up that hill in hell, knowing all the while that despite all his best efforts, things more monumental or monstrous than he was were going to have their way. It had happened with his family time and again and most especially in his first and most important connection, that with his twin sister Fiona, much to his ever present sorrow.
He was Fiona's older brother only by virtue of pushing his way out of the womb first. Their mother had often remarked how she'd felt as though they were fighting to see who would be firstborn. Mrs. Glenanne had spent the last two months of her pregnancy on bed rest, the doctor suspecting she had a cracked rib or two. Fiona had literally been on his heels on their birthday. In an already tight-knit clan, their closeness as well as their competitiveness had come to define their relationship.
Another thing over which he'd had no control that permeated almost every aspect of his life was his family history. The Glenannes had been involved in the Cause for as long as Sean could remember and apparently several generations back as well. But he hadn't needed the wrath of his ancestors to spur him on in his hatred of the British and every loyalist paramilitary sonuvabitch in Northern Ireland. His memorable tenth birthday present alone would have been enough.
Their Da and their oldest brother had been arrested and dragged out of the house for questioning before they could blow out the candles on the cake. Patrick Junior came back a bloody mess.
Patrick Senior didn't come back at all.
He paused and ran a leather gloved hand through his russet hair, blowing out a deep breath and forming a translucent cloud of warmed air in front of him. The mid-morning sun had tried and failed to banish any of the chill from the night before as it struggled to penetrate the layer of cloud cover that ran from horizon to horizon. His flight jacket and his jeans kept him almost warm enough, but not quite.
As he had gotten older, Sean had begun to see that the classic Irish stubbornness that found its highest expression in the Glenanne family was not always a good thing. Patrick Junior had declared he would not be shifted from their ancestral home and he'd been right. They buried him in Belfast a few years later right next to the memorial marker for his father, whose body was never recovered. If only that had been the worst thing that had ever happened to his family, he reflected sadly.
If the loss of his twin had nearly driven his now oldest brother Liam insane, then Sean's failure to succeed in his mission of keeping the girls safe had finished the job. Claire's death had been a brutal waste of a gifted young life, another reason to immerse themselves in the Republican cause, but at least his youngest sister was at peace. There was no peace to be had in living with the aftermath of what had happened to his twin and how she'd chosen to deal with it.
Shivering that had nothing to do with the cold gripped Sean Glenanne for a moment and then he resumed his march, as much to still his mind as to try to stay warm though neither worked particularly well.
Fiona had clung to Sean desperately from the moment he'd picked her up. The dried blood caked on the wounds all over her body and spattered on her shredded clothing were an eerie match for the flaking red paint of the telephone booth in which she'd taken refuge. They'd had to call the mid-wife who'd delivered them in to see to her injuries. His sister had categorically and violently refused to leave her bedroom once he'd gotten her home. In between muttering harsh invectives at the animals responsible, the woman had advised him bluntly, "Ferget about har making ya an uncle. If she ever tries havin' babbies, like as not it'll be har or the bairn."
Fiona had been almost catatonic during Claire's funeral except for the trembling that never quite left her limbs. Sean had held his own emotions in check only by focusing on the task of keeping his sister upright.
A single tear rolled down his face then, almost freezing on its slide towards his chin. With her being gone and McBride on his way, it was harder to keep the memories of their painful past at bay. But the suffering caused by her assault and Claire's death were nothing compared to what had followed. He almost wished Fiona had stayed locked in her bedroom. But she hadn't.
Sean didn't recognize the woman who'd emerged from his twin's bedroom that day. The bright and shining star that had once been his sister had collapsed into a black hole of a person, terrifying in her darkness and as unrelenting as an event horizon. Her brother had mistaken her lack of responsiveness in the days following Claire's burial for inattention, tragically mistaken as it turned out. He'd been rightly worried about her state of mind, but he'd been quite wrong about what that state truly was.
She knew every one of his contacts, she knew where every weapon and bomb he had access to could to be found and she knew every operation that was underway. Soon, the violence that had erupted in the wake of the cease fire collapsing between the IRA and its enemies had a new epicenter: Fiona Glenanne.
