A/N: Happy Valentine's Day to you all. As promised, here is the next installment in our AU pre-series story. We would both like to thank you for all the wonderful reviews and support you give this and all our other stories and hope to continue regular updates.

The incidents referred to between O'Neill and Liam as well as the history of the vendetta between the Glenanne and Meyers families is fully detailed in our first collaborative tale, Victims of War, which has a recently updated final chapter that now matches the final season of Burn Notice, as Season Seven hadn't fully unfolded when we were originally penning said story.

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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL

Chapter Sixteen

"I still think we shoulda waited ta see if thot trap o' yars worked." Fiona spoke to the back of Michael's head as he pushed carefully through the tangle of tree branches blocking their path.

"The idea of the trap was to slow them down, so we could get away, Fi. If we're lucky, Liam or his tracker will decide it's too dangerous to continue in the dark and wait for daylight before coming after us and by then we should be out of this damn forest," her dark haired lover replied without even turning his head.

"But they coulda decided ta push on. Ya set thot branch far taa high ta do any damage or maybe they missed it altogether." She couldn't help herself. Although she would never admit to it, hearing her brother's voice and his words about Sean and their mother had made her homesick and talking was her way of taking her mind off those emotions.

"We left a trail a child could follow right up to that trap. Even if Liam's new friend didn't spot the trip wire, when that branch narrowly misses your brother's head it'll make them more – cautious." He came to a stop, one hand pressing against his side as he tried to cough.

"Michael?" She was at his side in an instant, not caring that her pack broke off several twigs as she pushed past the dense foliage.

"I'm fine," he gritted the words out between clenched teeth, trying to walk and talking was becoming harder to do the longer they kept going.

"Ya need rest – we both do." The Irishwoman carefully moved his hand away and then hissed in annoyance when she realized that in the cramped space there was nothing she could do. "Fer now we need ta find somewhere with a bit a space so I can tape up yar ribs."

"We don't have the -"

"Time?" she interrupted. "We'll waste more than time if thot rib o' yars pierces yar lung, or mabbe yar diaphragm. Am a grand field medic, but thot'll nae help ya then."

He sighed as deeply as his injury would let him and even though she couldn't see his face clearly, she knew his bottom lip would be stuck out in a stubborn pout. So the former terrorist reached up on her tiptoes and kissed away his bad mood.

"Ya know Am right," she whispered in his ear before nipping his ear lobe. "Tis sound tactical sense."

"You win." He tilted his chin down so he could return her kiss, just a quick brush his lips against hers. "I promise as soon as these trees thin out, we'll stop. Happy now?"

"Delighted, Michael... Now thot's sorted out, have a drink." She handed him a water bottle. "An' let's get moving." Stepping more carefully than when she had reached her lover's side, Fiona took the lead.

Taking point was another piece of good tactical sense, though the petite Irishwoman kept the thought to herself as she set a slower pace than the one originally set by her mate. Traveling in the dark over treacherous ground littered with exposed roots was difficult enough without the added fear of twisting an ankle or breaking a limb because they were rushing. Plus she would be the one to call a halt when she found a suitable spot to take care of his injuries, instead of her pigheaded lover conveniently forgetting his promise and pushing on with no regard for his own welfare.

It was a half hour before the trees thinned sufficiently and Fiona found a small clearing. Coming to a stop, the petite redhead dropped the pack off her back with a heartfelt sigh. "I cannae believe thar be people in this world who do this sorta thing fer fun."

"Not hiking in the dark while on the run, but -"

"Ahh, I donnae wanta hear it. Tha sooner we find somewhar warm an' dry ta rest our heads tha better." She turned in time to catch Michael awkwardly shrugging off his own back pack without twisting his torso. "Tha pain is worse?"

"I'm just sore, that's all."

Biting back on the retort which bubbled up, Fiona knelt down and opened her back pack. "If ya donnae want ta ruin thot T-shirt yer wearing, ya need ta find thot old one an' put it on. Tis near tha top in yar bag... Oh, and thot roll o' duct tape... Tis a shame ya' forgot ta add some wider bandages ta tha first aid kit."

