A/N: Here at last is the next chapter of our tale of two star-crossed lovers. We thank you for reading, reviewing and continued enthusiasm for our stories. Real life has just gone off the rails lately for both of us. As such, there are a few changes. Life with Larry will update on Saturdays, but we have no idea right now which Saturdays. So, that said, we promise to let everyone know after #BurnerClub on Thursdays if there will be an update of LWL on that upcoming Saturday.
We will try our best to continue to post regular updates of this story every Thursday after #BurnerClub. Mondays just don't work for either one of us. So, without further ado, our story...
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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Twelve
Mason Gilroy was still seething an hour after his rather unpleasant telephone conversation with Tom Card. The jumped-up training officer had had the nerve to call him incompetent and a rank amateur and then had proceeded to tell him he was off the case. The final insult had come in the form of snide advice. If he expected a pay check, then he needed to be talking to Richard Chambers.
Standing in the en-suite of his room in the ambitiously named Grand Hotel in the center of Waterford, the hired killer examined at his battered features in the mirror attached to the wall above the white porcelain sink.
A nights sleep had done nothing to restore his temper or his normal good looks. A broken cheekbone and a broken nose meant most of his face was swollen and disfigured, though both would heal in time. Carefully twisting around, he noted his back was a mess. But thanks to the bulletproof vest he had worn, there was nothing worse than large painful bruises. Thankfully his original assessment of broken ribs had been proven wrong.
"Foreplay," he muttered and tried to raise a smile. However, the sight of his bloodstained teeth had him reaching for his toothbrush and paste.
So Westen liked to play rough... Gilroy twisted the tap until water flowed into the sink and, once he had applied a generous amount of toothpaste to the brush, he set about scrubbing his teeth clean.
That was fine by him... The toothbrush caught on something and the killer felt a sudden tug. There was just a couple of things he was going to have to take care of first. A white molar landed in the sink and, before the Brit could grab it, the tooth disappeared down the drain.
Investigating the hole left in his gum with his tongue, the assassin frowned as he felt a cold icy rage begin to build. This would not do...
He would take a few days to rest and recuperate and then, once he was refreshed and thinking clearly, he would begin to plan his revenge. A plan which would involve lots of blood, an inordinate amount of pain, followed by several suitably gruesome deaths and afterwards, once he had restored his reputation, he would leave the UK and travel further afield, maybe to the Americas.
From what he had been told, there was lots to do for a man with his particular skill set over there in that brave new world across the Atlantic Ocean.
()()()()()
Much to Fiona's relief, Michael kept to his word and set a much slower pace than the day before as he lead the way deeper into the forest and, more importantly, further away from the well-marked pathways and trails which criss-crossed the foothills leading up to the mountain.
"All those footpaths out here, they work in our favor. It means we don't have to worry about having to dodge dog walkers and hikers, as they're going to mostly stick to the trails," the dark haired spy commented as he carefully made his way down a slippery slope into a gulley and then turned to hold his hand out to help her down.
"So, whot do we do if we come across somebody? Do we shoot tham?" She grinned up into her lover's eyes, her mood greatly improved now that they had had a chance to clear the air.
"Gunfire would be a bad idea." He kept hold of her hand as they made their way along the gulley, steadily climbing upwards. "If we hear any one close by, we'll hide until they pass."
"Silencers war made precisely fer this situation, Michael, an' I know we have two in yar back pack."
"No guns, Fi, unless absolutely necessary." His look told her he knew now she was teasing.
Before she could retort, he suddenly let go of her hand and moved forward at a faster pace to where a rotted tree trunk blocked their path.
"Michael?" She watched as he took out a wicked looking knife with a curved blade and began to slice several of the large flat fungi growing out of the log.
"Oyster mushrooms," he answered, holding out one of the pale slices. "They're safe to eat."
"Are ya sure? I mean thar are a lotta poisonous mushrooms and toadstools out har. Ya have ta be careful." Fiona took the slice from him, turning it over in her hands.
