A/N:Thank for all the reviews for this and all of our other stories. We really do appreciate all your feedback and comments. Now for an apology for being late posting this chapter. RL does get in the way sometimes and we've both realized Mondays are super busy for us. So we're going to change the day we post future chapters to Sundays which will hopefully stop this problem happening again. To make up for our tardiness, we've made this an extra long chapter. We hope you all enjoy.
Just a quick reminder about our other story, Life With Larry. The conclusion of Michael and Larry's assignment in Bosnia & Serbia will be posted on Thursday as usual after #BurnerClub and it will be another very dark and intense chapter as the duo, with the assistance of Sam Axe, risk all to capture and steal away with the Militia's leader, General Drava.
Now back to our heroes hiding out in their safehouse deep in the Irish countryside.
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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Six
"Well, whot d'ya think, will it do?" Fiona stood beside her lover as he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Michael leaned over into the empty, unused bathtub and ran his hands over his short spiky hair, sending tiny pieces of cut hairs flying onto his neck, shoulders and the enamel surface below. Straightening up, he wet his hands and ran them through the haircut his lover had just given him, coming away with more little bits of black fuzz, which he rinsed off under the running water.
Using a pair of scissors she'd found in a drawer in the kitchen, the redhead had set about chopping away his collar length curls into a more militaristic crop. As he looked at himself this way and that in the reflective glass, he decided it was a far better job than she'd done the last time. But that night she'd been forced to hack several chunks out in order to stitch up the gash in his head he'd gotten escaping from a British Army patrol by dropping into the sewers underneath Belfast City.
"Not quite a buzz cut, but it'll do," he informed his lover while rubbing his palms over the stubble covering his cheeks. "And if I don't shave again, I should have a beard soon, which will help too."
He smiled at her, remembering what they had done in her eldest brother's house that night, although he was not about to mention it to her. He wanted all their concentration on the task before them.
"So, are ya gonna cut mine now?" The Irishwoman held out the scissors.
"Fi." He turned to face her, his hands resting on her shoulders as he stared deeply into her eyes. "I-"
"Yer changin' yar appearance, but ya won't let me cut me hair? It'll grow back, ya daft man."
"I know it will, but -" He knew he was being unfair and impractical. He just hated to see her have to do that. It would take a long time to grow back and her flowing auburn hair was so beautiful…
Fiona held his gaze, grabbed a handful of her red-brown locks and swiftly cut through the strands. "Thar... tis done. Now, do tha rest an' be quick about it."
"You didn't have to do that."
Reluctantly taking the shears from her hand, Michael spun her around and settled her into the chair he had recently vacated. Grabbing the comb she had used on him, the dark haired man, who now had considerably less, began to untangle the long flowing tresses using his fingers and the comb.
"You coulda hidden it under a hat," he complained miserably.
"It'll be easier this way," she declared, keeping up the tough front. "Ya think I can wash this lot in cold water? It makes sense. Nar get ta it."
He forced himself to focus on the task before him, trying hard not to flinch every time he cut away more of the mane that he used to love to run his hands through, thread his fingers into as she would… No, Fi was right. They had to do this and he had to keep his mind on the task.
Closing her own eyes, the redhead tried to keep control of her emotions as her lover reluctantly snipped away her old life. That was what it felt like. Her hair had been the same length for as long as she could remember, but she was no longer that same woman. She bit down on her lip. She was no longer Fiona Glenanne, any more than he was Michael McBride, or even now Michael Westen.
"We should be thinkin' o' new names, new identities," she spoke up.
"We should," the ex-spy agreed. "But reconnaissance is more important and that's what we're going to be doing today, along with restocking our supplies that is, and I think we should get a second vehicle... We can stash it nearby in case this place gets compromised."
"How long d'ya see us stayin' har?"
"As long as it remains safe, until the heat dies down." Fiona felt him shrug his shoulders.
"Me brothers will never give up and ya know how tha Gardai leak like a sieve... If word o' yar real identity reaches tha South..." The former PIRA operative couldn't continue voicing her concerns. Saying the words made it all too real and she'd already lectured him enough about worrying.
"We won't be here that long." Michael stopped cutting and placed a kiss on top of her head. "If push comes to shove, I can fly us out of here. It would be a massive risk. Unless we were really lucky, air traffic control would be on us as soon as we headed out over the sea. But there are plenty of small airfields we could steal a light aircraft from and aim for Wales or the Cornish coast... Okay, I'm finished. Don't ask me to cut off anymore."
Her head felt a lot lighter and when she touched her hands to her head, she knew he'd done as she asked. Getting to her feet she looked into the mirror and saw she now possessed a boyish mop of short auburn hair. One thing was for certain; her brothers would have a hard time recognizing her.
