A/N: Apologies again for the late posting, although we're not going to try to blame Larry for this one. We want to thank you all again for your interest and your attention as well as all the wonderful reviews! FF Email Alerts don't seem to be working, so tell another #burner! And now onto our story without further ado!
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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Three
Michael Westen was a man adrift. His mind was still trying to come to terms with what he had done for the woman at his side, the woman and the baby she was carrying... his baby.
What the hell had he been thinking? He had no right to even consider being a father. He knew nothing about being a parent.
"Are you ready for that sorta commitment?" Tom had asked him that question less than twenty four hours ago and his answer had been to accept the bottle of sedative to render his asset unconscious so he could safely disappear into the night.
But for the first time in a very long time, the cold logical side of his brain had been over-ruled by his heart. Because his resolve had only lasted until a pair of blue-green eyes had stared into his soul and told him they had made a new life.
"Love nothing and nothing you love can be used against you" had been words he'd lived by for most of his life. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, thanks to his dear old dad, long before his training officer had warned him about the dangers of deep cover missions and how easy it was to get emotionally involved with an asset.
"Michael?"
He had forgotten the lesson, he had let his defenses down and allowed the fiery Irishwoman to steal his heart. By the time he had slept with her for the first time, she had already been more than an asset to be manipulated and used... And now... now by taking down three MI6 officers and disobeying direct orders from a superior, he had handed his enemies the key to destroying him.
"Michael."
He had committed the ultimate sin for a spy. He had fallen for his asset and now he was betraying his own people in order to stay by her side. Tom Card, the CIA, his own government, they would never let them rest. They would all want to see him rot away in a cell for what he'd done and Fiona… He couldn't bear to think about what might happen to her if any one of their enemies caught up to them.
"Ahhh, Michael... Shite!"
The car slammed to a stop, jerking him from his reverie just in time for him to witness his Irish lover open the car door and lean outside, her petite frame convulsing as she vomited onto the road.
"Jeez, Fi, what's wrong?" He reached out, leaning over the gear stick and hand brake to stroke a hand down her back. "Fiona?"
Getting no reply, he quickly opened his own door and rushed around to the other side of the car. Carefully avoiding the mess on the tarmac, he knelt down in front of her, his fingers carding her long auburn hair away from her face.
"Fiona, please talk to me, what's wrong? Are you getting sick?"
"No," she finally answered him. Wiping a hand over her mouth, she let her head fall back against the headrest. "I – it just came over me... Must be sommit ta do wit' tha babby."
"When did you last eat?" He placed his palm on her forehead and then on her cheek, feeling the cold clammy skin.
"I don' know, this mornin'... Breakfast? I've gone longer than this in between meals. It cannae be -"
He had vague memories of his own mother being sick when she was pregnant with his brother, Nate, and other memories of her being so tired that she rarely finished her daily housework and how angry his dad would get at having no hot meal waiting for him on the table whenever he chose to roll in.
"I think you're supposed to be eating for two now..." Pursing his lips, he looked along the street. In the distance he could see the lights of a petrol station. "I'll get you something to eat as soon as it's safe... Can you hold on a little bit longer? I'll drive." With a little gentle coaxing, he got her out of the driver's seat and around to the passenger side of the car.
"There's a garage up ahead, but we can't risk it. You know what those places are like for CCTV... Will you be okay until I can find somewhere else?"
"I tol' ya befer, I'm nae made o' glass. Jus' get us over ta Kennedy's and yer lookin' fer Sullivan's Tire an' Exhaust. It's a little shop along Bluebell Way."
"I'll find it." Closing the door, he walked round the car and got behind the wheel. "It's gonna be fine, I'll get us away from here, I promise."
"I believe ya, Michael." She smiled at him, her hand drifting across to fall onto his thigh. "But we need ta get goin' cuz thot crash ya caused is gonna attract all tha wrong sorta attention."
The dark haired former spy let his ex-paramilitary pregnant girlfriend rest while he drove westward towards the John F. Kennedy Industrial Estate, obeying all the traffic signs and rules of the road.
