-BN-

"Fiona Glenanne."

Fiona looked up from the drink she had been staring at. She sighed, rolling her eyes at the woman who stood in front of her. She should have known she would show up sooner or later. Michael comes back into town and so do all of his troubles.

"Detective Paxson, it's been a while."

"Hmmm." Paxson sat down opposite her, looking her over. "We need to talk."

"Let me guess, you heard Michael is back in town so you thought you'd come sniffing around here."

"Well actually, I'd thought I'd ask nicely first. But if you are unwilling we could look closer at you and your business associates." Paxson smiled at her.

"Don't give me that crap," spat Fiona. "I give you enough information to take down the whole of the Miami underworld."

"Yes, you do, and in return you get to stay in business. So do not chastise me about crap." Paxson glared at Fiona. They had an understanding between them and Fiona hated it. It went against everything she ever believed in. Hell, she'd been disgusted when Sam had been informing to the FBI all those years ago. Yet here she was, doing exactly that, to Paxson of all people. But then she had become reckless, careless. Michael had left her, left Miami. She had no idea where he had gone or if she'd ever see him again. It was Dublin all over again.

Except this time she had gone too far. She had been caught of all things. She had blown up a yacht in the Biscayne Bay, a thousand flaming splinters raining into the bay and the near causeway. But she didn't get away clean. Paxson had been watching the boat, hoping to get the drug dealer that owned it. She'd picked Fiona up instead. All she had to do was tell Paxson the location of the drug dealer and the man that hired her. She did that and she could carry on walking. One thing led to another and before she knew it she was handing over information like it was going out of fashion.

Paxson was smiling again "Now tell me what I need to know and I'll see that we don't make our conversations official."

Fiona smirked. "I don't know anything."

Paxson leaned forward, staring Fiona in the eyes. Fiona matched her. "I don't know anything. Michael and I didn't talk."

"I watched him walk in here."

"Then you would have watched him limp out." Fiona sat back in the chair, taking a sip of her drink. She knew she had to give Paxson something or she would continue to sit there for the rest of the night. Persistent bitch. "He did mention that he was here to help Nate, which usually means giving him money." She shrugged looking out across the club. She could feel Paxson watching her, but paid little heed. Things stopped being scary when the threats were never carried out.

"You call me if you hear of anything," said Paxson, standing up.

"Always do," Fiona deadpanned. She watched Paxson leave her thoughts more on Michael now than ever. "Damn you, Michael," she mumbled as she stood up and exited the bar.

-BN-

Michael sat in Carlito's for the second time that day or night now. He was waiting for Seymour the arms dealer to turn up. Supposedly Seymour could give them information on another arms dealer.

When Sam had told him Seymour was still in Miami he didn't quite believe him. The man was incompetent at the best of times. When he had his bodyguard, and Michael used the term loosely, it was a recipe for disaster. He was surprised they both weren't dead.

Looking at his watch again he was about to call it a night when Seymour and his plus one showed up.

"Well if it isn't Michael Westen. Didn't expect to see you in Miami again," said Seymour with a grin sitting down opposite him.

"Wasn't expecting it myself," said Michael. "Have you got what I asked for?"

"What, no small talk?"

Michael stared at Seymour, showing how much he was not in the mood. Seymour's smile faded slightly before he pulled out a briefcase. Opening it, he got out a brown A4 envelope and pushed it across the table to Michael.

"You'll find the locations of four crates of MAC 10's, two crates of IMI Uzi's, two crates of Heckler and Koch MP7s and a crate of M4A1s."

Michael handed over a smaller brown envelope which contained cash, picking up the envelope Seymour had given him he stood up to leave.

"Feel free to use that C4 you're so handy with. One less competition in this business would be a real help, man."

Michael didn't dignify that with an answer, instead he only turned and left, heading for his mother's car. Or that was the plan. Before he could reach the car something hit him in the back of the head. He fell to the ground, dropping the envelope. A kick to his side made him curl up on his side to try and protect himself.

"Get him up," said a man's voice above him. Michael found himself being dragged to his feet, two sets of hands pinning his arms behind his back. He looked up to see who the man who had spoken was, but he didn't recognise him. He was Hispanic, young, and looked to be in his mid-twenties. His head was shaved, a blank bandana tied to the side of his head, black vest and baggy jeans that hung low round his hips. "Your brother stole my gig."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Michael glared. The man smirked before he punched him in the gut. Air whooshed out of Michael's lungs but he was prevented from bending forward by the two men holding his arms.

"Don't lie. Your brother has stolen too many jobs from me. He don't get this one." He threw another punch to Michael's gut.

"As much as I'd like to give you this job, I can't. Goes against the contract."

A fist connected with Michael's jaw, re-opening the cut that Fiona had made earlier in the day. Michael spat out blood before looking back at the man. The man he didn't even know the name of. He was about to say something when the sound of glass shattering close by sounded.

The man turned around stepping out of the way so Michael could see what had got his attention. A woman stood next to a black BMW, crowbar in hand. "Get away from my car, bitch," he shouted.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth, Johnny?" came the familiar voice of Fiona. She swung the crowbar again, smashing the back window of the car. "Tut tut."

"Do you know who you're messing with?" shouted Johnny. Fiona laughed as she took out a lighter from her jeans pocket, lighting the end of a white piece of cloth hanging out the fuel tank. She walked towards them, crowbar resting on her shoulder.

The car exploded behind her. The body of the vehicle was engulfed in flames, the remaining windows shattered, the glass raining down on the pavement. Michael could feel the heat of the fire. The grip on his arms getting tighter, he'd have bruises tomorrow. Car alarms from surrounding vehicles were sounding, people were screaming as they ran away from the scene. Yet if Fiona noticed any of this you couldn't tell, she continued to walk towards Johnny smiling the whole time.

Michael's attention was drawn back to Johnny as he reached to the small of his back, going for a gun. Using the grip the two guys had on his arms to his advantage, he lifted his legs up and kicked Johnny in the back. He flew forward, right into Fiona's incoming fist. He crumpled to the ground.

The two guys who had a hold of Michael let go of him. Michael punched the one on the left, knocking him back; he turned to the one on his right, getting a fist to the side of the head. He staggered back as the world spun around him. Raising his arms up in defence, he was able to block another hit.

He kicked out in front of him, smiling at the sound of flesh being hit. Standing up straighter, he looked down at the man who was now on his knees, clutching his groin. A punch to the head had the man curled up on the ground. Michael turned round to see Fiona using her crowbar on the guy who had held him. She hit him in the knee, his leg crumpling beneath him. He hit the ground hard, letting out a loud shriek.

Michael walked over to Johnny. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, he pulled him to his feet. Slamming the man chest first into the nearest car, Michael pulled Johnny's arm behind his back, putting pressure on the joints.

"I see you again and I'll do more than just kick you to the curb, understand?" growled Michael.

"Fuck you man," spat Johnny.

Michael pulled on Johnny's arm until he heard the shoulder joint pop. He let Johnny go as the man screamed in agony, holding his arm close to his body. Looking at him, Michael knew that Johnny would kill him now if he was given half a chance. He should shoot him, save himself the trouble. Watching the man scream he felt nothing. He knew he should feel something but he didn't. He just didn't.

"Michael, we should go," said Fiona, drawing his attention away from the man that withered at his feet. "Michael!"

Michael looked up, noticing the sirens that sounded in the distance, getting closer. "Right." He walked to the car, starting the engine, surprised when Fiona got in the passenger seat.

"No questions, I'm here for Nate."

-BN—