A/N: Sorry to keep you all waiting a week, but we have a long chapter as a thank you all for your continued support. We're hoping to have the next chapter of Life with Larry out before the end of the month, but we'll let you know.
Now, back to our story...While Michael and Fiona were moving deeper into the forest of the Slieveamon Mountains with a mysterious stranger giving chase and the Glenanne clan was anxiously awaiting the return of Sean and Seamus, the various forces aligned against our lovers continued in their pursuit of the couple as well as their own numerous concerns on that same day.
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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Thirteen
Abishuly Nazarbayev, code name Charlie, was used to getting what he wanted. As a smuggler, a purveyor of black market goods and a well-connected man with a network of contacts on both sides of the law, he had powerful friends, and also powerful enemies, which went with the territory.
But if he could not obtain his desires through his normal channels of commerce, his cousin, the man who had been the elected leader of Kazakhstan since its breakaway from the collapsing Soviet Union, could usually help him attain what he was after one way or another. Their relationship was one of mutual advantage as well as a blood kinship.
The raven haired man with somewhat Asiatic and slightly Slavic blend of features which were common to his people stood at the doorway of his well-appointed bedroom in his ducha outside of Moscow and basked in the glow of finally getting what he had wanted for the past three years. The acquisition had been made all the more gratifying because of the wait he decided, throwing back the contents of a cut glass tumbler full of Snow Queen vodka, brewed in his native land far way to the south and imported for his own personal use.
He had known her name wasn't really Tatiana Samoilova when she'd told him that as they had met on the dance floor at Utopia, the night club being her preferred place to do business. Since most high dollar escorts took stage names, "Charlie," as the woman had named him, was hardly bothered by her use of a semi-famous Russian actress as her nom de guerre. Over the years, however, Nazarbayev had come to learn there were other things about the beautiful blonde call girl and master thief that were not as they had been presented, especially regarding the dark haired criminal mastermind in the Russian Mafia that she allegedly worked for when she wasn't working for him.
So, when the not-quite hysterical woman had arrived at his secure and secret getaway in the Russian countryside near dawn, he hadn't been surprised to see the slender brunette sans the blonde wig, heavy make-up and tight clothing that were her alter ego's trademark. The older man had seen her without her disguise before, albeit recently. Based on her disappearance from CEH Manezh not quite a week ago and her panicked phone call very late last night, he was fairly certain that she would arrive without much more than the clothes on her back and what she'd grabbed in a hurry.
After having her escorted into his inner sanctum, her tall toned host had refilled her glass with the cold clear mother's milk of his homeland several times before offering his exhausted guest to his own bed with the reassurance that she would be safe and he would be there to watch over her.
And so he had. Now as Abishuly Nazarbayev walked slowly into his room and sat on the foot of his thick mattress, the movement roused the occupant to wakefulness. Her chocolate-colored eyes flew open and momentarily filled with panic until she finally focused fully on the figure seated on the edge of the mattress. He gave her a warm assuring smile.
"Charlie," she said his name on a sigh of relief and took another moment to gather her thoughts.
"I would tell you good morning, but it is almost noon already," the large muscular man chuckled.
The dazed woman sat up slowly, trying to shift the clothing she had slept in back into place. "Is it that late already?" she asked, looking around the room at the light pouring through the gauzy coverings on the tall windows. "I'm sorry I called you so late. I just didn't know what else to—"
"No matter, любимая," he interrupted. "I am pleased that you chose to call me instead of your other…um, how shall I say it? employer …in your time of trouble. Tell me, Tatiana, where is mysterious man that you said you work for? Where is this haramzade hiding for last two years?"
His most welcome visitor stared at her entwined fingers for a long moment. "I don't know. That's part of why I'm here," she admitted reluctantly, refusing to meet his eyes.
"So, you have come to me for answers?" he asked, putting a sizable hand under her chin and tilting her face up until her brown orbs met his intense black ones. The master thief nodded wordlessly.
"You disappear in middle of job, snatched off streets by armed men in van, and yet they do not bother to take diamonds that you stole for me. I am pleased that they did not, but now I am curious about this and I am concerned for you. There are men watching your apartments in Volvograd and St. Petersburg. But they do more than watch your penthouse in Moscow, da?"
The brunette swallowed thickly at this additional unwelcome news, unable to take her gaze from his dark penetrating stare. His hand slipped from under her jaw to cup her cheek.
"You have come to me for more than answers, have you not, Tatiana Samoilova? Or do you prefer I call you by your English name, Samantha Keyes?"
"Oh," the woman replied, obviously not knowing how to address this turn of events.
"Yes, I know you are. I know who you were, Zlata Galinevna Mezentseva, daughter of prima ballerina who used her тайный агент husband's connections to immigrate to England when you were twenty two. Your family has moved on to Chicago in United States now, da? I think it is from your mother that you get flexibility that makes you such talented thief and it was your father's connections that once made you safe to ply your trade in your homeland. But it was not enough to safeguard you from American CIA, was it, любимая?"