With a bit of luck, all the local law would be busy dealing with the smashed-up cars and the unconscious man behind the wheel of the fancy vehicle resting on the curb. He just hoped the driver had enough good sense to lie about who he was and what he was doing, instead of admitting to all and sundry that he was an employee of the British Government working covertly on foreign soil.
"We're here," he announced as he brought the Toyota to a stop outside the chain link gates of a long single storey building.
"Stay har. I'll pick tha lock on tha gate an' wit' a bit o' luck we can get this done wit'out disturbing tha guards who patrol tha site."
He waited while she unlocked the gates and then drove inside, parking the car alongside two others which were most likely there awaiting repairs, before joining her at the side door which would give them access to the inside.
"You own this place?" he whispered.
"I bought it under a false name. Tis run by a friend o' an old friend fram me university days. He knows I drop in fram time ta time, but he knows ta nae ask about me business," she explained as she put in the code to the electronic key lock.
Once inside, he let her lead the way to the office which ran the length of one side of the building. Beneath the waist high counter top, under a layer of vinyl tiles, there was a small trap door which opened to reveal a metal box. Inside were five neat stacks of fifty punt notes. "Five grand… I know tis nae enough ta live on fer very long, but it should be enough ta get us out o' tha country."
Michael glanced at his watch. An hour had passed since they had left the flat, which meant by now Card would know he wasn't sticking to his orders. His training officer would be sending his own team over to check out what had happened, or maybe the MI6 agents they had left under the transit van in front of the flats had come around and called for help.
Swallowing thickly, he caught hold of her elbow and started towards the door. "We have to leave... now." They would have been picked up on every CCTV camera they drove past. It would take a while, but Chambers would use his contacts in the Garda to get hold of the footage. The small window he had created for their escape was already closing. He could feel it.
"Yer right..." The redhead nodded at the large clock on the wall. "Liam knows about this place, so does Sean. They'll have got ta tha flat by now an' know we've run."
"But they won't know where we're running to."
They were half way to the door when Michael stopped and spun around, his hand digging into the front pocket of his jeans.
"Michael, whot are-?"
"You need to eat and drink." He began feeding all the change he had into the large vending machine which stood next to the customer waiting room.
"Why don' ya jus smash tha front? It would be quicker."
"Cuz I don't want your friend getting into any trouble for the busted machine," he answered. Michael turned to her, holding several bars of chocolate and bottles of water. "I promise I'll get you something a bit healthier later, but at least this will keep your energy levels up. It's gonna be a long night," he concluded with a sigh.
()()()()()
Tom Card stood in a private suite in the business class passenger lounge at Dublin International Airport listening to the smug, supercilious voice of Mr. Richard Chambers coming through the earpiece attached to his phone. His mounting fury was only showing in the tightening of his pursed lips as he found out just how well Michael Westen had played him.
"It appears I was right when I told you letting Westen leave the safe house was a mistake, Agent Card. We have irrefutable proof your man has gone native. I have three men in hospital, one of them was beaten so badly he has been put into a medically induced coma. The doctors say he took a sustained attack to his head and torso... I'm holding you responsible for all that has happened, especially now I've got hold of Westen's full history. The CIA loaned us an agent who had just spent months recovering from serious head injuries, who had been under review for his actions in-"
"You mean the agent who ended the threat of the Real IRA for you? Who warned you personally that a large bomb was going to be planted in Omagh, which you did nothing about?" Card had had enough of listening to the British intelligence officer trying to lay the blame at the door of his own agency. "Ya see, Dickie, I read reports, too. And I'll tell you something else I know, Michael isn't thinking clearly at the moment. But I know him, I trained him. There isn't a move that kid knows that I didn't teach him. So you're gonna give me-"
"I'm not giving you anything, Mr. Card." It was the British intelligence officer's turn to interrupt and from his tone he was taking great delight on delivering his instructions. "As I told Mr. Westen, I've washed my hands of the case. Westen was your problem when he attacked three agents of the crown. I've been instructed to fly you to the UK, where our Home Secretary and the Minister for Northern Ireland are waiting to hear your explanation for this evenings events and I believe your own ambassador is waiting for a word too."
The senior CIA agent features flushed red and his hands clenched into fists. Were these guys for real? "Michael Westen is a very experienced operative. If I have to take the time hold hands with a bunch of politicians -"
"You'll do precisely-"
"If I have to waste my time explaining the actions of my agent, we'll lose him. We can end this quickly and quietly, Chambers, if you-."