She'd do anything, which was easy when you didn't care if you lived or died. Whether the woman was peering down a scope as one of the South Armagh snipers or planting bombs on British soil, she was reckless, she was ruthless and she was terrifying. The leadership of the IRA both loved and feared her, while he just loved and feared for her.
Sean had hoped against hope that when the ceasefire came as a prelude to the Good Friday Agreement that Fiona would finally come to her senses and come home. He'd been wrong again.
If anything, his twin became worse, incensed that the organization would stand down while there was still a British soldier on Irish soil or a loyalist still contaminating good Irish air by breathing. Then she fell in with a truly radical crowd and one seriously blood thirsty bastard by the name of Thomas Eugene O'Neill.
It had been O'Neil's idea to form the REAL IRA and his sister had been right there with him, a staunch supporter. Sean had gone along with it solely for the purpose of trying to keep Fiona from getting herself killed or doing something she'd regret the rest of her life. However, it was soon all too plain that his sibling had neither long life nor remorse on her mind. It also became immediately apparent that O'Neil had more on his mind where his twin was concerned than their next radical terrorist plot.
"Fer all the good it did ya," Sean said to no one in particular, as he was alone on the helipad and precious few people were out and about in the cold on this part of the country club. His only company was the sparsely spaced trees with their denuded branches reaching silently for the muted grey sky.
He'd hated O'Neil with a passion for encouraging Fiona's anger and egging her on to do even more dangerous things, as if what she'd been up to hadn't been bad enough. But Mr. O'Neill soon learned that Ms. Glenanne kept company with no man outside of her brothers and he was just one of many who desired her to no avail- until Michael McBride had come along, that is.
Sean had to chuckle at the memory in spite of his morose mood, making more clouds of ice crystals in front of his face as he tucked the scarf more tightly around his neck. There were probably more people who wanted Michael McBride dead because his sister had fancied him than there surely would have been if they'd learned, as Sean had, that the man was actually an American spy named Michael Westen.
Michael Westen- now there was another person who'd come to define his family, and by extension his own life, for the past decade or so. Sean paused momentarily and consulted his watch.
Whot wa' takin' so bloody long for the damned frog limo driver t'pick up Westen and his partner and get back here?
Mr. Glenanne resumed his circuit, his heavy boots having worn a sure path around the edge of the concrete landing pad. The irony that he was chasing his own tail yet again was not lost on him as his foot prints multiplied one on top of another. He took another look around the grounds, seeing no one about and little cover for anyone to use. As he returned to his pacing, he returned to his remembering as well.
At first, she'd had no time for the dark haired man who'd claimed to be from Kilkenny unless there was a bomb to plant, a bank to rob or live target practice to be had. Amazingly, McBride had managed to keep pace with her, something Sean himself had barely been able to do ever.
Slowly the newcomer had waded into the gale force that was his sibling and emerged unscathed. Well, mostly unscathed; Michael had added to his collection of scars, facial and otherwise, while he'd tried to win Fiona's heart. Her brother could sympathize. He collected enough scars of his own at her hands over the years.
She was admittedly a hard woman to be around and a tough one to love, but gradually her "gentleman friend" had started to turn his sister back into someone who resembled the woman Sean had once known and he was immensely grateful for the exchange.
Thomas O'Neil, on the other hand, was less pleased with the professional and personal renovations taking place in Fiona's life. O'Neil had tried rekindling her radical fire, promoting more violent operations resulting in higher civilian casualties, but he had been too late.
By the time the vicious thug had succeeded in killing twenty nine civilians and injuring two hundred and twenty people consisting of mostly Catholic civilians in the Omagh bombing, the Glenannes weren't the only ones who were disturbed by his methods and rethinking their commitment to the REAL IRA. When O'Neil told her about the next bombing he'd planned for the girl's prep school, her reaction had been classic Fiona.
By the time Thomas got out of the hospital, the trio had seen to it that the explosives never made it to their target and that he was persona non grata with both the radical and the Republican groups. O'Neil blamed them all for his loss of status and mobility. The self-styled patriot would walk with a pronounced limp for the rest of his life.