Her mouth fell open momentarily before she closed it forcefully.
"You are playing dangerous game with powerful people," Charlie informed her bluntly, taking her firmly by the shoulders now. "You require protection if you want to live long enough to benefit from answers you seek."
That powerful man pulled her towards him, their faces inches apart. The sight of her, the sound of her short breaths and the scent of the woman he had wanted from the day he had met her filled his senses.
Nazarbayev had the command and the clout to take what he desired and so what he truly craved was for the faux femme fatale he held firmly in his hands to surrender to him of her own free will.
"I protect what is mine and I am not in habit of sharing." He was so close to her, he could almost taste her gasp on his tongue and then the Kazahstani released her so abruptly that the brunette fell back onto the bed. Her startled expression told him that she would consider his words carefully.
"You should clean up before we eat," he instructed her calmly as he stood up. "You will find all you could need in bathroom and plenty new things for you to wear in closet. Then we will talk again."
Reaching the door, he smiled once more, his look raking over the feminine form entangled in his silk sheets, imagining her there without her rumbled clothing before closing the door behind him.
()()()()()()()()()()
Richard Chambers sat behind his antique walnut desk in his small office up on the third floor of the parliament buildings, slowly making his way through the stacks of documents waiting for his personal attention. Why had Michael Westen chosen this particular week to go rogue? The warning signs had been there for the last two months...
Actually it had been far longer than that. The alarms should have gone off when that Glenanne woman discovered her lover's true identity. Westen should have silenced his asset there and then.
But instead he had found a way to regain her lost trust and even managed to talk his way back into her bed. All these thoughts flew about inside his head, getting in the way of the very important work he should be giving his whole and complete attention. Bloody bleeding heart Americans, Chambers groused internally, snorting derisively as he recalled hearing about Westen's request to bring his asset out of Ireland with him when he left. That would have been the end of it had it been up to him.
In a few days time, the next round of talks would begin in the peace process and the MI6 officer had more than enough to do without trying to keep the lid on the news that there was a rogue CIA agent, formerly employed by his department no less, running amok in the Irish countryside along with his republican paramilitary girlfriend, blowing up helicopters and burning down houses.
Chambers narrowed his eyes as he read through the file before him, this one an emergency dispatch from an asset based in northwestern Spain, a stronghold of the Basque Separatist movement, the ETA, and one of the main smuggling routes for both guns and people between Ireland and Europe.
Flicking through the pages of intelligence brief, Chambers felt a headache beginning to build behind his eyes. A one time member of the Real IRA and a notorious troublemaker, a man on the top of all the watch lists for potential for disturbing the peace process, was suspected of planning an imminent return to Ireland.
The older man turned his attention to the photographs clipped to the front page of the folder. One showed Thomas O'Neill in a bar handing money over to a known forger, another of him in conversation with a union representative outside the docks at Bilbao.
Sighing, the MI6 officer pushed the file away and leaned back in his chair.
Why now? What had he done to deserve this? First, Westen and Glenanne and now O'Neill and all within days of the what could be another explosive meeting of all sides involved in making the Good Friday Agreement a reality.
A month ago, the Sinn Fein contingent had been ejected from the talks after the PIRA claimed responsibility for the shooting of two men in Belfast the previous weekend. That action had sparked several days of protests and rioting on the streets outside Stormont and then two weeks ago when the republican party had been allowed back in, several members from the loyalist side had stormed out in protest, but not before accusing the remaining delegates of pandering to a bunch of terrorists.
This would be the first time that all parties would be back in attendance since that debacle, though with all the old feelings of suspicion and hatred still running high there was no telling how long the peace would last. Was O'Neill's return a sign of the re-emergence of the RIRA?
Slapping a hand down on his desk top, the MI6 officer reached for his phone. He needed to find out what was so important that it had a hooligan like Thomas O'Neill coming out from his hole. But just as his hand landed on the receiver, the telephone began to ring.
"Yes?" he snapped at his secretary, who should have been shielding him from any unwanted calls or visitors while he was trying to work.
"I have Mr. Card on line one."
Tom Card... Chambers clenched his jaw. Along with all of his own problems, he had been fielding phone calls for the last twenty four hours from the Home Secretary's office and Chief of MI6 regarding an American helicopter loaded with top secret equipment which had supposedly crashed into a derelict farmhouse in southeastern Ireland.
With a silent prayer that the PIA CIA officer wasn't about to hit him with another round of bad news, he informed his secretary. "Put him through, Caroline."
"Chambers, I have news on the search for Westen."
"You've found him?" the older man sat up a little straighter.