"Trust me, I know what I'm talkin' about. We'll add it to our meal tonight." Taking the mushroom back, he turned her about and added the freshly cut fungi to the food already in her back pack. "With a little luck, we'll find some other plants to add to the pot, or maybe a squirrel or two to season the stew," the former Ranger added with a grin.
"Squirrel?" The redhead wrinkled her nose. "Thar's nae enough meat on one o' tham ta make a proper meal. If ya intent on living like a wild man, I expect nuttin' less than venison fer me supper."
"You expect me to bring down a deer with a knife or a pistol? You have really high expectations of my skills and I don't think you wanna to drag a carcass that size all over the woods."
"Who said anything about me carrying tha bloody thing about?" she answered airily and smiled.
"C'mon," he urged, internally relieved they were getting along again. "We should keep moving."
()()()()()
"Thot girl has been stood out thar in tha cold fer tha last two hours an' I cannae get har ta come back inside." Isabelle Glenanne gestured with a nod of her head to her bedroom's large sash window. "As soon as she wa' done feedin' her babbies, she handed me Peter an' said she had ta go outside... An' ya jus' have ta look at har ta see she has nae slept a wink."
Maeve Glenanne moved the lacy net curtain shielding the room from the bright spring sunshine aside to stare out of the window, her blue-green eyes narrowing as she watched the slender figure of Sean's young wife pace nervously back and forth along the gravel driveway at the front of her home.
"I'll go an' keep har company," the family matriarch said, turning back around to face the black haired young woman sitting on the bed with her own baby girl in her arms and her youngest niece and nephew playing on the floor at by her feet. "How are tha wee ones?"
"Aw, thar as good as gold." Isabelle smiled fondly at two year old Sian and her fourteen month old brother. "An' Molly har is enjoying tha company." She tickled her own baby girl, making the chubby six month old squeal with laughter and kick her legs.
"Rosie will calm down once she sees har man." Maeve leaned down to kiss both youngsters playing on the floor on the top of the head before straightening back up. "We both remember whot it's like tha first time they come home after a dust up."
"Aye, thot we do." Isabelle's smile faded at the memory of Seamus being carried home by two of his crew, his leg a bloody mess after an arms delivery had gone wrong. "But it donnae make it any easier."
"No, it donnae. But we do whot we must, do we nae?"
The senior Mrs. Glenanne took her time walking down to the ground floor of the seven bedroom Georgian manor house which had been her home for the last fourteen years. She had thought the war was over. After the referendum, in which the people from both sides of the border voted resoundingly in favor of peace, she thought she would get to live out the remainder of her years watching the next generation of Glenannes grow up in a world her dearly parted and greatly missed husband would have approved of.
"Me mudder always said thar's a difference between living, an' livin' free." She could hear her beloved Patrick's voice as if he was at her side, speaking the words he had muttered after discovering his younger brother had been killed by a British soldier on the streets of Derry. "An' after this nights work, I believe those English heathens proved they'd rather we dinnae live at all."
The "Good Friday" agreement wasn't promising a united Ireland or even guaranteeing home rule, but it had been a big step in the right direction in bringing all sides to the table. Most of the changes voted upon had yet to come into force while there were still issues to be thrashed out, as old hatreds and suspicions died hard. It was those hatreds that she feared her daughter's actions would spark into another thirty years of fighting.
Before going out the front door, the elderly albeit still fiery Irishwoman crossed the hallway to check on the rest of Seamus and Isabelle's brood. All five of her remaining grandchildren were sitting in the living room with the TV blaring loudly as they watched cartoons or played with the large selection of toys she kept in a box for her young guests.
Patrick, the eldest who was supposed to be watching over his younger siblings, was slouched down in one corner of the couch, all his attention on his Game Boy, while his ten year old twin brothers, Brendan and Dara, were teasing their little sister, Maggie, as she tried to play with her My Little Ponies models and five year old Milo, left to his own devices, threw large plastic bricks all about.