Sean stopped then and rubbed his gloved hands together, looking out over the snow covered golf course beyond the helicopter. It was cold but still. It would be an uneventful flight. He had no great love of flying, but he trusted precious few people and none of them he knew was a pilot. So he had remedied that situation in his "spare" time years ago. Then he finally heard the sound he'd been waiting for in the distance disturbing the still winter morning air. The limousine was finally on its way.
"About bloody time," he groused. "Damned Yanks. Ya'd be late fer yar own funerals," although he was sure the delay had as much to do with the spy's caution as anything. He turned and walked toward the approaching vehicle, his boots crunching through the thin icy cover on the ground.
Sean had been pleased to find that he had a kindred spirit in his sister's boyfriend, who had been gently turning his twin from her lust for vengeance. When the man had confessed to Sean that he was really working for the Provo, trying to get radical groups like the REAL IRA to stand down and stop impeding the negotiations, the Republican had been more than pleased to assist him in his mission.
What McBride had neglected to mention was that it was at the behest of the British and American governments that he was performing the Provo's mission. Michael had tried to remind Mr. Glenanne that their goals were the same while his back was up against the wall and the Irishman's hands were firmly clamped around his throat, demanding an explanation as to why an American spy was courting his sister. Fortunately for him, Sean had believed his sincerity regarding his desire to see the negotiations succeed and his love for Fiona.
He was torn between laughing and lamenting at the memory of his sibling whaling on him for the marks he'd left on Michael's neck and shoulders. It had been funny, but also painful on more than one level. It was the first time he'd lied to Fiona in an attempt to shield her from a harsh reality and, regrettably, it would not be the last.
They'd concocted the story that Sean had bruised him because he blamed her beau for endangering her in England, which wasn't far too from the actual reality of the situation. Both men were determined that she would never learn the truth and both were equally terrified of what the knowledge would do to her tenuous hold over her explosive temper as well as her wounded soul and neither could bear to see her hurt again.
"Fer all the use it wa'," Sean complained loudly as the large white limo finally pulled into view; only the black tires and dark windows standing out against the gleaming white drifts in the background. The driver had been instructed to take them directly to the Andreani's offices located within their stud farm in Kildare for their meeting with Armand and then onto the Glenanne family pub for a reunion of sorts. But then this wouldn't be the first time Sean had gone against what he'd been told or against his better judgment.
The Irishman couldn't help but stare at the man who'd taken over his life albeit remotely at the unspoken behest of his twin as the covert operative emerged from the elongated automobile; subconsciously comparing him to the man he'd fought beside eighteen years ago.
"Michael," he said simply, unsure whether to call him Westen or McBride, as he took the others hand in a tight grip. If anything, his features were more rugged and yet somehow more refined, his hair just as black and his cobalt blue eyes just as intense and as misty as when he'd pleaded with Sean to protect her for him.
As if the spy was remembering the moment too, he pulled Sean into a tight, one-armed bear hug while tightening his grip on their clasped hands that was completely reminiscent of their parting embrace almost two decades ago.
"Keep her safe for me, Sean," he had begged him, mutual moisture gathering in the corners of both their eyes. "I'll be back in a couple of months, six months tops, with the papers and the clearance to get her out safely. She'll never have to look over her shoulder again, I swear to you."
"Don' be gone too long," he'd returned tersely. "Ya know har. I won't be able t'hold har back from coming fer ya ferever."
"Sean," the other acknowledged as they slowly drew apart, seemingly comparing Mr. Glenanne to his past self as well, who was sure the worry lines in his face were as deeply etched as the cliffs of Moher. After the years of mutually frustrated searching, the reunion felt surreal, the anticipation of it all nearly overwhelming the reality of the event- until Sam emerged from the vehicle and shattered the moment.
"Good to see you conscious again," the older man greeted him as Sean reluctantly released his dark haired brother in arms and moved to shake the other man's hand.