"Not exactly, we've located the vehicle Westen used to escape and I have my best man out there—-"
"Your best man?" As far as the Englishman was concerned, there was only one man authorized to operate in the field. "Mason Gilroy is a -"
"Mason Gilroy was a damn loose cannon who thought it was a good idea to try and take on Westen and all the Glenannes on his own, leaving his support team out of the loop. No, Chambers, your man Gilroy is out! I've already told him thanks, but no thanks, and if he expects a check to send his bill to MI6. I have a top flight agent already read in, who won't be taking risks just to feed his ego."
Chambers stiffened at the arrogant American's words, his face glowed red in anger as he spoke tightly through his teeth. "Let me remind you, Mr. Card, we brought Westen in, we had him sat in a holding cell until you came along and, against my advice, allowed him to return to that Irish bitch."
He heard the man on the other end of the call suck in a deep breath. "I had no way of knowing that Michael would run off. There is nothing in his dossier, nothing during his training, which explains his present behavior. But I'll tell you what I do know, Michael and Ms. Glenanne will not be a problem for much longer. The man I have sent out is an expert tracker. He was a Force Recon Marine sniper and one of the best men I have ever trained. Now, let me get on with my job."
Before the Englishman could reply, the arrogant bastard had ended the conversation and it was only then that he noticed the young man standing patiently on the the other side of his desk.
"Connors?" he acknowledged the intruder in a cold flat tone.
"Er, Sir, um..." the young man hesitated as his superior continued to glower at him.
"Spit it out, Connors," the senior intelligence officer commanded. The youngster was twenty two years old, fresh out of Cambridge University and, as far as Chambers was concerned, had only been given this assignment because his father was one of the Prime Minister's chief advisers.
"We have brought in fifteen known Red Hand commandos and twenty five UVF volunteers... Reverend Paisley has already begun to make noises about the "unlawful arrests and playing to the republicans cause"... With Real IRA numbers so low and their leadership scattered, the analysts have declared they pose no threat; however, we have already started rounding up known PIRA supporters... Er...Tactical wants to know...um, well, under the circumstances, what actions do you want taken regarding the Glenannes?"
"They're all in the south, leave them alone."
"We have intelligence that places... er... Colin Glenanne at his-"
"Leave them alone, all of them... For now. I have something else for you to look into." He handed the young agent the O'Neill file. "Find out all you can about this man and why he is trying to return to Ireland... Oh and Connors, I don't know what you told Caroline to gain entrance to my office unannounced, but don't do it again."
Having sent the operative on his way, Chambers leaned back and stared up at the high vaulted ceiling. He needed a holiday or at least a pay rise for dealing with this.
()()()()()
"Thar's a white van comin' down tha lane." The words crackling through the radio came from the look-out positioned on the roof of Maeve Glenanne's home. "It's slowing down... Jamie, can ya ID tha driver yet?"
The voice continued as Davy Doyle, the man Liam had left in charge of his family's security, snatched up his MP5 machine gun in one hand and the radio in the other before sprinting out of the small side room which had been turned into his office towards the front door.
"Davy, whot is it?" Maeve appeared in the hallway causing the younger man to skid to a stop. The long hours of inactivity, mixed with the stress of dealing with a houseful of anxious women, had left the head of Glenanne clan's personal bodyguard feeling increasingly jumpy.
"Missus, I need ta -"
"Thar's one man up front. I cannae make ham out yet. Can I get some fecking back up out har?" The stressed sounds of the guard at the front gate interrupted the explanation.
"Er, it's…um, probably nuttin' Missus." Davy barred his teeth in what was supposed to be a reassuring smile as he edged towards the front door. "But, just in case mind you, it might be best if ya stayed back har while we deal wit' it."
The elderly woman paled and nodded solemnly, before rushing towards the living room where the children were playing, while he flung open the heavy re-enforced door, just in time to catch sight of the rest of those on guard duty armed to the teeth and charging along the driveway towards the gate, ready to deal with whatever the threat might be.
Then, as fast as the crisis had occurred, it was over as the shout went up, "Tis Seamus!"
This was followed by the group of heavily armed men falling back to allow the van to clear the gates and continue along the driveway, surrounded now by what now amounted to an honor guard.
"Jamie, ya can lock tha gates; wa're not expectin' anyone else," Davy ordered as the van came to a stop. Moving swiftly, Liam's chief enforcer opened the driver's side door and locked eyes with the man inside. "Ya scared tha shit outta us, man. Whot took ya so long? Yar mammy an' Rosie have been goin' spare."
"Ah, ya wouldnae believe me if I told ya," the younger Irishman climbed out and hauled the sliding side door open. "A tire blew and then-"
"Sean! Sean! Oh, Jayzuz! Whot happened ta ya?" Seamus explanation was cut off as Rosanna pushed by him so she could climb into the back of the van. The blonde, having only eyes for her wounded husband, dropped down into the back of the vehicle to stroke the sleeping man's cheek.