Having taken in the scene in one quick glance, Maeve crossed the room swiftly, snatching the video game from her oldest grandson's hands. "Patrick James Glenanne, yer supposed ta be watchin' over yar brothers an' sister, not goin' cross-eyed playin' wit' this thing," she scolded the slim youth, who was now sitting up straight and glaring at his siblings.
"I wa' -"
"I know tis boring ta be inside. But ya cannae be outside today an' we need ya all ta be good fer when yar Uncle Sean comes home."
"Is Uncle Sean gonna die?" Maggie asked as she hugged one of her many model ponies.
"No, child, whotever gave ya thot idea?"
"Then why is Auntie Rose cryin' so much?" Brendan joined the conversation at the same moment his twin Dara spoke up.
"We heard ya talkin' wit our mammy thot Uncle Sean could lose his arm... Is he gonna have ta have his arm chopped off, Granma?" The youngster made a sawing motion just above his elbow.
"No, I -"
And before she could answer first, Maggie and then Milo got to their feet and wrapped their arms about her legs. "Are tha bad men comin' here? Pat said Uncle Sean has been shot by a bad man?" This from Maggie, followed immediately by Milo voicing his own fears.
"I want me daddy," the boy declared before wiping his nose on his grandmother's skirt.
The old woman blinked as her grandchildren continued to bombard her with questions. Her own children had been born during the worst of the violence. Her first born had come into the world the same year her brother-in-law Milo had been killed.
By the time Liam was born two years later, her husband was a full-fledged member of the IRA, fighting in skirmishes during the bloody border campaign and well on his way to becoming a master bomb maker for the cause he had taken to his heart. After those early battles in the late fifties came the civil rights riots and the running street battles, before what became known as Na Trioblóidí or, The Troubles, and the British army occupation of the North.
All her children had grown up knowing to keep quiet and out of the way when an injured family member or friend was carried into the house. But for this new generation, this was a unique and frightening event. It had been just over three years since her golden angel, Claire, had been taken from them and back then Seamus had sent the children off to stay with his in-laws to shield them from any potential violence.
"Enough now, me darlings, yar Uncle Sean will be as right as rain. He has nothin' more than a scratch... Now, Patrick, get ta yar feet. I have sandwiches in tha fridge fer ya all. Take yar brothers an' sister through ta tha kitchen an' get tham settled down. Thar's lemonade an' I think thar's a bottle o' dandelion an' burdock in tha pantry ya can have." She began to herd the younger members of the family out of the door.
"Patrick..." She stopped her oldest grandson before he could exit. "Make a cuppa fer me an' yar Auntie Rose an' put tham in tha front parlour fer me. Thar's a good lad." She patted the pre-teen on the cheek and then sucked in a deep breath as she headed to the heavy wooden door.
()()()()()
Michael checked his watch. It was coming up mid-day and he estimated they had barely covered more than four or possibly five miles in the five hours they had been walking. The ground they were covering was tricky, as they had to make their own path and try not to leave too many clues to the direction they were heading in. But even allowing for that, they were still far behind the target he had set in his mind.
Looking up through the branches of the trees, he pursed his lips together when he saw the darkening clouds overhead. More rain would make the forest floor even more slippery than it was already. He glanced over to where his lover leaned against a tree trunk, her tiny frame wilting under the weight of her backpack and the fatigue which along with the rapid mood swings seemed to be the two main symptoms of her condition.
Condition... He looked away, turning his attention to the mud covering his boots as if the wet earth held some strange fascination. She was pregnant. They were going to have a baby and he didn't have a single clue as to how on earth they were going to make their new reality work.
The ex-spy sighed heavily and only just managed to stop the wince of pain from showing on his face. His injuries from fighting with the British assassin were the more immediate problem.