Sean couldn't help the shudder that ran through him then that had nothing to do with the temperature. Even though it had been five years since he had last seen Sam Axe, he hadn't forgotten the feeling of being a human shield for the man nor the agony that had cut through him along with the five high powered rounds as O'Neil's goons had opened fire on them before he could open his mouth to warn the pair what was coming for them.
He'd met them on the tarmac at the Opa-Locka Airport, intent on loading McBride and his companion into the rented Learjet as quickly as possible. Every blessed time he'd struck his head up during the past eleven years to contact his sister's boyfriend, there'd been someone waiting for him, trying to kidnap or kill him depending on who it was.
This time it had been O'Neil. Sean had cursed extravagantly, still trying to figure out how once again the bastard had been able to follow him so quickly. But the former guerrilla thought he'd gotten enough of a head start to snatch up the duo and be gone. He hadn't given them any warning of his impending arrival nor time to do more than meet him when he got there. He'd thought that would be enough and again he'd been wrong. Gunfire had rained down on them from the white metal building next to the far edge of the field, leaving multiple holes in the big black car and him too.
He dimly remembered collapsing onto Axe and then the man dragging him into the passenger seat. He'd had to hear about the rest of it when he roused from his coma back in Ireland. Nonetheless, that memory had him scanning the snow-covered landscape for mercenaries in the white out suits as he released Sam's hand.
"I've been wanting to thank you-" the ex-SEAL began.
"Yar welcome," Sean cut him off. He jerked his head toward the Eurocopter as he turned back towards the machine. "Let's be off befer war havin' a repeat performance," he advised, moving swiftly away from them and towards their ride.
The Irishman's brusque reaction had them both searching the surrounding environs and moving toward the center of the helipad as their training and their years of experience had taught them. The dark heavy overcoats that had served them so well in England would have made them easy targets, so there was no wasted movement as they clamored into the Eurocopter along with the driver, who ushered them into the helicopter with the same stern and silent efficiency as he had the limousine.
Sean could feel, without even having to look at him, that Michael was nearly bursting with the effort not to blurt out his questions the moment they were airborne. He was grateful for the driver's presence, even though he was one of Armand's bodyguards, if only because it kept the conversation at a standstill. Mr. Glenanne ground his teeth, frustrated as ever that he had to have anything to do with Armand Andreani or anyone in his employ.
It was a bitter thing indeed to have to acknowledge Armand's contribution to their survival these past fourteen years. The Glenannes' resources and connections had kept them alive, if not well, for the three years right after McBride's departure. But they had had to bury themselves deep to stay free of the spy's enemies and their own. It had become a nasty quandary. If they were hidden well enough to allude their enemies, they were hidden too well for Michael to find them either.
Sean had been forced to conclude since they apparently couldn't contact the American spy without risking capture or death that they'd have to make other, longer term arrangements and, like the devil he was, there was Armand offering everything that was needed for a price. Once more, he'd had to lie to her to get her agreement on the arrangements and of course she'd been the one in the end who had to pay the price.
Mr. Gleanne cast a sideways glance at the dark, dour Frenchman beside him and then back over his shoulder at the Americans in the rear seats. "Ya've waited this long. It'll be soon enough," he advised, before turning this attention back the instruments in front of him and the scenery below him.
As they flew away from the city center, the crowded streets of Dublin soon became widely scattered small towns and villages dotting the frigid landscape. The closer they came to Kildare, the more frequent sight became that of large estates and sprawling horse farms, the details of which were mostly hidden under the fresh layer of frozen precipitation that had fallen the evening before.
He had no intention of answering any of Michael's questions. The man had waited sixteen years already; he could wait a bit more and he'd find out soon enough what had happened. Sean had made enough bad decisions in his life when it came to speaking for someone else and he refused to do it again. He'd told a tale on Michael's behalf to keep Fiona from hunting for him when he hadn't come back within the year and it had worked for a time. The Irishman had been counting on being able to locate and contact his future brother-in-law quickly.