"The ramifications of Agent Westen's misguided love affair with a known terrorist stretch a lot further than your agency's embarrassment. The whole peace process is still up in the air and there are already rumors spreading about an informer in the Provo ranks. There is a very real danger that Sinn Fein, and the various factions of the IRA, will use this situation to create dissent and try to wring out even more concessions from our and the Irish governments...So unless you want to make this more of an international incident than it already is, you will get on the plane to London and you will not do anything until it has been cleared through Whitehall and the Cabinet Office. Is that clear, Mr. Card?"
"As clear as day, Mr. Chambers," the senior CIA official growled, containing his anger with great difficulty. This was exactly what he had been trying to prevent when he'd booked the flight over here immediately after getting a phone call that he needed to talk some sense into his apparently love-struck former trainee.
As soon as the conversation with Chambers ended, Tom Card started keying in another number into his cell. It was five hours earlier on the East Coast of the US and, if he was going to have to play politics with the UK government, he needed somebody else's help tracking down Michael Westen.
After all, he wasn't only his reputation on the line now his star pupil had lost his mind.
()()()()()
Fiona Glenanne sat back in the passenger seat of the Toyota Corolla she had stolen earlier in the night, sipping on one of the bottles of water while her dark haired lover drove slowly back the way they had come.
"Before we head south, we need to lay down tracks in the opposite direction. It's an old trick. So to make it work, we'll have to put on a little show. You know, convince MI6 that they've put one over us when they discover our trail."
He had explained what he was doing as if he was giving her lecture in a beginners course on how to evade capture by intelligence agencies.
"Thot's nuttin' new. We do it all tha time," she'd replied airily between sips of water.
"Good... So, you know what we're doing. We're going to drive past a couple of speed cameras, let them get a good look at our faces and then we'll dump this ride and let them get one more look with us heading north and then we'll loop back around and steal another car before we go south."
Gazing at the profile of the man at her side, the young Irishwoman chewed on her lower lip, deep in thought. Outwardly nothing had changed. The same dark hair curled around his ears and flopped onto his forehead, the same deep blue eyes were focusing on the road ahead, his pouting bottom lip and thinner top lip all looked exactly the same, although right now his upper lip had almost disappeared as he bit down on it.
It was like she was looking at a hollow replica of her wild Kilkenny lover, the easy going, smooth talking rebel who was always up for any bit of mischief that came his way. She wanted McBride, but he was gone. Michael Westen had stepped into his body and taken over. Reaching out with one hand, the redhead let her palm rest on the American's thigh, seeking some reassurance that the man who had stolen her heart was still there.
"Fi, I think we have company."
Turning her eyes from the man at her side to look through the wind shield at the long fancy black car blocking the road ahead, Fiona gasped as all the color drained from her already too pale complexion.
"It's Liam... How tha hell did he find us?"
"You said he was on the way to the flat. He must have -" His words dried up.
"He must have arrived just after we left. Then the crash... Feck! Half tha Gardai in this part o' Dublin ar' on his payroll." She punched raven haired man on the arm. "Get us outta har now!"
"I'm trying!" He spun the wheel and sent their stolen ride spinning in a one eighty turn and, with wheels spinning, shot off back the way they had come. "Is there another way out of here?"
"Go left and then take tha second right. It'll take us down ta tha Old Naas Road an' ya can get onta tha back streets fram thar... But put yar foot down, would ya?"
Looking over her shoulder, Fiona bit down on her lip hard as her fear grew. There was no way the stolen family saloon car they were riding in was going to outrun the powerful high performance auto that was being driven by Liam's primary body guard, Davy Doyle. The man wasn't only part of her brother's inner circle; he was also a living legend in the street racing community of West Belfast.
But Michael Westen was no slouch either. He wrung every bit of power he could out of the Corolla while throwing it around tight corners in an effort to draw away from their pursuers. Then, as they reached the main road which ran through the center of a network of back streets, Michael surprised the Irishwoman by coming to an abrupt stop.