He was pretty sure he was nursing at least one broken rib and his stomach and torso were a mass of bruises, as were all four of his limbs. The battered man knew he needed rest and pain relief; however, for now, rest was out of the question and the contents of their meager first aid kit needed to be saved in case of real emergencies. So, the former military man had decided he would just have to suck it up until they could find a safe haven far away from civilization.
"Michael, how about followin' yar own advice?" While he had been distracted with his own thoughts, Fiona had walked over, offering him a half-empty bottle of water. "Drink a little an' often I believe wa' whot ya said... An' I have nae seen ya take barely a drop in tha last hour."
"I'm fine, Fi," he replied, taking the bottle, holding it up to his lips and then swallowing deeply.
"Fine?" Without warning, she pressed her fingers into his side and even through the layers of clothing, the former operative felt the pressure. It was enough to make him gasp in pain and drop the empty water bottle onto the ground.
"Am sorry..." Her slender hands gently held his shoulders, supporting him as he caught his breath. "Am sorry, I dinnae know ya war thot hurt, though it's been as plain as day ever since we set off thot yer getting' worse tha longer yer on yar feet."
"It's bruises, that's all." He smiled, or rather grimaced through the pain as he tried to reassure her that nothing was wrong.
"D'ya want me ta poke ya in tha ribs again or ar' ya gonna show me whot ya've done ta yerself?" Her hands drifted from his shoulders to the front of his jacket and pulling down the zipper before he could stop her.
He captured her wrists in an effort to prevent her from lifting his jumper and the shirt underneath.
"Fi, we have no time for this."
"Remember whot we talked about? Last night, we talked about staying safe, ya recall? If ya have a busted rib or if ya have sommit else wrong wit' ya, it cannae be ignored." She continued to stare up at him, her expression daring him to argue further.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he released his grip on her slender wrists and pulled up on his clothing, exposing his badly beaten flesh to the cold fresh air. He looked straight ahead as his lover bent to examine the bruising, her fingertips trailing lightly over his tender skin.
"If I dinnae know better, I'd say ya'd fallen under a lorry." She straightened up. "Though I think a lorry might've done less damage. Whot did thot English bastid hit ya wit'?... Well, whotever it wa', I can feel one broken rib and another maybe fractured. Ya should be taped up an' restin' an' nae traipsing through tha woods risking a punctured lung."
Sighing softly, the former spy carefully tucked in his shirt and pulled the hem of the jumper down.
"We have to keep moving. We have no choice. We're not safe here."
As if to make his point, the peace of the forest was suddenly broken by the excited barking of at least two dogs.
The fugitive couple exchanged glances as their hands closed about the grips of their handguns. For several seconds, they stood frozen to the spot until the sounds of the animals faded away.
"We'll look for somewhere to stop for the day," Michael conceded. "But not here. We have to get deeper into the forest and away from the footpaths. We'll take it easy, I promise." His large hand cupped her cheek as his lips ghosted over hers in a very light, soft kiss.
"And - Remember what you said this morning about the lack of toothpaste or mouthwash?" He plucked a couple of bright green leaves off a nearby bush. Handing her one, he popped the other one into his mouth and chewed. "At least there's plenty of mint growing wild."
()()()()()
Rosanna Flanagan Glenanne stopped her pacing and looked around sharply as she heard the front door open. She had been a bundle of nerves, ever since her brother-in-law Liam's late afternoon phone call from the day before letting them all know how badly their attempt to bring Fiona back to the safety of her family had gone.
The young woman may have been born and raised in London; however, she had grown up watching the reports on the six o'clock news and listening to enough talk during family gatherings to know what she was getting into when she took a liking to the mysterious brooding activist that her parents had given shelter to during the late winter and spring of 1996.
She had quickly learned not to ask where he went when he disappeared for days at a time and to wash the bloodstains from his clothes when he did return without comment. But, for all that, she had believed with an end to The Troubles in sight and talk of peace that her family was safe from the bloodshed and the reprisals which had marked the last thirty years of Irish history.