But that wasn't what had transpired because some damned hooligan had always been lying in wait for him and, as a result, he'd lost his sister again. Sean was angry with Michael for being a spy and bringing that into their already complicated, violent lives, like they needed to add his enemies to the long list of foes the Glenannes had already accumulated!
And as furious as he was that Armand had even had to be a part of their lives at all, he had only himself to blame. The soulless wretch had been one of his arms dealer contacts. It didn't matter that he hadn't known what kind of twisted fiend they were dealing with until their lives were already intertwined.
Truth be told, though he was resentful of Michael for necessitating it and incensed with Armand for saying anything about it, he mostly just hated himself; what occurred had been the result of the multiple lies he had told trying to safeguard his sister that had backfired.
"Ya told me he wa' in jail, Sean!" she roared, her hands now clamping around his throat and constricting his windpipe. He'd almost forgotten how strong she was when she was enraged. The tiny ball of fury slammed him up against the wall, ramming the back of his skull into the drywall and leaving an impressive dent. His head swam from the impact, the lack of oxygen and the guilt as he slowly slid down the wall and crumpled onto the floor. But Fiona didn't release her hold on him, instead sinking down with him as she came to rest upon her knees and glare down at him.
"Eight damned years I've been waitin' fer me man t'get outta prison and now I find out not only wa' he not in jail, but thot he wa' a spy? Ya lied t'me, the pair of ya! How could ya, ya sorry arses? I canna believe I had t'find out from Armand!" While she'd been living in the south of France for nearly a decade, Fiona's accent had taken on of a necessity a decidedly French lilt. But that had vanished the moment the door had closed and she'd had her twin alone. "What the hell wa' ya thinking? How could ya do this t'me? All this time, he wa' -"
"He wa' comin' back fer ya," Sean choked out, cutting her off. "He said he had t'clear it t'get ya outta Ireland. That musta been why they came after us when-"
"Whatever it wa' ya two wa' planning, it dinna work out, now did it? I guess none o' thot matters much anymore, now that he's—whot?- 'burned,' is it?"
The heat in her voice transformed into that cold rage that he knew all too well. He watched through blurry eyes as the terrifying transformation took place and his sister was gone, once again replaced by the unstoppable radical that had given many a soldier and a loyalist nightmares.
"I don' know whot 'burned' means a' yar spy things go, but I do know how t'make things burn."
He lay on the floor as she rose to her feet, helpless to stop what was coming.
"I goin' t'Miami t'fetch him back," she declared flatly and he knew without having to be told who would be funding the trip.
"Ya canna go alone, Fiona," he entreated. "Let me-"
"I'm takin' Liam wit' me."
Sean swallowed thickly. There was only one person in their family crazier than his twin and that was his oldest brother. The youngest Glenanne man had a momentary vision of half of Miami left a smoldering ruin and the other half on fire.
"Ya canna just leave-" he tried again.
"I've done the papers. Yar in charge here now, Sean." She fixed him with a deathly stare. "Anythin' happens while I'm gone and I'll kill ya when I get back"
But it had been Fiona who'd come back on a plane a literally smoldering ruin, burned, unconscious and dependent upon life support just as he would be three years later. Sean glanced over his shoulder again at the pair in the back of the helicopter. He understood being hunted, he'd been both predator and prey in his lifetime, but he couldn't fathom what made the dark haired man so special that they had pursued him so relentlessly, and by extension his family, practically from the moment when McBride should have been back.
Mr. Glenanne set the bird down neatly on the edge of the sprawling estate. The stables and the massive barn where visible in the distance to their right, as was the main house on their left, an imposing stone two story building with a slate tile roof much darker than the sky. While the large sash windows stood out against the background of the pale rock walls, the structure itself blended into the glistening white snow-scape and gave the entire scene an ethereal air.
Sean walked quickly away, the Frenchman at his heels and his guests struggling to keep up on the unfamiliar terrain. He continued at a brisk clip through the tree line at the edge of the estate and towards the hibernating gardens at the rear of the house. The stone path upon which they trod was treacherous with ice underneath the flakes.