By the time Michael had removed his jacket and retrieved the T-shirt and duct tape from his back pack, Fiona had set up flashlight, balancing it on a couple of low branches to give the light necessary so she could examine her beloved's damaged skin.

"Here." Speaking matter of factly, she handed him four little pills. "Paracetamol and Ibruprofen, it'll take tha edge off. Besides we've nothin' stronger."

As he dutifully swallowed down the pain medication, Fiona brought out a small bottle of antiseptic liquid and untwisted the top. "Let's start wit' yar wrists. At least we can keep them clean."

Wincing, the former spy removed the soiled bandages covering his limbs and held them out for her inspection. The shallow self-inflicted cuts had mercifully been protected by the dressings he had applied the day before. After inspecting the multitude of thin red marks crisscrossing his skin, Fiona doused them with a liberal amount of the stinging liquid before wrapping the wounds with fresh bandages.

"Have ya got any other lumps or bumps thot need looking at?" She stared pointedly down at his left knee.

"I twisted it during the fight. It'll be fine."

"I should -"

"My leg is just sore; I've hurt it worse sparring with you." His hands wrapped lightly around her arms and he pulled her closer, his intense blue eyes staring into her blue-green orbs. "We just have to keep going a little longer. I'll find somewhere safe for us to rest soon." He sighed heavily. "Once we reach the road, I'll find us a car and then we'll find another house or even a barn to hide out in. Then I'll come up with a way to get us out of the country. I just need a little time."

A little more time… Fiona gulped, wondering how much time they had left before her condition became obvious and they had no choice but to drop out of sight completely. An involuntary shudder ran up her spine at the thought of still being on the run in five, or even four months time, followed almost immediately by another wave of homesickness which brought tears to her eyes.

"Fi..?" She felt his fingers tighten on her arms and heard the concern in that one little word.

"Tis nothin' Michael... Am tired is all." Pushing down her fears, she sniffed and straightened up her hands going to the hem of his jumper. "Ya- ya need ta strip off nar so I can take a look at yar ribs."

Ducking her head down, determined to keep her black haired boyfriend from seeing the tears streaks on her cheeks, she set about running her fingers lightly over the exposed mottled skin of his torso and then helping him out of the jumper and t-shirt he was wearing underneath.

"Yer lucky… It feels like tis still in place. Mabbe it's nae broken more like a crack or a fracture... Put on thot old top and I'll start wrapping ya up." She picked up the roll of tape and pulled a long piece out, forcing a grin to lips. "It'll be like up wrapping up me own birthday present."

With the old worn t-shirt in place, Michael raised his arms out of the way and slowly breathed out a sigh. "Not too tight," he advised through gritted teeth, preparing himself for the additional pain.

"Just enough ta give ya some relief," she agreed solemnly as she set about sticking a layer of the tape onto the T-shirt he was wearing. "Thar, how does thot feel?" Fiona used the hunting knife Michael was carrying on his belt to cut the strong tape.

"Better," the operative admitted. He was already reaching for his jumper, pulling on the warm woolen top and breathing a little deeper than he had been able too before.

"Yar sure?" she pressed. Duct tape was not the same as using a proper elastic bandage.

"Positive." He tried to smile, but the move didn't quite work as he twisted slightly when pulling on his jacket. "Can we get going now?"

All hope of convincing him to take things easy slipped away as he picked up his own back pack and then helped her on with hers before setting off again.

()()()

It was the early hours of the morning; the streets of Kilarney were damp and shiny as a light rain fell almost like a mist. Liam Glenanne brought his ancient Mazda coupe to a stop next to a wide expanse of empty ground, switching the engine off before turning in his seat to face his passenger.

"Ya've done a grand job, Robin." The Irishman shifted awkwardly in the sport coupe's bucket seat until he managed to pull a large roll of money out of his coat pocket and began peeling off fifty punt notes. "Har's tha three seventy five I promised yar da. But Am gonna give ya another hundred fer helpin' me with me friend." He gestured with a nod of his head to the coupe's boot.

"Friend, is he, now? I'd hate ta see whot ya do wit' yar enemies." the dark haired gypsy smirked.