She barely recognized herself.
"Is it okay?" Fiona could hear the concern in his tone. "I'm sorry. I've never -"
"Tis fine," his lover told him. It's necessary, it'll grow back. Once wa're safe it'll grow back, she silently assured herself. Turning around, the Irishwoman smiled brightly up at him. "I'll get used ta it... Besides, didn't I tell ya it'll be easier fer me ta look after?"
"Aye, ya did." He drew her closer, kissing her properly this time before pulling back. "We should get going. I want to reach Waterford before the first ferry of the day sails."
"So we sneak in while everybody has eyes on the port?" the ex-guerrilla guessed.
"Exactly…" They kiss again, each running their hands though the others' newly shorn heads and sighing almost simultaneously. The couple stepped apart and their smiles were sad, but still smiles.
"I'm sorry, Fi. I wish you hadn't had-" he began
"Donnae say it, Michael. Tis just hair. It's whot's on tha inside thot makes us who we are," she advised. Taking him by the hand, she walked her lover back into the bedroom. Pulling open the top drawer of the old dresser, Fiona produced a newsboy hat and a woolen cap, handing him the former and placing the latter over her own head.
"Thar, we're properly disguised. Shall we go now?"
They soon had their belongings stowed away and the car freed from its home amongst the overgrown hedges. As they settled in for the drive into town, Fiona behind the wheel as she knew the area better, Michael tried to keep his mind on their scouting trip. Staring at her profile with all of her lovely locks tucked into the dark wool, something she would have never managed before, the ex-spy had a sudden flash of a memory, of another asset, another time and place where someone's hair was overflowing the confines of a cap just like that.
Agent Westen swallowed down his guilt as he spared his first thought in months for the woman he had agreed to marry back in Russia. Samantha had worn a hat like that on their first job together, keeping her curly brown tresses out of way. He hadn't seen his fiancée for going on two years now and hadn't spoken to her in a year and a half. From the way it looked, he was never going to talk to her again. "It wasn't like he hadn't warned Samantha this could happen," Michael justified inside.
The covert operative had told the master thief quite plainly that he could be gone for months on assignments or he could never come back at all one day. Such was the life of a spy. She would have to wait and not try to contact him. Ms. Keyes had once been an asset of his as well. After just over a year of working together on and off, she had proposed to him and Mr. Westen had accepted.
But that had been before the whirlwind that was Fiona Glenanne had blown into his life and turned his head, his heart and his life inside out and you don't marry someone when you…
"Whot's wrong, Michael? Ar' ya still frettin' over me hair?" the woman in question queried, completely derailing his train of thought.
He plastered a winning smile on his face and rubbed a hand on her shoulder.
"No, no, just thinking about tactics..." and he launched into a discussion about what they would do in terms of coming back for supplies should their trip to the dock prove less than uneventful.
He'd known he was going to have to break it off with Samantha at some point, even before he'd tried arguing for Fiona becoming a protected CIA asset. One small blessing, which he would gladly take in a situation full of relationship pitfalls as well as physical dangers, was at least now he wouldn't have to have that uncomfortable discussion with either woman about the other.
Only that other woman wasn't as far away as he thought.
()()()()()()()()()
Samantha Keyes was sat in an interrogation room, entertaining herself by unlocking and then relocking the handcuff around her left wrist which secured her to the metal table which bolted to the floor while she racked her brains as to why she had been picked up in the first place.
She had been making her way home in the early hours of the morning after completing a job, when her car had been run off the road and she'd found herself bundled into the back of a van, shackled and with a head bag blocking her vision.
It was Russian fashion week at the CEH Manezh in Moscow, which meant there was a multitude of targets for an enterprising thief of her level of expertise. With her slender figure and the right outfit, it had been easy for her to slip behind the scenes and find out where the various fashionistas were storing all the lovely pieces of jewellery they used to accessorize their designs.
The brunette had just relieved one of Europe's premier fashion houses of a million Euros worth of diamonds when she'd been snatched off the streets and then spent the first hour of her capture fearing that she'd fallen into the hands of the Militsiya. However, sometime during that hour, she'd realized she was in American hands and that thought had cheered her up no end.
The plane ride had been uncomfortable and it had been a little disconcerting when the flight had ended far too soon for whoever had snatched her to be taking her back to the US.
Then the head bag had come off and the handcuffs had been removed.
"Clean yourself up. If you make a scene, we'll -"
"I won't," she'd answered fast, cutting off the young man in the sharp suit and with a serious expression which screamed CIA. She'd also managed to catch a glimpse out of the window and spotted what looked to her educated eye to be the English countryside. Trips to London in the past had always proved to be very enjoyable and incredibly lucrative. She could only pray that this one would not be an exception to that principle.