"We war worried sick, Seamus. Whar have ya been all this time?" she demanded, turning her eyes on her brother-in-law who was in the process of calmly lighting up a cigarette.
"Ahh, everythin' is alright, Rosie darlin'. Tis nuttin' but a little nick and he'll be as right as rain in a coupla days. I tell ya, it looks worse than -" The family gunrunner fell silent as his mother joined his sister-in-law inside the van.
The older woman took a moment to check over her youngest son, tenderly combing her fingers through his tousled sandy hair while her eyes skimmed over the heavy bandage and sling holding the limb firmly against his body. Only when she was satisfied with his condition did she turn her blue green eyes to her third born offspring. After slowly looking him up and down, the matriarch of the clan turned to the rest of men standing around gawking.
"Whot's up wit' tha lotta ya? Get me boy inside an' inta his bed... Rosie, get outta tha way so they can do thar job. Come help me pull tha covers back on tha bed an' I see wa're gonna need an IV pole. I think I still have one in tha utility room... Davy, be a good boy an go find it fer me. If it is nae thar then have a look in tha broom closet. It might be in thar."
Davy hurried away, happy to leave Seamus to face his family's ire. He had been on the verge of putting a call through to Liam himself to let his boss know his brothers were MIA when the white van had been spotted. Crossing over the threshold back into the house, he was greeted by the sight of most of Seamus' brood in the hallway and heading for the front door.
"Hey, whot d'ya think yer up ta? Yer not meant ta be out har an' ya know it." He opened his arms wide and chivvied the younger members of the family back into the large living room just in time, as the heavy wooden door swung open again.
"We wanna see our Uncle Sean," Maggie pouted
"Why can't we see ham, Uncle Davy? Has Uncle Sean had his arm cut off?" Pat had to know.
"Will he have ta have a hook like a pirate?" the bloodthirsty twins demanded.
Little Milo spoke around the thumb that was firmly wedged in his mouth. "Whar's me daddy? I wanna see me daddy."
Ignoring the little ones questions, he made sure they were all back where they were supposed to be with the door to the room firmly shut to shield them from the sight of their unconscious uncle being carried inside.
"Pat, hey lad, come o'er har now." He called the oldest boy to his side and looked him in the eye. "Yar uncle will be fine, but he needs peace an' quiet. Ya understand me, Patrick? So, ya keep 'em all quiet an' outta tha way."
"I understand, sur, but will we be able ta see ham soon?" The twelve year old shrugged his shoulders and tried to act unconcerned. "Ya know, ta keep tha young 'uns fram frettin'."
"Am sure yar da will be down ta see ya all soon, see whot he has ta say. Nar, I have me own job ta do. Would nae want ta keep tha Missus waitin'. So go put on a video or sommit an' I'll bring ya'all some cake or some chocolate when I'm done."
Continuing on his way through the house, Davy made his way through the kitchen and out into the utility room to begin the search for an IV stand amongst all the various bits and bobs that Maeve had chosen to keep over the years, but had never had the time to find a home for.
As he searched, he listened the muted sounds from above. He couldn't actually make out any of the words, but he guessed somewhere up there Seamus Glenanne was facing the wrath of the women of the house. A blown tire seemed like a reasonable excuse to the bodyguard, but he knew that it would hold no sway with the womenfolk. Tha man should've known enough ta call in at least.
It was typical of the Glenanne family. They spoke their minds and dealt with any disagreements immediately and usually at full volume. But then in a heartbeat whatever had caused all the discord would be forgotten and life would return to normal.
He had been Liam's friend since primary school, way back when the family had lived above Patrick Glenanne's pharmacy on the Falls Road and even managed to stay friends when the family had moved out to a large rambling farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Everybody had thought Patrick had made the move to escape the growing violence, but Davy could remember going to stay there during the summer holidays and watching the patriarch of the family making bombs in the cellar under the house.
Thinking back to those days brought back bitter thoughts of the last week. He'd seen first-hand what Fiona's betrayal had done to her brother and, in the last twenty four hours, how much it had hurt the rest of the family.
Having found the IV stand, Mr. Doyle carefully pulled the pole free from all the boxes and bags which had hidden it from sight and headed towards the stairs.
Once Seamus had had a chance to catch up on his sleep, Davy decided it would be time to take a quick trip home to his own wife and kids. Liam had been furious the last time they talked, which was never good thing. Now with both the Brits and the Yanks on the warpath after losing a helicopter and its crew, it was time to send his own family away on an extended holiday.
()()()()()
Fiona smiled up into her lover's blue eyes as he gently maneuvered her into the shelter, his lips brushing softly against hers while his fingers reached round behind her to unzip the sleeping bag before easing her down onto the bottom layer of the padded cotton cocoon.