"Aye, well, jus' ya remember thot, girl." The PIRAs premier interrogator narrowed his pale eyes and the corners of his mouth turned down in a scowl. "This money tis ta buy yar silence... I donnae want ta hear ya've been blabbing ta yar da' or ta yar friends about whot we war doin' out thar."

"I'll tell 'em we went out fer a pleasant walk through tha woods, pickin' flowers an' thot wa' all." She flashed her teeth in a cheeky grin. "No need ta mention tha dead body in tha boot or thot bag we found under a bush full o' fancy equipment. Ya can trust me, Liam Glenanne..." She reached over, grabbed the proffered cash and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Yer a good man, an' I wonnae hear any different, even though half tha time ya look like ya wanted ta commit a murder."

Opening the passenger door ,she slipped out of the vehicle. Then with her hand on the door, she leaned back inside. "I know tis none o' me business, but yar sister seems ta have made up har-"

"Yer right, tis none o' yar business." Liam cut off the girl's words of advice. He had too much of that recently from the females in his own life without near strangers joining in too. "Now, be on yar way, before yer soaked ta tha skin an' blamin' me fer ya catchin' a chill."

"G'bye, Liam." She slammed the door and he watched as the gypsy girl ran across the empty lot until she reached the rundown trailer belonging to her father.

Once the young woman was safely inside, Liam started up the engine and pulled away from the curb, driving north towards Dublin and his mother's home.

Now that he was on his own, the head of the clan reached into his pocket and brought out his cell phone. With one hand on the wheel and his eyes fixed on the narrow unlit road, he pressed down on the required keys without looking.

Even though it was well past midnight, the lateness of the hour didn't deter him from calling his business partner in a Holywood funeral parlor close to where he lived in the suburbs north-east of Belfast.

"Tis me…" He spoke as soon as he heard the phone pick up at the other end.

"Whot tha hell? D'ya have any idea whot tha time tis, laddie?" Keiran Mulhay's sleep-laden voice answered him.

"Aye, I do. But this cannae wait... I have a guest I need ya ta put up fer a coupla days."

"A guest, is it? I suppose he'll be wanting a private room then?"

"Private would be best an' somewhere outta tha way." He could hear the rustle of bed covers and the sound of drawers being pulled open and could imagine the older man climbing out of his bed to get ready to open up their mortuary.

"An' when will he be arrivin'?"

"Relax, Kieran, it'll be sometime in tha morning. I just wanted ta give ya tha heads up so ya can get a room ready fer him."

"Well, yar timin' is perfect. I have a nice little one bedroom place. Tis a little cold but Am sure yar friend will manage jus' fine."

"Thank ya, Keiran…" Liam smiled at the other man's little joke, "An' am sorry ta have wakened ya."

"Ya can apologize ta tha Mrs by gettin' yar Jeannie ta bring over one of har Porter cakes."

"Will do, Kieran. Ya get back ta yar bed nar an' I'll send Jeannie round tomorrow wit' tha cake." Liam ended the call, once again thanking his lucky stars for the day back in 1990 when he had first met Keiran Mulhay, loyal republican supporter and owner of a local family run undertakers who just happened to be in dire need of an injection of cash.

Satisfied that he now had somewhere not only that he could stash the body of the dead sniper currently residing in the boot of his car, but also somewhere where the corpse could be preserved while he worked out what to do with it, he moved onto another call he had been putting off while he was in the company of Robin Hennessy.

Unlike his call to Kieran, Liam's childhood friend and premier bodyguard Davy Doyle answered his phone on the first ring and even at the late hour sounded alert. "Boss…?"

"Am a couple hours away. I donnae want tha whole house woken up when I get thar, so lock me mam's dogs up. If she hears 'em barking, she'll be outta bed an' fussing... How are they all?"

"As right as rain, Boss. Yar mammy an' Rosie ar' motherin' Sean sommit chronic an' he's lapping it up. Tha kids ar' getting' bored, but now thot Shay's har, he's keepin' tham in line."

"Nobody hangin' round?"

"Been as quiet as tha grave, Boss."

"Yer sure?" He found it hard to believe with all that had happened that nobody was watching the home of Fiona Glenanne's mother.

"I tell ya, we have nae seen hide nor hair of a single cop since we set up... Not even tha local Gard."