Ms. Keyes had no idea what was going on, but this was a lot better than she had hoped for when the door of her car had been ripped open and a gun thrust into her face. If she was in CIA hands, it had to mean that all that was happening had something to do with Michael. One way or the other, she would finally have some news about the man she had been desperately missing.
So she'd walked through British customs with the men at her side flashing their diplomatic credentials and, as she had no wish to spend time in a British jail while they tried to find out who she was or antagonize her fiancé's employers, Samantha had remained calm and smiled.
When the door opened, the slim woman snapped the handcuff shut about her wrist and smiled at the man who stepped into the room.
"Ms. Keyes, I am sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope you've not been too uncomfortable."
She studied him closely; she was used to reading men and she knew this one was going to be trouble. He was tall, muscular, his suit a little tight on his arms. But his hands looked smooth and the manicured nails told her that, though he kept in shape, he was a desk jockey.
A CIA interrogator maybe…? What had Michael gotten himself into this time…?
Running the tip of her tongue over her lips, Samantha sat up a little straighter, composing herself for what lay ahead. She'd been in other uncomfortable conversations and situations before now.
"Not at all," Ms. Keyes returned his professional smile with one of her own.
"You can leave that cuff undone, if you want." His words told her he had been watching her through the camera high up on wall. "We're all friends here."
"My friends don't kidnap people off the street and take them to another country, Mr. -?"
"Oh, we both know that's a lie, don't we, Samantha? You don't mind if I call you by your first name, do you? After all, we're both after the same thing here." The older man ignored her request for his name and slid down into the only other seat in the room, placing a thin manila file in front him.
"And what would that be?" The way he watched her made her skin crawl; however, the master thief did her best to hide her distaste behind a relaxed pose and an innocent expression.
"You want your fiancé back where he belongs."
Now that took her by surprise.
"Michael…" She breathed his name and leaned forward. "Is he in trouble?"
"No, we've had a little glitch in our communications. That's why you're here." He smiled smoothly.
"But something has happened or you wouldn't have had me brought here like this." The brunette held up the handcuff and chain, giving the metal a shake.
"No. No… There's no reason to believe that anything bad has happened and I want to apologize for the way you were brought in... Very cloak and dagger, I know, but you were in the middle of a criminal act... No, the reason why you're here is we wondered if you had heard from Michael."
"No, the last time I spoke to him, he said he'd be unreachable until he got back."
"Oh, right, of course." He paused and got to his feet, moving around the table until he was right next to her. Perching on the edge of the table, he leaned in close to her face. "I'm going to go off the record for a second," he whispered in her ear. "I used to leave an emergency phone with my wife when I knew I was going to be out in the field for a stretch. It couldn't be more against the rules, but it's the one person you love and trust, right? You and Michael don't have anything like that, do you?"
"No." She shifted as much as the bolted down chair allowed and looked him in the eye.
"Really? Cuz it's essential I get in touch with him. You have no special arrangements?" She could tell he didn't believe her and knew that was going to be a problem if she wanted to get out of her present predicament.
"We never talked about his work unless I was working the job with him and I never asked. He was very clear about that. The last time I spoke to him, he told me he was going to be gone for some time and I was to wait until I heard from him or someone from the CIA. That's what I was doing."
His blue eyes bored into her, as if he was trying to read her mind. Then he stood up abruptly and moved back around to his side of the table.
"Don't worry about it. Everything is gonna be okay... So, when exactly did you last speak to him?"
"Not for eighteen months, maybe longer."
He flicked open the file he had brought in with him and then looked up at her again. "You move around a lot, Samantha. Yet from what I've read here, Michael was always able to find you. How did he know where to look?"
"I -" She was beginning to get a bad feeling about the line of questioning.
"I can see you care very much for Michael." Her silver haired interrogator suddenly changed his approach yet again. "I want you to know I do too. I trained Michael as a spy, taught him all he knows and, I gotta tell you, I think of him as a son or I wouldn't be here now trying to save him."
"Save him…? What do you mean? Is he -"
"In a lot of danger, yes. I'm sorry I lied at first. It's just I didn't know if you were strong enough to deal with the truth. It is imperative I find a way to contact him, let him know it's safe to come home."
Ms. Keyes was torn. She didn't trust the man before her and yet Michael had been gone so long, there had something gone wrong. "Tell me, what I can do?"
"Give me a way to contact him, a way he will trust and I'll tell you what I can."
"I called into Dan Siebels. He's my only other contact. I'm an official CIA asset, Michael is -"
"Michael was your handler, but he isn't any more and, if we don't find him soon, he is going to be very dead, so quit stalling and tell me how you contact each other!" The man flushed red as he snarled at her. Samantha knew it was just another ploy to throw her off balance, but knowing it didn't change how unsettling it felt to be in this man's power.