"Rosie, sweetheart, yer gonna catch yar death o' cold standin' out har. Come inside wit' ya."
The petite blonde thought briefly of refusing her mother-in-law's request. But that small spark of rebellion died instantly as the older Mrs. Glenanne reached her side and slipped a slender arm about her waist.
"Ya see thot fella by tha gates?" Maeve inclined her head in the direction of the twelve foot high wrought iron gates at the end of the driveway and the tall, heavy set man masquerading as a gardener. "Thot's one of Liam's men. He's gonna let us know tha second Seamus comes inta sight. So, come an' wait in tha warm."
"They should be har by now," the young woman complained. "When Seamus called, he said they would be on tha road as soon as they got Sean inta tha car an' thot wa' four hours ago."
"Seamus will be driving carefully, obeyin' all tha rules o' tha road, an' ya getting' yarself worked up inta a state is nae gonna help yar man. He's gonna need ta see ya bein' strong and thot yer capable o' holding yar family tagether."
Rose allowed Maeve to guide her back towards the house. "Let's sit down in me parlour and have a nice cuppa tea. All thot pacin' about tha place ya've been doing is nae gonna make thot son o' mine drive any faster."
()()()()()
"Is thar no other way across?" Fiona stood on the edge of a chasm, staring down at the fast flowing water running along a stony stream bed thirty feet below.
"There might be, but it could take us hours to find it. Besides, this way will make it harder for anybody following us."
She gave him a look filled with doubt. "If we make it across, wonnae anybody coming after us just do tha exact same thing?"
"Not if we get rid of the branch once we're across," he answered. Then, taking her hand in his, he walked over to where a thick heavy branch formed a makeshift bridge over the twenty foot gap.
The petite redhead had plenty of misgivings about trusting their weight to the narrow and what looked like a decidedly unsteady platform. Swallowing thickly, she put one foot on the branch and felt it roll slightly under the weight of her boot.
"Michael, yer talking about us trusting our weight ta a rotted piece o' wood."
"It'll be fine, Fi. Look, I'll go first. It's not far."
"I'm not scared, Michael... Am thinkin' o' ya." There, she had said it and Fiona knew as soon as she saw that stubborn glint in his eyes that she had made a mistake. "Yer hurt an' this - thar has ta be another way ta - cross." Her words trailed to a stop as the former spy continued to glare.
"I said I'm fine," he spoke from behind clenched teeth and a stony expression. Before his lover could say any more, he stepped past her and onto the unsteady, narrow bridge and began to edge his way across.
"Dammit, Michael, Am supposed ta be tha impetuous one."
She leaned down, using her hands and weight to keep the shaky platform as still as possible as the love of her life slowly made his way across to the other side of the ravine.
Far sooner than Fiona expected, the American ex-operative was across and grinning back at her while he pressed his arm into his side in an effort to ease the pain radiating from his ribs.
"Come on, slow poke," he teased. The dark haired man placed a foot on the branch to steady it while she took a deep breath before lightly running across to join him.
"I'm pretty sure whoever they send after us next is not going to risk jumping, at least not at this spot. So it should at least buy us some time," Michael commented as they worked together to send the heavy branch crashing down into the water far below.
"Yer right," Fiona admitted, planting a kiss to his whiskery cheek as they both straightened. "But donnae let it go ta yar head."
()()()()()
The front parlour was Maeve's private sanctuary. It was where she spent a lot of her time on the days she was alone in the large rambling house, save for the company of her beloved Belgium Shepherds. Staying overly warm due to the log fire she kept permanently alight during the cold months and with the walls covered with family photographs and every available space holding some object which signified a special memory, this was the room where the matriarch of the family felt most comfortable.
Taking one of the two high backed chairs positioned close to the smoldering fire, Rosie noted two cups of tea were already waiting for them on the small table between her chair and her mother-in-law's favorite place next to the hearth.
"Have a sip o' yar sweet tea and calm yarself," the older Mrs. Glenanne instructed, taking her seat before leaning forward to follow her own advice.