"Ya'll wake me in a few hours?" She cupped his whiskery cheek, her thumb tracing a line along his bottom lip. Neither the full beard nor the mottled bruising from his battle with the English assassin could hide the tiredness etched into his features.
"I said I would, didn't I?" He cracked a smile and drew her legs across his lap. His large hands stroking down her her thighs and calves before surprising her by unlacing her boots.
"Michael?" This was an unexpected turn of events. She had fully expected her tightly wound, hyper vigilant lover to insist on them both staying fully clothed for the foreseeable future.
"Your feet are wet... Do you know what happens to your feet if you don't look after them?" The dark haired man kept his head bowed as he concentrated on the task of removing first one boot and then the other. "When I was in Bolivia, it rained the whole time we were there. I got some of the nastiest -" Michael suddenly looked up as he caught himself, halting his speech.
"Tha nastiest? Oh, ya cannae be leaving me ta guess tha rest o' thot sentence," she teased.
"Blisters, nasty infected blisters." The ex-military man looked into her eyes and then, in a swift move, whipped off one of her socks and then the other, exposing her toes to the cool night air. "There were times when I would have killed for a pair of dry socks."
He produced a rolled up pair of black woolen socks from his jacket pocket, holding the ball out to her. "These are the only ones I could find in the bags. You should have them. I'm used to dealing with it and I'll wash your old ones in the stream and dry them near the fire."
As romantic gestures went, being given a pair of socks was about as low down on the scale as it was possible to get to. It brought back memories of buying socks, scarves or gloves as Christmas or birthday presents for her father and older brothers as a small child. But it had obviously been significant to him, so she would take the offering in the spirit given.
"Thank you," she said, smiling softly as as she took the gift from him. Leaning forward, the redhead kissed her scruffy man on his wiry cheek and then on his lips.
"You, ah, you have to take care of yourself."
"So do you," Fiona answered, her mouth now inches from his ear, her hot breath on his neck.
"I will, I promise." The Irishwoman felt the hitch in his breathing and then he was up on his feet, taking a step back from the shelter, the intimate moment gone in a flash. "You, ah, you need to rest... I'm...er... I'm going to wash up the pan at the stream and then make a sweep of the perimeter." Michael pointed to the sniper perch he had spotted earlier. "Then I'll... um, I'll be up there... then."
Pulling on the socks and followed by her boots, Ms. Glenanne left the laces undone and settled down into the sleeping bag. Laying on her side, the weary woman rested her head on her arm and let her eyes close. A short nap was all she needed, Fiona told herself, and then she would let her dark haired lover catch up on the sleep he so obviously needed.
()()()()()
"Is thar no one else?" Liam spoke into his phone, his pale blue eyes fixed on the tumbledown trailer parked up on a piece of wasteland on the outskirts of Kilarney.
"Ya said ya wanted tha best an' Jack Hennessy is supposed ta be it. He supplies half tha restaurants along tha east coast wit' a prime venison an' game birds," Colin replied.
"He better be bloody good," the eldest muttered darkly.
"I can keep lookin' if ya want."
He hated using outsiders, especially in anything that involved the family. But it seemed he was being given no choice in the matter. He just hoped the tracker he was about to approach was as skilled at his trade as the surgeon his younger brother had found to patch up Sean's arm.
"Ferget about it, I'll use ham... Any more news on tha car they wa' usin'?"
"Not since it wa' reported in tha car park near Cooloran."
"Okay, brudder, I'll go talk ta tha pikey." Ending the call in his usual blunt manner, the head of the clan stepped off the pavement, past the burnt out shell of an old car and onto the barren ground.
As soon as Liam got within twenty yards of the trailer, a large skinny dog flew towards him barking loud enough to wake the dead. Showing no fear, the Irishman ignored the animal and continued towards his goal, only coming to a stop when the trailer door opened and a thin gangly unshaven older gent with a head of unbrushed grey hair limped outside.
"Jack Hennessy?" Liam eyed the dirty chipped cast which covered the man's right leg from ankle to thigh.
"Whose askin'?" the fellow squinted as he cleaned the lens of wire rimmed spectacles on his thick green jumper.
"Me name's Liam Glenanne."
"Glenanne…. I've head thot name befer." With his glasses back in place, he blinked several times at the figure before him. "Whot can I be doin' fer ya, Mister Glenanne?"
"I wa' given yar name. I have need o' a tracker. I've lost someone close ta me an' I believe thar in tha Sleiveamon Mountains, probably in tha woods thot surround it. But I can see yer nae up ta tha task, so I'll be on me way." He wasn't sorry that the man would be unable to help him out. Like many in Ireland, he had no time for the tinkers who lived on the edge of society.
"An' how much had ya been willin' ta pay fer me invaluable services?"