"I have three apartments, one in Moscow, St. Petersburg and another in Volgograd. I know the CIA keeps track of my movements. They find me, just like you found me. I don't know -"
He slapped his hand down on the table, bringing an end to her words. "I was hoping to spare you this, I'm-," The older man spun the file around and pushed it over until it was in front of her. "This is going to be hard for you. Michael has deserted his post and disappeared with that woman." He pointed to the photograph of a young woman with long reddish brown hair and a pale complexion. "Her name is Fiona Glenanne, an IRA sympathizer, gunrunner and suspected bank robber."
Samantha stared at the face and held her composure by the sheer force of her will. This could just be a ploy, a trick to make her give up information on her lover. What had Michael had once called the spy trade? Ah, yes, hall of mirrors… Master thieves used the same misdirection in their work.
But then her interrogator moved the first image aside to reveal a second one and, as she gazed at this photograph, her heart broke. Michael Westen, the dark haired man who had captured her soul, was with that other woman, this Fiona Glenanne, holding hands over a table, his free hand tenderly cupping her cheek as he stared into her eyes. Even on film it was impossible not to see the love shining in his eyes. With a hand shaking in anger and hurt, she shut the cover, pushing the file aside.
She had always known that he might have to sleep with other women as part of his job. Because, just as in her chosen profession, it was sometimes necessary to get very close to a person to make them trust you; it meant nothing. It was one of the things that had made their relationship so special, at least to her. Whatever they had to do for their work, they could trust each other.
But Michael had never looked at her the way he was looking at that young Irishwoman.
He was still talking to her, the man who had just shattered her heart, and Samantha knew she had to listen carefully. Because her finely tuned survival instincts had told her quite clearly that, if she wasn't careful, it wouldn't only be her heart that got hurt.
"She was his asset. Her family have a lot of links to the IRA. Your fiancé thought he was using her, but it seems now she was in fact using him. We need to get him back before he does something stupid and the only way we can do that is to remind him what or rather who has left behind."
"You think she… that woman has… has tricked him? Tricked Michael?"
His fiancée didn't believe that for one minute; not the Michael Westen she knew.
"It doesn't matter. If he stays with her, they will both be killed. But first Michael will be tortured, disfigured, and cut to little pieces by that young lady's brothers. Now, neither one of us want that for him, do we? He's strayed, gotten lost on a deep cover assignment. If you care about him as much as I do, you will want to help me get him back."
He had thrown everything away to be with that woman, sacrificed everything including their love? The brunette closed her eyes just for a second. There had to be more to it than that.
"I'll help you." She looked into her interrogators intense blue eyes. "You just have to give me some time to think. All this has been such a shock."
"Certainly, my dear..." He smiled at her the way a shark would smile upon a particularly juicy seal. Ms. Keyes had seen the look more than once during her career. "I'll leave you to think about Michael and the young Ms. Glenanne while you come up with some way of helping me find them."
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The road into Waterford wasn't just quiet, it was completely deserted. For over five miles, they hadn't seen another car. It had been market day the day before, which was when most of the locals had done their shopping, and it was still too early in the year for the summer tourists to be invading the town and the surrounding countryside.
"So, whot's tha plan? A quick trip ta buy some more bread an' cheese and then back to our cozy nest?" Fiona stared out of the window at the passing countryside as Michael made good time on the deserted country lanes, even without having to put his driving skills to the test.
"A little more than that, we can get whatever you want. We could buy a camping stove and some gas canisters. It'll mean we can boil water and even heat up a meal... I was also thinking about buying some cheap security lights. They run off batteries and, with the lights removed, I can wire up the motion sensors to warn us if somebody comes nosing around."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Me brother Seamus does sommit similar around his weapons dumps, only he wires up tha motion detectors ta shotgun shells."
He raised an eyebrow and risked a brief glance in her direction.
"Does your brother have any other security tips we could use?"
"Not thot I can think of wit'out havin' access ta a comprehensive armoury... Now it's yar turn." The redhead rested her hand on his thigh and gave it a squeeze.
"My turn?"
"Aye, I've told ya about one o' Seamus's lines o' defense. Now, ya tell me sommit about yar family."
"My family?" he echoed uncertainly.
"Ya already know about me family; ya've read all our Interpol files at the very least. I donnae know anythin' about yar real family."
"What do you want to know?" Michael sounded unsure about this new . Glenanne turned in her seat so she could watch his profile while he focused on driving.
"How many brothers and sisters have ya got?"
"One brother, that's it," he answered immediately, happy that she had asked something so simple. But that wasn't all the Irishwoman wanted.