The younger woman had been distraught ever since Liam had called the day before to let them know that not only had they missed their chance to catch hold of the fugitive couple, but somehow Sean had been shot by a British operative sent to kill or capture Westen.
Then later that evening, when it had been reported on the news that a helicopter belonging to the American Embassy had crashed just outside of Waterford, killing all on board, the blonde had burst into tears and had to be taken up to her room to calm down.
"Calm meself, ya say? How can I sit har when-?" Sean's young wife swallowed hard and tried to do just that. "I – I heard whot Liam said. He said he wa' havin' ta find a doctor, a surgeon, somebody ta fix Sean's arm. Thot he could lose tha use o' it if he dinnae get some help soon."
"An' Colin found him a doctor, did he nae?" Maeve replied gently, while reminding herself that Rosanna was new to this side of life as a Glenanne; that she had been raised far away from the fight and she needed not only reassurance but guidance too.
"Did I ever tell ya about tha first time me Patrick, God rest ham, came home a bloody mess, an' Am nae talkin' about after a Saturday night punch-up?"
"No, I-"
"It wa' December tha twelfth, 1956, an' I wa' just a wee bit younger than yarself," Maeve began her tale. "I remember it like it wa' yesterday, Patrick had gone off ta Armagh as part of a brigade sent ta bomb Gough barracks... Well, thar wa' nae a one o' tham who'd done anythin' thot big befer an', as ya can guess, they made a right fool o' thamselves. Befer they could plant thar bomb, they'd been spotted an' driven off by tha soldier boys... It wa' two o' clock in tha morning when tha back door o' tha pharmacy below whar we lived wa' kicked down an' they carried Patrick inside. He'd been shot in tha back. Tha bullet, thank God, had gone all tha way through."
She paused to take a sip of her tea, steadying her nerves. Even half a century later, the memory of that night still gave her chills.
"Now, I coulda fallen ta pieces an' let me husband bleed ta death and leave me babby wit'out a father. But I dinnae do thot. I cleaned out thot wound an' stitched him up tha same way I'd a darned a hole in a sock. It warn't easy and it made me sick ta me stomach. But I did it cuz it needed ta be done." Her blue green eyes took on a steely glint as she gazed at her daughter-in-law. "Ya cannae fall apart, sweetheart... Ya have ta trust thot those boys o' mine know whot thar doin'."
Rosanna swallowed down the last of her tea and placed the cup back down the table with a shaky hand. "But, whot if –?"
"Ya cannae have a doubt in yar head... Ya cannae worry about whot if's. Ya have ta trust thot Liam knows whot he is doin', thot Sean is coming back and thot he'll be fine."
"And whot about Fiona and Michael? Whot if -"
Maeve raised her hand in a sharp gesture, cutting off the younger woman's words. "Fiona will come ta her senses, she's nae stupid. She'll realize sooner or later thot she's made a terrible mistake... Now, ar' ya ready ta see ta yar children so Belle can take a break?"
Rosie nodded and, with a sigh, got to her feet. "Am not a twit. Thot helicopter thot wa' brought down, thot wa' Fiona's doing... Tha CIA will nae forgive thot."
Maeve smiled indulgently and leaned back in her chair. "Yer nae a twit, Rosie, but yer young... Tha Yanks have as much tied up in tha peace process as any o' us... Jus' like tha Brit Prime Minister, thar be those across tha water thot want ta see thar names go down in history as tha great men who brought peace ta Ireland."
The matriarch of the family stood up as well, having finished her tea also.
"Well, an American spy runnin' off wit' a known IRA member donnae look good whotever way ya cut it. Thar be as many on tha loyalist side who would want ta use thot bit o' information as thar be on tha republican side. It's in no one's interest thot this gets out - fer now. An' by tha time they decide whot ta do about it, Liam will have found them both and we'll have come up wit' a solution. Now, go see ta yar babbies. They'll have been missin' ya."