Despite the calls behind him, Sean didn't slow his pace or acknowledge them. As they approached the small stand of sleeping apple trees nearest the garden area, he could hear them gaining on him and knew the pair had figured out the best way to navigate the footpath was to walk immediately to either the side of it as he did.
He nodded towards the bodyguard, who veered away from the flagstones and moved directly towards the low bluestone wall that surrounded the dormant gardens. There was no help for it any longer. He stopped and turned back towards them just in time to see Michael trip on some unseen obstacle under the snow and sprawl head first to the hard ground.
"Damn the fookin' bastard and his sick fookin' jokes," Sean cursed internally. He'd forgotten about the marker next to the bench and the stand of trees, covered as it was by the drifts. He'd wanted to remove the god forsaken thing, but he'd been overruled continually on that matter, too.
As he marched back towards them, he saw Michael get up onto his knees, shaking his head as well as shaking off the offer of assistance from his associate. Regret, Sean's constant companion, welled up bitter in his throat all over again as he saw the dark haired man dust the rest of the snow away from the memorial marker and heard the strangled gasp of anguish as Michael read what was written there.
"Michael," he said, reaching down to give the aforementioned a hand up, "ya don' understand. Thot's not—"
"Yar right, I don' understand," the American's voice taking on an Irish lilt as well as an agonized tremor. "Wot the hell-? Gawd damn ya, man, ya wa' supposed t'keep har safe fer me!" It was hard to say what was more pronounced, the raw pain in his tone or the deep suffering in his eyes.
Something inside Sean Glenanne shattered at that moment and the hurt, the grief and the sorrow intermixed freely with his pent up wrath and erupted to the surface. He cold cocked his sister's lover with a stunning right hook that put the man back on his knees.
"Keep har safe?" he bellowed. "Wot in the name of the blessed virgin do ya think I've been tryin' t'do me whole fookin' life before ya ever set foot here, ya bastard? Damn ya, McBride or Westen or whoever in the hell ya are. Ya warn't thar holding har hand while she wa' screamin' yar name, beggin' ya t'come fer har. She almost died then, ya sonuvabitch. Ya warn't thar watchin' over har lying in hospital burned alive waitin' and wonderin' if she'd ever wake up again! Don' ya dare say t'me thot—"
"Sean!" the call rang out and halted his tirade mid-stream. He recognized the footfalls coming down from the main house and he knew what he had been trying so desperately to prevent was about to happen.
Again.
"Thot's it, I'm done!" Sean said flatly, as he threw his hands up and stepped back, looking from the stunned face of Sam Axe to the tortured gaze of Michael McBride/Westen. "Sort it out fer yarselves then."
The latter's head dropped down, staring back at the marker with unseeing eyes, while the former leaned over him and laid a consoling hand on his shoulder. They were so fixated on the words, Fiona Glenanne 1970-2007 Beloved Wife, that neither was paying any attention to the person moving towards them from the garden area.
Sean executed a sharp about face and walked slowly away, though it didn't prevent him from listening to the exchange. He heard the older man's footfalls as he turned and then Sam's voice catch when Mr. Axe answered the question inquiring who he was.
"Pleased t'meet ya, Sam Axe and who might ya be?"
The footsteps halted and Sean couldn't help but look back around to gaze upon to the huddled figure staring miserably at the ground as he responded to the query.
"Michael. Michael McBride," he answered haltingly.
"Are ya now?" the young man standing over him replied. "Thot's funny. So am I."
Sean Glenanne turned away again, heading back towards the helipad. His nephew always seemed to know what was going to happen before it did, so there'd really been no point in trying to keep them apart, but his uncle had tried nonetheless. Now, Sean Michael McBride could answer his Da's questions and, no doubt, ask a few of his own.
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A/N – Thank you as always to everyone's alerted, fav'd and reviewed this story. Reviews are always most gratefully appreciated, though I will be reading them from within my bunker this time (LOL). Thank you to amazing Amanda for the BETA, equally awesome Purdy's Pal for all her help on all things Irish and the incredible Daisy Day for reading through this. The next chapter will be up soon if no one shoots at me in the meantime.