Liam paused and looked over his shoulder. "Thot donnae matter, now does it?"
"It might, sur. Ya see, I know o' someone as near as good as me. Maybe even better an' fer the right price -" The older man's eyes glinted with mischief as he left the sentence hanging.
Liam sighed heavily. He needed somebody who could find metaphorical needle in a haystack. He had the location of the Land Rover used by Fiona and he also knew there was no sign of either his sister or her boyfriend nearby.
"Whot d'ya consider would be tha right price?"
He had no choice, not if he wanted to find his sister before the CIA got their hands on her. Colin had somehow managed to remotely turn on the microphone in the cell phone belonging to one of the CIA operatives working in the US Embassy in Dublin. But he hadn't only taken over control of the microphone, turning it into a bug, he had also downloaded all the information from the phone: call logs, contact lists and everything else the agent had chosen to store on the device.
"I dunno why I never thought o' doin' this befer... But am certainly gonna be doin' it again," Colin had gloated at his success at finding a new way to gather valuable intelligence.
"Fifty fer tha introduction an' oh, I don't know how about a hundred a day?"
"Ya can have tha fifty." Liam walked back to face the old man. "But ya donnae get it until I've after tha introduction an' only then if yar friend is as good as yer say. As fer tha rest, ya can tell 'em I'll pay three hundred. But fer thot, I expect ta find who Am lookin' fer."
The elderly tinker paused, clearly thinking about it. "Make it a monkey an' ya have yar self a deal."
"A monkey?" Liam took a step back, shaking his head. "Ya want five hundred? Ya can have three fifty an not a penny more."
"Four hundred and I swear, sur, you'll have yar lost one back wit ya in a day or two at most. Robin can track a bird in flight or a fish in tha river. Ya won't be sorry."
"Me last offer, three seventy five an' a fifty quid bonus if wa're successful." Liam knew if he had agreed to the hundred punts a day, the gypsy would have arranged for his friend to have him trailing around the woods for a week or more. A fixed fee would give this Robin person the incentive to do the job as quickly as possible.
"Deal!" The old man grinned toothlessly and stuck out his hand.
After shaking the tracker's hand, Liam retreated back to his car to await the arrival of the old fellow's friend. He had no wish to enter the broken down trailer and he knew he wouldn't be welcome inside anyway.
Settling down in the front seat of the Mazda 626 coupe he had bought for cash while waiting for Colin to find him a lead on where their sister had run off to, the Irishman let his head fall back against the head rest and closed his eyes. Over the last few days, he'd hardly had any sleep and until he had Fiona back where she belonged, he doubted that he would be doing more than taking catnaps.
The retired surgical consultant hadn't been happy when two men covered in blood had burst through the his kitchen door in the early evening, one of them brandishing an AR15 in one hand while half supporting, half carrying with the other.
However, once he had calmed down enough for Liam to explain to him that, in return for one nights work and the promise to never mention what occurred to a living soul, the fifteen thousand punts he owed to a rather unsavory bookmaker would be cleared.
He had with a shaking hand directed his unwelcome guests through to what turned out to be a formal dining room. With Sean laid out on the finely crafted table top, the surgeon had dug out his bag of equipment and, with Liam's assistance, set about repairing the damage done by a nine millimeter bullet tearing through muscle, bone and ligaments.
The operation had taken far longer than Liam had been comfortable with and the amount of blood his little brother had lost had filled him with dread. But luckily Seamus, who was the same blood type as his younger sibling, had arrived in the early hours of the morning and, even though he was close to exhaustion, he had rolled up his sleeve to help out his injured brother.
Sitting up abruptly, Liam rubbed at his eyes. Falling asleep in a car parked on the public road was a mistake which could get him killed. Turning on the radio, he began to think about what he had planned for Michael Westen when he ever got his hands on the man.
()()()()()
Though it was only a little after six in the evening up in the foothills of the Sleiveamon Mountains, the sky had already turned dark and there was a distinct chill in the air. After finishing their meal of beef stew and under Michael's gentle urging, Fiona had caved into the fatigue which was fast becoming a regular part of her new found status as a mother to be.
While his lover settled down wrapped up inside her sleeping bag in the shelter he had constructed only a couple of hours earlier, Michael cleaned the mess kit using water from the nearby stream, threw some more wood into the fire pit and then, after picking up Fiona's Hecate II sniper rifle, took a slow walk around the perimeter of their camp. Stepping lightly the former spy and Army Ranger moved between the trees, making sure there was no sign of an enemy lurking nearby before climbing up the steep slope to the natural perch he had spotted earlier.