"Jus' tha one? So, tell me about ham, whot's his name? When did ya las' see ham?"
"That's more than one question, I think -" He stopped talking as her fingers tightened their hold on his limb. Swallowing, he revised his statement. "Okay, I see you feel strongly about this, his name is Nate and he's six years younger than me."
"And?"
"Oh, well, let's see now, I think last time I saw him, he had taken out ten credit cards in my name because he thought I was critically injured and not expected to live. So, when I went over to have a little chat with him about that, he hit me in the back of the head with a telephone book and while I was still seeing stars, he stole my rental car so he could use it as collateral in a poker game."When she didn't comment, he glanced at her again. "There's a reason I became a spy, Fi... I didn't have a family like yours. The happiest times in my home were when my dad would disappear for a few weeks. Of course, he always came back again…" He tried shrugging off the painful memories.
"Ya wa' happier when yar da' wa' away?" She shook her head, wishing now she hadn't asked. She had lost her father when she was just a girl and that still hurt. "Whot about yar ma? Whot's she like?"
He wasn't ready to talk about his mother, not yet anyway. "It's complicated...Hmmm, let's just talk about her later... Oh look, the sea, we're nearly there. Where do you want to go first? How about we find a hardware store and then move on from there?"
They spent a couple of hours visiting various small shops, spending cash and trying to avoid conversations with the owners and staff, who invariably wanted to chat. By the end of the morning, the trunk of the BMW was filled with their supplies and they apparently hadn't been spotted yet.
"Whot about another car?" Fiona was eyeing up the vehicles parked along by the harbor wall.
"It's too exposed. We need somewhere quieter." The street was far from being busy, but it only needed one person to question what they were doing. "We might have to leave that until after dark."
"Well if wa're not looking fer a vehicle, whot are we doin' takin' a stroll in tha open like this?"
He came to a stop and turned her slightly so she could see where they were. "I thought you'd appreciate a hot meal?"
Sally O'Brady's was a small cafe with a large plate glass window and, when she looked inside, it was just what she suspected: all green and white chintz and good solid old fashioned wooden tables and chairs. It also had a good view of the road and seemed relatively empty.
"D'ya think this is wise, Michael?" Fiona looked up at her lover as he studied the menu in the cafe window. He had surprised her, given his new intolerance for danger since they'd gone on the run.
"I've seen only two traffic cameras in this whole town and we avoided them both," he informed her as he read the mouth-watering list of local delicacies. "I think for a hot meal we can risk it."
"I'm so glad ya said thot." She sighed and, without further ado, pushed open the half glass door and stepped into the warmth of the cozy cafe. "I could murder fer a decent cuppa tea."
Taking a table that gave them the best view of the exits and of the street outside, the couple unbuttoned their coats and sat back as comfortably as they could. It was still a little early for the lunchtime crowds, so only two other tables were taken up in the small establishment, one by a pair of elderly women, enjoying a chat while sipping tea and eating pastries, while the other was being occupied by a family, a man and woman most likely in their thirties with three children in tow, English tourists by their accents.
Knowing that most intelligence agencies didn't employ the elderly or approve of agents taking their families on assignments to capture rogue spies, Michael felt he could let his guard down by a fraction, or at least enough to enjoy a hearty repast.
"Good mornin' ta ya…" The waitress was a teenage girl who looked like she would have preferred to have been anywhere other than serving customers. "Can I take yar order, please?"
Bored and disinterested was just what Michael looked for in serving staff. Unless she was very, very good, this girl was no CIA or MI6 operative about to poison him or stick a knife into him under the pretense of placing a napkin on his lap.
"A pot 'o tea fer two, milk an' sugar." Fiona answered for them both. "Are ya still servin' breakfasts?"
"Aye, servin' em all day."
During his time playing the Irish patriot McBride, Michael had got used to tucking into greasy eggs, bacon, sausage, beans and fried bread with a healthy gusto. But the cholesterol filled meal dripping in fat wouldn't have been his first choice. He waited for the girl to leave and then leaned forward over the table. But before he could speak, she answered his unasked question.
"Don'tcha pull a face. Ya know we both need tha energy... An' god only knows when wa're gonna get another chance ta have a full breakfast."
"We've got a camping stove," he countered in a low voice.
"Aye, but it won't be tha same an' ya know it. Ya came har ta eat, so let's eat," she declared with a grin, knowing she had won that particular argument.
They ate in near silence, not wanting to risk being overheard as, with the lunch hour looming closer, more people began to enter the cafe. Michael kept a close watch on the door through to the kitchen and where the various patrons were sitting as well the movement of the few members of staff. The former operative trusted that Fiona was concentrating on the front door and the street beyond.
"Michael," she whispered, a slender hand landing on his arm and he instantly looked up, searching for what had caused her concern.