"If ya say so... Remember just cuz ye cannae see tham doesnae mean they're not thar."

Unconsciously, he began to increase the speed of the aging sports car as the urge to get home and to personally take charge of the security detail protecting his family became overwhelming.

"We have it in hand, Liam, no need ta break yar neck getting' har."

With a sigh, he slowed the car down to under the speed limit, while he reminded himself that Davy was no beginner when it came to protecting his employer's loved ones. "Okay then. Just make sure ya keep a sharp look out. When I get in, I've gotta couple jobs need doin' so get yar men up – – wit'out wakin' up me mother or me brothers."

"We'll be waitin' fer ya. An' ye best remember whot I said about not breakin' yar neck getting har."

With the arrangements made, Liam tossed his phone down onto the passenger seat and for a short while kept his eyes and thoughts on the road. However, his mind kept drifting back to the problem which had been vexing him ever since that turncoat bastard O'Dowd had screamed out that Michael McBride was really an American spy named Westen just before he had been sent to meet his maker.

Why did his sister have to be so damn stubborn? Why couldn't she see that there was no future for her with a CIA agent? Did she have some crazy death wish? And then there was that drawing of a harp etched into the dirt...

He remembered very clearly the day his little sister had made her own stand for independence. Standing there in the living room of their Belfast home, facing down their mother with her hands on her hips and defiant scowl on her face, Fiona had been ready to take them all on.

"I did it fer, Pat. I wanted sommit ta remind me o' him when I get ta help kick tham English bastids outta our country." She had been filled with passion and rightful indignation which went far beyond her fourteen years.

"Fiona, I will nae have such language in this house, an' ya wonnae be takin' on any soldiers either. Have we nae had enough grief in this house ta last us a life time? An'as fer thot monstrosity," Maeve had pointed to her eldest daughter's foot with a shaking finger. "I'll be havin' words wit' Sinead's mother about it, ya can be sure!"

"Tis my doin', Am tha one who bought tha ink and talked har inta doin' fer me. An' ya wonnae stop me takin' up arms fer tha cause me da an' me brother died fer."

Liam grinned at the memory of his little sister standing up to the great Maeve Glenanne, a woman who even now, when well passed her prime, still had the power to make grown men cower when faced by her wrath.

"Yar Da and Pat Junior, God rest 'em, woulda wanted ya ta get an education an' they would be turnin' in thar graves at ya getting' tattoos like some common navvy... Yar grounded, me girl, fer a month. Nar, get ta yar room."

"I'll go ta me room," the teenage firebrand had conceded to their mother, but then had turned her defiant gaze onto him, her blue-green eyes filled with righteous anger. "But I tell ya now, Liam, I will have a part in destroyin' tha men thot killed Pat an' if ya try ta stop me, I'll go out on me own an' find em."

He'd forgotten how pigheaded his sister could be, how just like their father and older brother his youngest sibling only saw things in black and white, right and wrong, living and living free.

"Thar's a difference between livin' an' livin' free," had been one of their da's favorite sayings and one of the hardest to follow. In Liam's experience, freedom was never free. It came at a high cost. In this case, the freedom Fiona wanted was going to most likely cost her her life and possibly other members of her family too.

That damn harp, the wild harp...

The Minstrel fell! But the foeman's chain

Could not bring that proud soul under;

The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder;

And said "No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and brav'ry!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free,

They shall never sound in slavery!"

"Damn ya, Fi!" He smacked the back of his hand against the side window and once then again even harder. "Damn ya ta hell…" He swiped his bruised knuckles across his eyes and sighed heavily. "I get yar feckin' message."

()()()

As the night dragged on, Michael and Fiona kept moving, pushing their way in between the tightly pack trees and overgrown bushes, slowing down only when the slippery ground became too uneven or so steep that it was too treacherous to travel any faster than a snail's pace.

The weary woman's urge to talk had faded after the first hour and, by the early hours of the morning, she was too bone weary to do anything other put one foot in front of the other, following in the wake of the man she loved with all her heart.