With nothing to do but listen to the sounds of the nocturnal denizens of the forest beginning to stir and watch the gentle sway of the branches of the trees, the ex-operative was finding it hard to stay focused. Fiona had insisted that he take a couple of their limited supply of painkillers. But over the counter Paracetamol and Ibruprofen had so far had little effect on his damaged ribs and sitting in one position on the damp ground was doing nothing to ease his aches and pains either.
The fight back at the farmhouse had been the toughest bout of hand to hand combat he had faced in years. Shifting slightly in an attempt to find a more comfortable position, Michael grimaced and rubbed a hand over his swollen left knee and then rotated his right shoulder. The English assassin had been a tough sonuvabitch. In the end shooting him had been the only way to neutralize the threat he posed. It had been an even longer since he had shot an enemy in the back.
The man who had once been the Terror of Russia blinked and swiped a hand over his eyes. He had made himself a promise, after Chechyna and again after Vedeno, that he would keep the black part of his soul which allowed him to act without mercy securely locked away. The dark haired man still had nightmares about both places, one where he had stood back while his partner systematically slaughtered a whole family, including women and children, and the second where he even surpassed his mentor's expectations when, in order to neutralize one man, he blew up an entire factory full of people, condemning those who had survived the initial blast to a terrible death in the smoke and the flames.
"Ah, it happened, Kid. Don't beat yourself up about it. You wait, these are gonna be our glory days," had been the senior agent's words when they had been recalled to explain their actions in the Slovenian foothills.
He threw his head back and stared up at the pitch black sky. He didn't want to think about Vedeno and he definitely didn't want to waste his time on Larry Sizemore. The man was – no, had been - a special kind of monster. But he was dead now, killed nearly three years ago in the same explosion that had left Agent Westen requiring major surgery and an extended stay in ICU. However, that part of his life was over for good. His world had suddenly gotten a lot smaller and given him a whole new set of priorities.
Slowly relaxing, Michael managed a half smile as he turned his gaze down the slope to three large boulders which stood like sentries surrounding the shelter where his lover safely rested.
"Love nothing, and nothing you love can be used against you. It's a hard way to live, son, keeping the world at a distance but believe me it's for the best." Tom Card's voice came to him out of nowhere, the words from a long ago lecture regarding the sacrifices a successful field agent had to make in order to operate in the field.
But what the hell did he know? Card had a wife and an ex-wife with kids included, though the details were nebulous. Then again, that probably had everything to do with the fact that someone Card's age was already stuck as a training officer. So maybe the older man did know what he was talking about when it came to familes and success at the Agency.
That man had come to him, pleading with him to see sense. Forcing him to face up to the fact that a gunrunning, paramilitary girlfriend wasn't going to help his long term career prospects with the Company.
He firmly believed there was certain people in life that you get stuck with, whether you love them, they drive you nuts or both. They mold you into the person you become. For most of his friends it was a coach, a favorite teacher or, in some cases, the leader of one of the local the street gangs.
But for him it had at first been Captain Donald Novak, his commanding officer when he joined the Ranger's and then later when he signed up to be a spy, it had been his training officer, Tom Card... The man who had ordered him drug his asset and abandon her had now brought in a paid assassin to kill him and his pregnant girlfriend.
A shudder ran down his spine when he thought about how close had he come to following his training officer's orders to give Fiona that sleeping draught. He swiped at his eyes again... How close had he come to poisoning their child?
Their child...He had been doing his best not to think about the prospect of being responsible for a small defenseless baby. Michael didn't have a clue on how to raise a child and he only had to look into Fiona's eyes to see she was just as afraid as he was. Neither one of them wanted to bring up the subject of how they were going to cope.
The eldest Westen supposed it was up to him to decide what sort of man he wanted his child to be stuck with as a father. He was the one who got to make the choices that his offspring would get to live with.
A movement in the trees suddenly caught his attention, instantly snapping him back into the present. In one smooth move, he raised the sniper rifle and stared through the scope in an effort to locate who or what was creeping toward their camp.
With his heart hammering away in his chest, the dark haired man patiently followed disturbance in the branches to track the approaching menace. As soon as he could see a target he was going to shoot, his finger slipped inside the guard, wrapping around the trigger. Making a conscious effort, the elite sniper slowed his breathing as he prepared to defend the woman sleeping peacefully below his position.
The bushes parted close to where the narrow mountain stream began to widen just a little bit and a small Fallow Deer nervously stepped into view. The former spy's finger twitched and then came completely off the trigger. The deer was unmistakably a pregnant doe and, as she began to drink from the babbling brook, more of her kind came to join her.
Michael watched entranced as the herd of fifteen animals, most of them pregnant females, drank their fill and then slowly drifted off amongst trees, making their downhill towards the open meadows and pasture beyond the forest. A sudden urge to go and see for himself that Fiona was fine overwhelmed him. He didn't understand it, but he couldn't fight it either. Perhaps the analogy of what he'd just seen was enough to send him circling about.