Across the other side of the road, near to a row of empty coaches waiting for returning tour parties investigating the town, two young women who no more than teenagers were standing out near the harbor, looking out at the boats bobbing on the waves, unaware of the two men approaching them from behind. Even from a distance, it was impossible not to see these men were up to no good. Their furtive glances gave away that they were looking out making sure it was all clear.
"It's none of our business, Fi." He felt sorry for the girls about to be mugged, but the ex-spy had something far more important on his mind.
One of the men grabbed hold of the taller girl's handbag, tearing it off her shoulder. The second man went to do the same to the smaller girl, but she had her bag strap crossways over her body and, when he tugged, she went with him, nearly falling as he jerked and pulled at the strap.
Both Michael and Fiona watched the teenager was dragged along as she fought to hold onto her property. That is until the strap snapped and she fell to the ground.
"Fi, leave it. It's over. They're fine." Michael laid his hand over his lover's wrist.
The thieves were off and running, while the taller girl joined her smaller friend, helping her to her feet. They stared after the departing muggers, talking rapidly to each other. The smaller girl with strands of blonde hair sticking out from under her hat pulled a mobile phone from her coat pocket.
"Fi!" he hissed as the fiery redhead had slipped her hand from under his and was out of her chair in a flash, making a dash for the cafe door. "Dammit, Fi," Michael groaned and got to his feet, pulling money from his pocket to pay for the meal as he went to give chase.
He had no fear that she would catch up to the thieves. His concern was for their cover if the police got involved. All it would take was one mention in a Garda report of a couple with a resemblance to themselves to bring the intelligence agencies to the area. Card would tear the place apart. He'd find a pretense to search every building... That is, if her brother Colin didn't hack their system and send Liam after them first… Dammit it all to hell!
()()()()()()()()()
Fiona ran as hard as she could. It had been years since she had been to Waterford. But she had a vague memory of all the narrow streets that weaved away from the seafront and the even narrower alley ways which linked them together.
Sprinting after the thieves, she caught sight of them just as they darted off the main street and into one of the many alleys and, at that moment, she saw her chance to overtake them. Flying as fast as her feet would carry her, she spotted exactly what she needed to bring the thieves to a stop.
A large metal dumpster had been left at the entrance to a narrow side road and, if she had memorized the streets correctly that she and Michael had been walking around earlier, this was where her targets would be coming out. Kicking the brakes off the dumpster, Fiona could hear the thud of boots on concrete coming from just around the corner. If she timed things just right… Taking a deep breath, the former PIRA operative pushed it with all her might out into the alley where she'd heard the running footfalls.
Both men crashed into the obstacle and, before they could recover, Ms. Glenanne dodged around the obstacle and hit one with a punch to the jaw and the other, even as he reached for her, was assaulted from behind by an angry man with a very short haircut and icy blue eyes. With the second assailant choked out and lying unconscious on the ground, Michael snatched up the two purses before Fiona could touch them.
"Whot tha hell are ya playin' at? Ya coulda got us -" He paused, his own orbs going wide when he realized they had two wide-eyed witnesses, the two teenage victims of the robbery were standing there, staring at the scene of carnage and the people who had apparently caused it.
Fiona turned and beamed brightly at them. "We saw yar trouble... An' I t'ought tis no way ta treat visitors ta our fair shores." The Irishwoman thickened her accent and pulled the bags from her lover's grasp and handed them back to the girls. "Accept our apologies fer our heathen brudders." The one she had hit groaned and opened his eyes, so Fiona kicked him back into unconsciousness.
"Thank you, thank you both." the taller of the girls gasped, taking both of their purses back.
Michael instantly recognized her accent and, although it was Canadian rather than American, it still caused his levels of paranoia to jump several degrees. The young women were surely too young to be operatives in any agency. Nonetheless, they had seen their faces now and, when he glanced around, the ex-spy could see several other people were coming closer to gawk at the scene.
"I – I called the police." The second girl held up her phone, gasping slightly from the chase. "Sorry, it took me a minute to get the road names. But they said they are sending somebody." Her bright smile faded as she read the expression in the faces of the couple who had rescued their property. "I – they would have gotten all our belongings, our passports and money," she added quietly.
"We should go." Michael tugged on Fiona's hand; however, the Irishwoman held her ground.
"Ar' ya both a'right? They dinnae hurt either o' ya?"
"No, Ma'am. We're fine, just a little shaken up."
"Thot's good now. I need tha two o' ya ta do us a little favor... Can ya keep quiet about me and me man har? Ya see, we're elopin' an' if me family finds out wa're har, thar'll be hell ta pay. So I need ya ta tell the Garda thot these two," and she kicked the nearest one again. "Thot they ran straight inta dumpster cuz they war watching tha pair o' ya chasin' them. Can ya do thot fer us?"