"We can't outrun him and, the longer this chase goes on, the more attention we'll attract. We'll have police swarming over us if we don't end this now."
Fiona nodded grimly, her heart thudding loudly in her chest. An hour ago, Michael had cut his ties. Now her time had come and she had never felt so sick in all her life.
"Fi..." His hand landed over hers and he looked deeply into her weary eyes. "You can go with him if that's what you want... I'll – I'll be fine... I can run, if you don't want to this. It's not too late, if -"
She stared into his cobalt blue orbs, stilling his words with a determined gaze. All she saw before her was the father of her child, her lover and her soul mate, who had thrown away everything to be with her. All her doubts fled before her overwhelming love for this man at her side.
Her mother used to recite the story of her own great love affair as she brushed out the tangles of her two girls' long hair. Sitting before the blazing fire burning in the hearth of their farmhouse home, she would tell the tale of how at sixteen years of age she had fallen in love with the dashing and charming and several years older Patrick Glenanne, a man destined for the priesthood, who had after several trials, as in all good romance stories, returned her love and turned away from the call to the cloth to fight for another cause and raise large happy family.
"Am fine, Michael. Ya jus' stay back an' let me talk ta him." Her heartbeat was slowing and she could feel herself becoming detached from her turbulent emotions. Whatever had brought Liam flying across from the north to the south to track her down, she would deal with it. She would, if necessary, lie through her teeth to her family if that was what it took to save her lover.
"I don't think your brother is going to want to hear anything we say." His fingers brushed against her cheek.
"Ya let me do the talkin'." Ms. Glenanne captured his hand and kissed his knuckles. "An' keep thot gun o' yars outta sight." She gestured with a tilt of her head to the handgun on his lap.
Opening the car door, the lithe young woman stepped out, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the bright glare of the headlights on her brother's car.
Squinting she watched as Davy Doyle got out of the front driver's door. Using it as cover, he stood holding a handgun aimed not at her, but at where Michael stood by their vehicle. From the back of the long black auto, Liam Glenanne stepped out and walked slowly towards her, stopping a few feet away, his pale blue-grey eyes flickering from her to the man behind her and then back again.
"Fiona, sweetheart, ya need ta come wit' me," he spoke softly, holding out a hand to her.
"I can't..." She took a half step back and then steeled her nerves. "Why are ya here, Liam?"
"We can talk about it later, but nar I need ya ta come wit' me."
He took a step closer, but came to a stop when he saw the gun in her hand.
"All o' ya, stand down," the head of the clan ordered, holding up a hand, his eyes never wavering from his sister. "Fiona, this is nae tha place fer this... We'll go back ta our Ma's an' talk this through. Jus' get in tha car."
"Tell me whot has ya chasin' me all o'er Dublin first." The gun felt heavy and shook in her hand, as she silently prayed it had just been a call from a nosy neighbor which had brought him looking for her. If he knew of the pregnancy, then Michael would be a dead man or on his way up the aisle with a shotgun to his back. If her oldest brother had some how found out who her lover really was... Fiona truly did not want to go there.
"Ask ham," Liam growled, his pale eyes locking on the dark haired man standing on the other side of the Toyota. "Ask ham about a man called O'Dowd, a scumbag traitor who sold out his own people ta tha British government."
"Michael?" Fiona risked a quick glance over to where her dark haired lover stood.
"I -"
"Nothing ta say then, McBride? Well, if not O'Dowd, how about Pat Mulholland, thot little bastid thot wa' always hangin' around tha Black Sand." Liam talked over whatever Michael was going to say. "Ya remember ham, dontcha? We picked ham up jus' after he finished beggin' ya ta meet ham."
"Liam?" This was far worse than she had suspected. Listening to her brother's words, it was plain that he knew everything, everything except the pregnancy she prayed silently.
"Am sorry, sweetheart." He turned his eyes back onto the youngest sibling left to him, his expression filled with sadness. "Yar man thar is a spy. He's an American workin' fer tha Brits. Ya know whot thot means, Fiona. Ya cannae be wit ham. Now, stop yar feckin' about an' do as yer tol'."
It was as if she was in a bubble. She felt light headed and completely detached. Her lips moved and she heard the words coming out, but it was as if somebody else was facing the head of the family.