Once she was on her own, Maeve glanced at her watch. It was after noon and Rosie was right. Seamus should have arrived by now. Pursing her lips, she looked towards the window.
She wouldnae worry... Seamus would've called if thar wa' trouble.
()()()()()
They came across the clearing late in the afternoon, at the base of a very steep incline where the trees thinned out under the shade of the rising mountain. There was running water from a little stream which trickled down on its way to feed into the River Suir further downhill and plenty of cover provided by a variety of bushes.
Without a word, they both let their backpacks down to the ground while they took a good look around. Michael gestured with his head towards the bubbling brook and then knelt down and took first a small slip and then a large gulp of the fresh, clear water.
"We can keep watch from up there, it's a natural snipers perch." he said, straightening up and pointing up to a ledge approximately twenty feet up the slope. The redhead nodded and then dubiously joined him in what turned out to be a surprisingly refreshing drink of the cool liquid.
"And, see those boulders..." He gestured with a wave of his arm to where several large rocks rested half buried into the ground. "I'll set up our shelter over there. Those big rocks will give us plenty of cover and help keep out any drafts."
They worked as a team, Fiona searching the nearby area for any dry wood she could find to build a fire while Michael built another shelter. Faster than she anticipated, they were settled under the branches and bracken that would make them nearly invisible come night fall and a small fire was burning in its own little pit next to the outcropping that kept them hidden from prying eyes.
The ex-Ranger stirred their supper, a concoction of tinned beef stew, the mushrooms he had picked and some wild garlic he had found growing along the way. As much as she hated to admit it, the smell arising from the metal pan of the one lone mess kit they shared was enticing and her traitorous stomach rumbled in anticipation.
He grinned at her and decided that was comment enough. He really didn't want to set her temper off again. He was sore enough already without getting smacked on the account of some hormone-fueled mood swing.
"Alright, Michael, ya war right," she groused. "Ar' ya happy now? Thot's twice in one day."
Wisely, he let that remark go as well and held aloft a spoonful of the stew for her to try. After blowing on it cautiously, the redhead tried a mouthful and swallowed, blinking as the hot food slid down her throat.
"We can make this out of rabbit or squirrel if we have to later. It'll be just as good. Even rattle snake would work if there were any around."
Fiona shuddered and looked at him as if he had two heads. "Ya eat those bloody things? How can ya? Thar poisonous, ar' they nae?"
He laughed lightly and offered her another bite before taking one of his own. "Only the business end is poisonous. The meat's actually good, especially on the bigger ones. Tastes like chicken."
"Lucky fer me, thar's nae such a thing in these woods. Whar d'ya learn ta do all this, Michael?"
Fiona might have grown up on a farm and been quite the tomboy in her youth, but camping and backpacking was never part of her upbringing and the last nigh on twenty years had been spent in either engaging in guerrilla warfare in urban environments or traipsing around the world on the arm of the one of the most powerful and dangerous gun runners in all of Europe.
The dark haired man bit his lip for a moment and bought some time by feeding both of them another serving or two of their tasty meal. "I was, um..."
"Oh, fer heaven's sake, Michael, I donnae want tha details o' yar classified missions. Can ya nae tell me anythin' about yar life?"
He shrugged and smiled apologetically. "Sorry, habit, you know? The less you know, the less you can be... I learned in the military. I was in special forces for three years."
"Thar, thot wa' nae so hard, wa' it?" The Irishwoman leaned over and kissed him on his bristly cheek. Taking the spoon from his hand, she took a few bites herself and then offered the next two to him. "And d'ya ever make yarself rattlesnake stew fer dinner?"
"More than once and more than once before I joined up..." Michael laughed. "They were all over in the woods back then. Nate was terrified going into..."
His thoughts seemed to drift away for a minute.
"Go on," she urged. "Ya know all about me brudders, tell me about yars."