Taking another series of deliberate deep breaths, the ex-Army Ranger rose from his position and forced himself to make another perimeter check before going to see the new center of his universe with his own eyes.
As he approached and knelt down by her side, Fiona didn't stir. The woman he knew was a notorious light sleeper. Normally she would have had a gun in his face before he got within ten feet of her. It was further evidence that there was something very different about his Irish lover that registered in his brain. She really was pregnant, she was going to have their baby.
He knew that reality intellectually, but it was starting to find a place in his heart and that scared him, shook him to his core, because he just couldn't get her to safety soon enough. Michael swept back the stray hair covering her face and leaned down to kiss her cheek, praying that the old Fiona wouldn't return that instant and erupt into violence. But she slept on undisturbed, which both gratified and terrified him.
He had always been was more comfortable keeping watch by night and resting during the day, even before he entered into the service of his country. So he did just that, letting her get the rest she needed, although he knew he couldn't keep staying up all night and walking all day indefinitely. However, Michael was afraid to risk staying in one place for too long. The CIA and the Glenanne brothers would both be redoubling their efforts after what had occurred at the cottage.
Falling back on his training, Michael took one more look at the slumbering form of his beloved and then moved back towards his perch, preparing to keep watch through the night for anyone seeking to do them harm while Fiona slept.
()()()()()
He had found their camp, or at least the remains of it. They had been gone for well over twelve hours. The dismantled remains of a shelter, along with the scattered ashes of a small fire, was all he needed as proof he was on the right trail. Squatting down, the hunter examined the broken branches which had formed structure, recognizing the design.
Westen was a former Ranger, skilled in unconventional warfare. His target had seen action in South America and in parts of the Middle East before joining the CIA and becoming what could only be described as a living legend, cutting a bloody path through most of Eastern Europe and Russia with his partner, Larry Sizemore.
Standing up, the blonde followed the signs to where the couple had left the camp, making their way deeper into the forest. The tracks were indistinct and hard to read, especially in the deep darkness. He paused, pursing his lips as he thought through his options.
Exhaling deeply, the former marine turned back. There was no tactical advantage in chasing after Westen in the dark, so he would wait until daylight. Checking the time on his cell phone display, he saw it was nearly eight o clock, almost time to call in and report his progress. Carefully resting his rifle against a nearby tree, the well-muscled man shrugged off his back pack and began to prepare for a night out in the open.
At exactly twenty hundred hours, the specialist got out his phone again and keyed in the number to his boss' private line.
"It's me."
"You're one minute late," his former training officer scolded. "Now, give me some good news?"
"I've found where they camped last night. I'm going to stop here until first light and then get back onto the trail."
"You can't be more than what… Ten hours behind? Tell me, what's the point of me getting you all that very expensive equipment if you're not going to use it? I'm not paying you by the hour, sport."
"You wanted me for this job because of my experience; I'm telling you going after Westen at night would be a mistake." He paused, waiting for Card to respond. But there was only silence, so he took a breath and continued. "I read that dossier you gave me from front to back. I also saw the report on what happened to the first guy you sent after him."
"That was not my idea. That's why you're here… to get the job done, not go camping in Ireland on Uncle Sam's dime."
"I can do this, but it has to be done my way."
"Fine, but just remember this little assignment is time sensitive. I need Westen back here or eliminated before he can cause any more trouble for our hosts. Call me back when you have him."
"I could end this a lot quicker and cleaner if you had gotten me the Barrett sniper rifle I requested."
"This has to look like a dispute between Michael McBride and the Glenanne clan and, as there are no reports of any of them using an M82A1 SASR to settle an argument. You'll just have to be satisfied with what you've been given. Improvise, adapt, overcome," his superior sniped.
The former marine sighed heavily. "I'll catch up to them tomorrow or the day after. I'll call you then."
"Remember, we don't want to stir up any more trouble. That prissy Brit Chambers already has his panties in a bunch. So, try to keep any collateral damage to the minimum. Can you do that?"
"Sure."
"Good, you can go now. I've got a truck load of evidence to go through from the last attempt to bring Westen in. Try to make sure you don't come back in little pieces."
With the call over, the ex-military man set about making himself comfortable for the night. He was used to sleeping outside and living off nothing but the land, or worse yet MREs. So within an hour, he was wrapped up in his sleeping bag under a hastily put together shelter. Tomorrow the hunt would begin in earnest.
The pair was a clear threat to the security of both the UK and USA. He had joined the armed forces and later the Agency to protect his nation from people like them. Glenanne was a terrorist from a family of terrorists and, with the situation on the ground in Ireland as volatile as it was, Westen was not only on the verge of causing yet another international incident, but the man was undermining the entire intelligence establishment. He and his PIRA affiliated girlfriend had killed CIA agents.
Well, that was not going to happen again. Not on his watch….