AN: So many apologies for this being posted later than I said it would. I know I promised three weeks but I got back from my holiday and I hit the ground running. I'm just about getting back to my normal pace of life now, which included posting this for you all. (The BBQ is ready if you wish to send flames for my tardiness.) Again apologies, I hope this chapter meets your high expectations. Enjoy!

-BN-

24:00:03

24:00:02

24:00:01

24:00:00

Michael winced as he pulled on his shirt. The wounds on his back stung as the cloth moved across them, pulling at the skin.

"Looks like somebody had a rough night," said Paxson from the garage doorway.

Michael looked Paxson up and down, he noticed she didn't look as neat as usual, wearing the same clothes as when he'd seen her last night.

"Looks like I wasn't the only one," he commented.

"I believe I have you to thank for that," she smiled as she walked further into the garage.

"Whatever makes you think that?"

"Don't play games Michael," warned Paxson, her tone of voice losing its playfulness. "Not with me."

"Then ask the right questions," Michael snapped.

Damn it. Ever since coming back to this city everybody had been on his case about what he had or hadn't done. All he tried to do was the right thing. Make the right choices. But every time it came back to bite him on the ass.

"Why was Johnny shooting at you?" Paxson asked in a voice barely more than a whisper as she got up close to him.

Michael leant forward so they were almost nose to nose, "Because I blew up his car," he said smiling at the woman who had caused him so much trouble. Before he left Miami she had made every job that much harder and six years later she was doing it all over again.

Paxson let out a small laugh, "Of course you did." She knew full well that it wasn't Michael that blew up the car.

She backed away from him and started pacing the empty space. Michael didn't miss the glances she kept throwing at the bench where the maps and files on each arms dealers were stored. She tried to hide it, but he noticed.

"Why are you here, Detective?" Michael sighed. He was tired and he hurt in more places than he cared to count. Nate had spent half the night picking wood splinters out of his back. Each one had been less than carefully removed by his brother, who Michael was quite sure enjoyed the experience of causing him more pain.

They hadn't spoken a word to each other since reaching the Charger, each thinking over the events of the night. Each thinking what Michael would have said if Johnny hadn't shot at them. Michael had spent his time thinking if he should restart the conversation. Should he tell his brother the reason he left? Would he hate him more?

"I asked you the other day why you were back," asked Paxson.

"I told you it was a family emergency," sighed Michael.

"You did. Thing is, I spoke to Fiona and what she said sounded a lot more like you were taking jobs again," Paxson smiled up at Michael.

She could hear him grinding his teeth so he didn't bite back a response. Her smile grew wider, he didn't know that Fiona had spoken to her. But then after everything that had happened between the two of them she wasn't that surprised.

But then maybe it wasn't that which the issue was. He knew that she was on to him. She'd seen the police radio codes on the desk. Whatever Michael was planning, it was going down tonight, and she was one step closer to taking him down. And he knew it.

"Get out," growled Michael as he clenched his fists down by his sides. His temper brewing again, getting all that closer to bubbling over the surface.

Paxson raised her eyebrows at Michael's reaction, her smile gone. She'd only ever seen Michael like this once, seen him this close to the edge. Six years ago just before he left. Just before he and his brother almost died.

"Careful Michael," warned Paxson as she turned to leave, "Remember how badly last time turned out?"

-BN—

Michael looked across the warehouse floor his client lay sprawled on the ground, blood pooling beneath him, his eyes wide open staring up to the sky, empty.

He'd failed. He was meant to protect his client from this happening and all he did was deliver the guy into the lion's den.

He'd failed his brother. He'd left Nate alone and the bastards had come after him. Michael didn't know if his brother was even alive or not. He hadn't stuck around to find out.

He'd felt the garage explode behind him, shrapnel ploughing into his back, knocking him forward, pushing him to the ground. His head smacking the concrete of the driveway.

Pain shot through his head but he ignored it, as he pushed himself back up to his feet, blood streaming from a cut at his temple. Spinning around he was already running towards the now nonexistent garage. Stumbling over the rubble he searched for Nate. Pieces of brick and wood slicing into his hands as he threw them aside in his desperate search.

After what seemed to Michael hours he finally saw Nate. Lying on his back, eyes closed, blood covering his chest, pooling around him.

Michael collapsed to his knees, his hands shaking as he reached for his brother. He tried for a pulse, a breath, anything. But he couldn't do it. He couldn't take that final reach. He didn't want to face the answer.

The sound of a car pulling away made him look up, smoke curled up from the rear tires of a BMW as it sped past the front of the house. He knew that car, it belonged to the men who were after his client.

Rage shattered Michael's shock and grief. He was up and running before he could think anything through. Instinct taking over.

This was how he now found himself, pinned down behind packing crates having watched another man die. He was outmanned and outgunned and nobody even knew he was here.

He'd become more reckless since having his name cleared, since being told he could never go back. He'd taken more and more risks, put more and more lives in danger. Not caring who was caught in the cross-fire. And now he was going to pay for it all.

"Bad move, Weston," growled a male voice behind him.

Before Michal could answer a rope was around his neck, cutting off his air supply. Struggling against his attacker he tried to pry away the rope, but it didn't give. Clawing against the hands that sucked away his life, he tried pushing with his legs to get more leverage. Nothing helped.

He tried to take another breath but he couldn't. His lungs burned with the need for more oxygen, but nothing came. His vision greyed, the spots becoming larger until he could barely see anything. His limbs were so heavy; he couldn't hold his arms up anymore.

Then there was nothing at all.

-BN—