"Um..." He hedged and her lover was clearly uncomfortable. "There's a reason I left home at 17 with a change a clothes and $50 bucks and went into the military. I'm not very close to my family."
"oh..." Fiona was clearly baffled by this concept. She could be furious with her family, but until she had run away with her lover, the youngest living Glenanne would never have considered cutting ties with her siblings. She bit her lip and started to choke back the budding tears.
"Fi... What's wrong?" He shuffled closer, the food abandoned. "Please, don't be upset with me."
She gulped back the sob that was building. "Tis nae ya. Ya war talking about... well, nae talking about yar brother..." She gave him a watery smile. "I'm just worried about Sean. I donnae-"
He scooped her up into a tight embrace, as tight as he could manage given his magnitude of his multiple injuries. "He'll be fine, Fi. Liam was there. He'll be fine, I'm sure."
"Yer right... I know, yer right," she sniffed. Fiona had always refused to worry; it was a waste of time and energy, but now she couldn't seem to stop herself from being overwhelmed with concern.
"Here," Michael said, drawing her attention to his hand. He was holding a couple of mint leaves.
His beloved smiled softly now, opening her mouth. He popped the leaf onto her waiting tongue.
The former operative chewed a few seconds before leaning in to kiss her tenderly. They embraced and kissed under the gathering gloom for several moments before they broke apart on a mutual sigh. Then he pressed his lips to her forehead lightly.
"He's going to be alright, Fi, we're going to be alright. Finish up the stew and I'll take first watch."
"Only if ya promise ta come an' sleep when I get up."
Michael kissed her again lightly. "I promise."
()()()()()
A sleek shiny black motorcycle roared along the narrow winding country lanes, ridden by a figure dressed all in black, from the tinted visor on his full face crash helmet through his jacket, pants, boots and gloves, even the bulky rucksack on his back was of the same sober color.
The high-performance machine only slowed when the rider sat up and followed the signs off the road and into the one of the many car parks and picnic areas which surrounded the Slieveamon Mountain.
Coming to a stop, the biker planted one booted foot on the ground and lifted up the wind screen on his helmet before carefully scanning his surroundings. Only when he was satisfied that he was alone did he switch off the motorcycle's engine and flick down the kick stand.
With a sigh, he pulled off his gloves and then removed the head gear, running his hand through his short dirty blond hair while his deep blue eyes settled on the only other vehicle in sight, a Land Rover Discovery, which looked exactly like the one in the surveillance photographs he had studied earlier in the day.
Leaving the crash helmet balanced on the motorcycle's tank, the man dismounted from the hot machine and cautiously approached the large SUV.
Peering inside, he noted bloodstains on the passenger side dashboard and seat and the abandoned clothing and survival equipment discarded on the back seat and in the back cargo area.
Squatting down by the left-hand door, he ran his fingertips lightly over the imprints of two sets of boots, one small, child-size or a small adult, and the other set larger, man-sized indents. Standing up again, he followed the tracks to where they exited the car park and continued into the wilderness.
With his focus on the tree line running the length of the horizon, he unzipped his black leather and reached inside to pull out a cell phone.
"Hey, it's me," he spoke as soon as his call was answered, his accent placing him as a native of somewhere in the north-eastern region of the United States. "Your intel was good. The vehicle is here. You might want to send a team out to retrieve it. There's blood inside, so somebody got hurt. I'm going to follow the tracks, see if I can catch up to the target. I'll call in at twenty hundred."
Ending the call, the well-built man tucked the cell back inside his jacket and then returned to the motorbike and the hard plastic case strapped to the pillion seat. Undoing the straps, he opened the lid of the case to reveal a striped down hunting rifle.
Taking each part in turn, he had the weapon assembled and ready to use in under two minutes and then, without a backward glance, he set off, his eyes fixed on the small indentations, which told him he was on the trail of the rogue spy he had been ordered to bring in or neutralize.
Based on the intel he had on the target, the man had a feeling it was going to be the latter.
And that was just fine with him.