"I know who and whot Michael is. I've known fer a while."
"Ya knew? Ya knew he wa' aidin' tha enemy? Ya've had thot bastid in yar bed knowing whot he is?"
She had only seen Liam this angry once before. As his features hardened and his mouth thinned, the words dried in her mouth, his pale eyes ablaze with unbridled fury.
"Have ya lost yar feckin' mind? Ya stupid bitch, d'ya know whot ya've done? Whot's goin' ta-"
"Liam!" Michael shouted over the older man's diatribe. Moving swiftly, he came from behind the car, determined to protect the his girlfriend from her brother's rage.
"Ya claim ta love har an' ya'd drag her inta this?" Mr. Glenanne swung on the true focus of his anger, but came to a stop as a bullet dug into the ground at his feet before ricocheting off to the side.
"Nobody fire!" Liam held up a hand, ordering Davy Doyle to stand down. "Fiona, ya have no idea whot's comin' fer ya!... An' ya thar, ar' ya gonna hide behind me sister's skirts ferever?"
"Michael, get back in tha car," Fiona ordered before her lover could answer the accusation.
"Fiona -" She hear Michael cock his weapon and knew that, at any second, a bloody shoot out could start between the two most important men in her life.
"Don't argue wit' me! Get in tha car!" She fired twice more, hitting her older sibling's vehicle as she aimed for anything important in the engine block. "Liam, please, jus' let us alone. We jus' want ta be free." Ms. Glenanne jumped into the car, followed by her dark haired lover, before speeding away.
"Get another car out har!" Liam snapped out the order and then pulled out his phone.
It was time to fill in the rest of the family about his sister's insanity.
He wasted no time with small talk. As soon as the family gunrunner answered his phone with a barely audible grunt, Liam began to bombard his sibling with instructions.
"Seamus, I need ya ta put tha word out ta all yar contacts... at tha docks all along tha coast thot ya want ta know tha second Fiona turns up or calls lookin' fer a lift outta tha country."
"Whot tha feck fer?" Seamus' sleepy voice demanded. "D'ya have no idea whot time it is, man?"
"Fiona has run off wit' McBride," his older brother snarled, his frustration with the situation almost getting the better of him. "An' make sure they know ta keep thar mouths shut. Tis a private family matter."
"Ya wan' ta stop our sister, our twenty eight year old sister, fram runnin' off wit' a fella she's been livin' wit' fer—"
"I cannae talk about it o'er tha phone, Shay. Just do it, will ya? An' stop bloody questioning me orders!"
()()()()()
Michael was back behind the wheel of the Corolla, his mind working rapidly through this latest catastrophe. Driving back into Dublin was a bust. With Liam Glenanne coming after them, there was no time left to lay a false trail. It was going to have to be a straight run south and then try to find a boat to carry them over to France.
He tried to focus on what he knew about the Glenanne siblings, working out their strengths and weaknesses. The news that O'Dowd hadn't just quit and disappeared after one too many confrontations with the British intelligence officers was a shock he wasn't ready to deal with. He had come to like the feisty Irishman and, without his training, Michael knew he wouldn't have lasted a week once the assignment started in earnest. If Liam had gotten O'Dowd to talk, yet hadn't passed the intel up to his masters on the Provo Council, then that had to mean that regardless of how furious the head of the clan was with his sister, he wasn't about to throw her to the wolves for her betrayal. That thought gave the former spy a slither of peace. If anything happened to him, Fiona would still have a chance to carry on.
But if Liam might be capable of mercy, Michael wasn't quite so sure about Sean. The youngest male sibling would feel the sting of being deceived far more than any other family member. They had been friends. He had sat and eaten meals with the man's family. Sean was a hothead and a reckless one who frequently acted without thinking, relying on his skills to get him out of any trouble he ran into. Sean just might shoot first and ask questions too late.
The other two brothers Michael knew less about. Seamus was a gunrunner. When he wasn't out of the country trading in weaponry, he was at his farm raising his large brood of children along with his wife, Isabelle. Colin, the family computer whiz, was probably the biggest threat to their escape. The information specialist could hack into any computer system searching for clues and the man was virtually untouchable. As the only gun-shy member of the family, he was always kept away from the action.