"I don't know," the petite blonde teen answered before looking to her darker haired friend.
"Ya would be doin' us both a massive favor an' it wouldnae hurt a soul." Michael flashed his most charming smile.
"What do you think, Taryn? If they hadn't stopped them, we'd have been in real trouble."
Taryn, the slightly taller of the duo, bit down on her bottom lip as she glanced from the men lying conscious on the ground to the couple pleading with their eyes to keep their anonymity.
"It does nae harm and t'would be such a help ta us," Fiona added.
Taryn finally came to a decision. "I think we should help them, Kara. Just like –?"
She looked in askance to the Irishwoman.
"Barbara…" Fiona came up with the first name which sprung to her mind. It had been on the waitress' name tag back at the cafe.
"Just like Barbara says, it wouldn't hurt anybody."
"Thank you." Michael breathed a sigh of relief.
"Can you wait with us until the police arrive?" Kara requested. "We can tell them you just stopped by to stay with us to make sure those two don't run away."
"No." Mr. Westen said quickly. "No, we daren't risk it, young miss. But how about we use thot broken strap on yar bag ta tie up one o' tham an' tha belt off yar coat, Taryn, ta restrain tha other?"
They waited until the young women, who insisted on doing the tying up themselves, had secured their prisoners and then, just as the sound of police sirens was getting closer, the Irish couple disappeared into the maze of alleys and back to their car.
()()()()()()()()()
Michael was back in the driver's seat of the BMW, which was now loaded down with enough supplies to last them a week. Flexing his fingers around the steering wheel, the dark haired former spy worked on containing his fury at what had just happened. How could she do that, risking everything for a couple of strangers in mugging for gods sakes? It's not like they were being killed!
"I had ta do it, Michael." Fiona declared, as if reading his mind, instead of just his stony expression of barely suppressed anger. "Ya saw it fer yarself! Tham bastids coulda really hurt tham."
"But they didn't. The girls were just shaken up. They'd have been fine. But now they've seen our faces." He turned his head at glare at her. "If they talk, if they say anything to the police..."
"They're not gonna an' they wouldnae have seen us at all if ya had nae come charging in like some bloody white knight. I had it under control, Michael."
"Under control…? You call that under control? You took on two men, both of them bigger than you with no back up... You can't do that, Fi, not anymore."
"Oh, I cannae, is it? Since when do I ever take on someone who's nae bigger than me size and who ar' ya ta tell me whot I can or cannae do, Michael Westen? Ya might be enough o' a cold hearted bastid who can watch two teenagers get assaulted, but I cannae. I've spent me whole life fighting injustice an' am nae gonna sit around now when I can put a stop ta it."
"And I'm telling you you can't keep putting yourself at risk. You think I'm cold hearted bastard and I don't care? Well, you're all I care about, your freedom, keeping you and our baby safe. That's it! You're my mission, Fiona, my only mission, an' I don't give a rat's ass about anyone else." He closed his mouth and reined in his temper, waiting for her reply and half expecting to get hit.
But instead of letting her own temper erupt, Fiona turned away to face the window. Michael thought he heard her sniff, but the dark haired man knew better than to ask if she was okay.
They travelled the rest of the way back to their hideout in silence, neither one wanting to be the one who broke the peace, both of them lost in their own thoughts.
Even though they weren't communicating, they still managed to work as a team when they arrived back at the cottage, getting the car onto the back of the property and hiding the path they had taken before carrying all their supplies back into the once abandoned dwelling.
When the doors were shut, the trip wires back in place and the bags emptied, Michael turned his attention to repairing the damage caused by their latest tiff. He had always loved the way she called him out when he was being insensitive. Relationships, people, they were hard for him to fathom sometimes when they weren't merely assets and liabilities to be used or countered. He had always loved her spirit and how passionate she was about life, even when it drove him nuts…but now…
"Fi, we need to talk, luv." He used the same endearment he had used throughout their time together.
"Whot d'ya want ta talk about, Michael?" she groused, turning away from him.
"Please, sit with me." Letting out a frustrated breath, he took hold of her hand and he led her over to the couch. Shouting at her wasn't going to make her listen to him, that much he knew.
"Please, just sit... If you don't like what I have to say, then you can hit me some more."
With a heart-felt sigh, the petite redhead dropped down onto the soft padded cushions. "Fine, we'll talk... But if I donnae like whot ya have ta say, I will kick yar arse."
"It's a deal." He smiled at her and then sat down next to her. "Fi, we have problem."
She rolled her eyes at him for stating the obvious.