Ahead of the worn out young woman, Michael Westen was doing his best to ignore the burning pain radiating from his damaged ribs and trying not to put too much weight through his injured knee which was aching more with each step he took. The support of the duct tape helped, but not enough to completely mitigate the ache that went along with every breath.

He had absolutely no doubt in his mind that he could push through the growing discomfort and keep going. He had coped with far worse during his time at Fort Benning with endless marching or the battle drills while going through Ranger school and then later on during the many dangerous missions first as a soldier and then a spy.

As he forged a path down the hillside, he blocked out all the hurts by working on what they were going to do next. He had promised Fiona he would keep her safe and thus far he had failed miserably. They were drifting from one near disaster to the next, each time barely escaping by the skin of their teeth and leaving a trail of dead bodies behind them like he hadn't seen since working with his former friend and mentor Larry Sizemore.

Larry would have had them stake out one of the numerous private air fields and then he would have targeted a small plane planning a flight to France and sneaked aboard. Once they were in the air he would have put a gun to the pilot's head and ordered him to land in some open field near a French town.

Michael's heart skipped a beat… that could work.

Of course, then Larry would have killed the pilot and set fire to the plane to cover his tracks.

But they didn't have to do that. Once in mainland Europe, they could disappear. The Glenannes would lose their home court advantage… And with border crossings where all you needed was a half decent forged driver's license to cross into another country… As long as they stayed out of the larger towns and cities, it would make it nearly impossible for the intelligence agencies to track them down…

He glanced back eager to share his new strategy with the love of his life. But as soon as he spotted her bowed head and slumped shoulders, he came to an abrupt halt, a wave of guilt washing over the good news he was about to impart.

"Fi…" He reached out a hand to steady her fragile frame and offered her an apologetic half smile. "Fiona, I'm sorry. Let me carry your pack, Fi."

"Whot? No…" she protested, taking a step back, her eyes sparked with indignation. "I can carry me own weight, Michael."

"Fiona," he sighed and reached out again, this time aiming to relieve her of her heavy load. "You're worn out. It's not good for you or the baby. Let me-"

She batted his hand away and straightened up. "This baby…" She touched her hand to her stomach, "Is gonna need both o' us. Yer in as bad a state as me an' donnae try ta tell me any different... I'll take a rest once we reach tha road."

"You need to -" He tried to explain, but his stubborn lover would have none of it.

"I'll have plenty o' time ta lay down an' rest while ye go an' find us a ride. How does thot sound?"

"Like you're trying to be brave." He half smiled. "But I still think you should let me take your pack."

"An' I said no, if ya carry both, yer gonna be in no fit state ta go off and get us a car."

He hated this. He hated what her family and his employers were putting them both through and he knew in his heart of hearts things were only going to get worse. But when he looked into the determined eyes of the young woman standing in front of him, he knew that there was nowhere else in the whole world he would rather be.

"C'mon," he finally muttered. "Let's get goin' then. Daylight isn't that far away and we need to be on the road before Liam catches up to us."

()()()

Tom Card had spent the last thirty six hours desperately trying to decide what to do with the juicy piece of intelligence that he'd found amongst the burnt and ruined debris that the CIA's cleaners had brought back from the scene of the helicopter crash. But since making the startling discovery, all he had managed to come up with after two sleepless nights was a king size migraine.

Sitting at a desk in his guest quarters inside the US embassy in Dublin, he stared down through bloodshot eyes at the open dossier before him and wondered not for the first time how could Michael Westen, the scourge of Russia and one of the brightest rising stars in the agency have been so utterly careless. Well, perhaps not careless, but apparently willfully ignorant of the consequences of his actions.

Pursing his lips, Card leaned back in his chair and stared up at the fancy plastered vaulted ceiling searching for inspiration. He had a piece of valuable, mind blowing information and yet he was unable to decide on how to use it to his best advantage. He chuckled mirthlessly and ran his hands over his hair. Who would have believed it?

What he had recognized and the clean-up crew sent into the cottage had failed to identify was the torn remains of the front cover of a magazine, a magazine that he had recognized as Mother and Baby. His wife had had several of the various pregnancy and child rearing tomes laying about their home in DC and the Irish version hadn't deviated that much from the US one.