"At the first chance we get, we should dump this car and get something different, something with a bit more speed and handling." He spoke out loud, informing his lover of the new plan. "I'm gonna get us as far south as I can while it's dark. Then we'll have to find somewhere to hole up during the day... What do you think?"
Michael maneuvred the saloon car through a series of sharp bends on an unlit country lane while waiting for his girlfriend to reply. But instead of words, he caught a soft sniffle followed by a sniff.
"Fiona, luv, are you alright?"
He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and promise it was all going to be alright. But he couldn't even risk glancing in her direction since he was using all his skills to keep the car they were in from crashing into the stone walls on either side of the narrow, badly constructed road they were hurtling along.
"Ya hold on, me darlin' girl an' I'll get us somewhar safe... D'ya hear me, Fiona?" He tried bringing McBride back. In truth, he liked his Irish persona a lot more than his real self at that moment.
"Jus' shut up! Shut up an' let me alone fer a minute, will ya?" she snapped. "Yer nae McBride, so don' ya go thar with me, Michael Westen!"
It was just as he had feared. Now that the reality of the situation was sinking in, now that she realized the true cost of betraying her family, his Irish lover was regretting her decision. The ex-spy bit his lip and tried to hold back the emotions that were threatening to tear him apart.
He slammed on the brakes, bringing the Toyota to a skidding halt. Twisting in his seat, he caught hold of his lover's arms and turned her to face him. The tears spilling out of her blue-green orbs were leaving trails down her cheeks.
"W-whot ha-ve yar stopped fer?"
"If you want to go back… go back to your family….I know how upset you are. I'm sorry that-"
"Whot tha hell is wrong wit' ya? O' course I'm upset! I shot at me brother an' I did it fer us!"
"That's what I'm talking about. You—"
An open handed slap to his arm was followed by another to his face as more tears flowed down her cheeks. "Ya told me I had ta trust ya, but ya don' trust me! I cannae shed a tear from what's left behind wit'out ya tryin' ta drop me back home? Am pregnant, Michael, God help me, I don' wanna, but Am gonna cry, so ya might as well get used ta it. Ar' ya gonna try ta take me back ta me mammy every time Am sad an' missin' har or has this all jus' got ta real fer ya?"
His fingers tightened their grip on her biceps as he lunged at her, his lips sealing over her own in a kiss which took her breath away. She stiffened and attempted to pull out of his grasp. But he held onto her, his tongue pressing along her gums, demanding her surrender. He leaned in further and wrapped her in an embrace, doing his best to cradle her in the small space until she melted into him.
He was desperate to show her that she was everything to him. Michael knew he didn't have the words, had never had the words on his own to tell her what she meant to him, so her dark haired lover poured every ounce of the longing and the passion he felt into that embrace, that kiss…
"You'll see them again," he whispered when he released her, pressing his lips into her tousled auburn hair as he continued to hold her petite form against his own slightly shaking frame. "It will work out, you'll see...We'll get away and when things calm down -"
"Yer a bad liar, Michael Westen," Fiona mumbled into his chest, all the fight gone out of her. "It'll never be o'er. Ya tol' me thot yarself... It's just us now."
She kissed his chin and then, when he tilted his head downwards, they kissed once more, with less urgency this time but with no less depth of feeling. But the moment couldn't last for long.
"We have to get going," he apologized. "We need a new car and a safe place to sleep."
"Somewhere safe would be nice, Michael," the exhausted redhead agreed. "Somewhere wit' a bath an' fresh sheets would be nicer, but I'm afraid thot is nae gonna happen fer a while, am I right?"
She watched as his pursed his lips and then he grinned at her, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief and when he spoke, there was that sense of style she had been missing. "A bath and fresh linen, is it? Well, how about we make due for now and then, once we get to France, we'll just stop off at the first five star hotel we come to in Paris? How does that sound?"
"Cela semble parfait, ma chérie." She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "Jus' as long as war together, Michael, thot war in this together. Thot's all thot matters right now. Just ya and' me…"
"And baby makes three…" he completed the old rhyme and smiled at her warmly, placing his hand over her abdomen, committing once again to protect them both with all he had. "Forever, me luv."