"Just let me speak... It's like football and football. What you think of as football and what I think is football is two entirely different things. What you call football, I call soccer. There are all kinds of people chasing the ball, kicking ball, moving it up and down the field. What I call football is something different. In the football I am accustomed to, there is one person responsible for carrying the ball, the quarterback, that's you and the ball in this scenario is our baby."
He placed his hand over her stomach and then gathered her two hands together in his free hand before pressed them over the back of his large paw covering her still flat belly.
"Michael, I -"
"Please, just listen... You carry the ball and you go down field towards the goal, our goal, which in this case is to get out of Ireland and somewhere safe, and my job to tackle everyone that is coming after you. The quarterback does not tackle people. The quarterback carries the ball and sometimes he passes it to someone to carry down field. But in this case, you cannot pass the ball. You have to run with it. You cannot keep trying to do my job on the field and I need you to do yours. Okay?"
"I donnae think ya can call our baby a ball. Besides, me mammy managed -"
"Your Mom did what she had to when your dad wasn't there to help and she had the rest of your family to help her... I'm the one here with you and I want you to understand that this isn't going to work for me while you keep insisting on putting our baby in play."
"Michael, -"
"Shhhh, let me finish." He took her face between his hands and placed a soft kiss to her forehead. "You are the bravest person I know. But I need you to remember that there is someone more important than either you or me that needs defending right now and that's our baby. You have to think about that first, Fi. I know it feels wrong sometimes, but you need to see that bigger picture."
He waited, silently praying that she understood what he was trying to say. Slowly, the hurt faded from her blue-green eyes and she leant forward until their foreheads touched.
"Yar really bad at this, ain't ya?"
"Yeah," he agreed with a weak laugh.
"I'm nae sure I like it, but I donnae think I'll kick yar arse fer it."
"Thank you," he whispered, drawing her in for a long slow kiss. As they broke apart, Fiona let herself be tucked under his arm and she laid her head on her lover's shoulder.
He might not have convinced her of anything, but at least she knew where he stood and he had managed to clear the air between them… he hoped… and that was good enough for tonight.
()()()()()()()()()()
Mason Gilroy sat at a small table, gazing dispassionately at the brunette on the monitor who had apparently decided to remove her handcuffs and leave them off this time. On the flat surface before him were the redacted details of the last ten years of Michael Westen's life since joining the Agency.
The British agent turned freelance assassin sighed before turning his attention back to the paperwork laid out in front of him. Of course the Americans were not going to turn over the classified details of their operations, regardless of what the Home Office threatened them with.
Reading documents that were more little black rectangles than words was rather a bit like watching a movie on an airplane. All the juicy bits were gone, but one could still get the basic idea.
He knew of Westen, of course. In their business, there weren't a lot of chaps with their reputations as well as the skills to back them up. Seemed he'd had a bit of a falling out with his old partner before the man had gotten himself blown up in some Russian oil refinery. Mr. Gilroy also preferred work for hire to laboring for a government, but it did seem rather a bit of an extreme way to retire from active duty.
The silver haired man he was supposed to be helping was stalking around the sparse office they were both currently occupying while shouting into a phone. The Englishman let the noise wash over him. It was of no concern to him. Long slender fingers pulled out a collection of photographs of a dark haired man from his late twenties through his early thirties, if he had to guess. Next to that were surveillance photographs of the young woman on the screen in front of him and a bounty of shots of another young woman with long auburn hair and impeccable fashion sense for an arms dealer.
"Seems your boy here is quite the ladies' man... Pity that," Gilroy announced when Tom Card had ended his conversation. "Oh, well, no matter. I can use that, old chap."
"How so?" the CIA officer queried. He knew the man was not happy to have him onboard. The freelance wet work specialist smiled broadly at the American.
"I find that when you hold someone, you learn what they tell you. But if you let them go, you can learn what they do, where they go and who they contact. As delightful as it was watching you try to intimidate Ms. Keyes, I think she would be more useful if you set her free, as it were."
"You want me to just let her go, that's your plan?" And Card's disbelief was plain.
"In a manner of speaking, yes…. I'll be following her, of course. Should she lead me to the elusive Mr. Westen, I presume his assets are expendable?"
"I just want Michael back here in one piece. The collateral damage is your business."
Mason Gilroy's smile was wide and self-satisfied. "Yes, it always is," he agreed. The neatly dressed Brit stood up and, after gathering a few photographs, headed towards the door. "I'll leave you to ponder that thought while I prepare for our little endeavor. I trust you won't keep me waiting too long to begin."
The flexing of the jawline and the clenched teeth of his employer at the moment as the man tried to control himself was endlessly entertaining as the door closed behind him.
"Well, ta ta for now," he called as the wooden barrier closed between them and Gilroy chuckled softly.