Michael Westen had gotten his Irish terrorist girlfriend pregnant… That was what had caused all this. The career covert operative had let his asset manipulate him into betraying everything he had believed in. If anyone had told him two years ago that his star pupil would be on the run with a knocked up girlfriend in tow, Tom Card would have laughed in their face until his sides ached.

But right now the only thing that was aching was his head. Getting to his feet, the weary company man headed towards the bathroom. He needed a shower and a shave before getting back to work, maybe an invigorating shower would help clear his mind.

From all the reports, the Glenanne woman wasn't showing signs of impending motherhood. But that wouldn't last forever. As soon as her condition became common knowledge, all hell would break loose, as Westen's long list of enemies would see their chance to move in for the kill.

Reaching into the cubicle, Card twisted the dial on the power shower and withdrew his hand quickly before it got wet. So he had to act quickly but how? If he was back in the States, things would be a lot easier. He wouldn't have to deal with that prissy Brit Chambers for a start.

Stripping off the shirt and pants he had been wearing since the previous day, Card was bending down to pull off his socks when a radical idea came to him. Stuck working with British Intelligence and their mandate to do whatever was necessary to keep the peace process intact meant that any strategy he came up with would have to be run by the British government and he had no doubts that by the time the plan was approved by the stuffed shirts in Whitehall, the child would be old enough to start school.

But what if instead of informing Dickie Chambers, he made a phone call to the other interested party in this tragedy? What if he approached the Glenannes? Maybe they would see the sense in working together to get what they all wanted. They would their sister and her baby home safe with the family and he would have his agent back under his control with a little leverage, a secret child, to ensure Michael kept in line. Could he make contact with them without his hosts finding out?

Tom Card smiled for the first time since he'd taken that celebratory drink with his assistant. He hurriedly finished his ablations. He had a job fit for Mrs. Joyce's particularly discrete talents. .

()()()

"There… there's the road. We're gonna make it, Fi!" It had been a long hard slog, but finally Michael could see an end in sight. Pointing across the wide expanse of open pasture between them and their goal, it was just possible to make out a ribbon of tarmac in the distance.

Glancing up at the rapidly lightening sky, the former spy bit down on his bottom lip. It was going to be a close run, but providing Liam and his tracker hadn't decided to risk coming straight after them, they should make it across the open land and find some transportation before they were spotted.

"If we can reach the road before the sun comes up, we should be safe. Then it's gonna be choosing a direction to walk in until we come across a car -"

"Michael…"

He barely heard her. The ex-agent was in full spy mode now, blocking out everything else as his razor sharp mind worked on plotting their next moves.

"Mi-, I donnae feel-" Just as he began to process something was wrong, she fell against him, her knees buckling as she passed out, causing her head to impact his shoulder.

"FI!"

He managed to get an arm about her waist before the exhausted Irishwoman hit the ground.

"Fi! Fi… Fiona…" Panic welled in his heart as he carefully lowered her to the ground, pulling the heavy ruck sack from her back so he could lay her down flat.

"Fiona, please… Fi, talk to me… Fi?" Cradling her head in one hand, he cupped her cheek in his other as he pleaded with her to wake up. This was his fault. He'd relented when she'd insisted on going on because he was pushing her too hard to keep moving. He knew how fragile she was now in her condition, why hadn't he insisted on taking her pack despite her denials?

Sitting back on his heels, Michael ran the palms of his hands over her cheeks and down to her shoulders, tears filling his eyes before with shaking fingers he searched for a pulse. A small piece of relief burst in his heart as her lover felt a strong steady beat under his fingertips. The former military man shrugged off the weight of the pack he was carrying with a practiced ease before turning his attention back to the motionless form of the mother to be of his child.

Wiping a hand over his eyes, he blew out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding and then patted her cheek. "Hey, Fiona, come on now… wake up."

It took several attempts, but finally he was rewarded by her eyes fluttering open and she stared up at him. "Mmm, Michael, I er-" The petite redhead looked around, confusion registering on her face.

"You fainted." He eased her up until she was sitting on his lap, cradled in his arms with her head resting on his chest. "…An' scared the hell out of me. How do you feel now?"

"Tired," she yawned and tried to get her feet under her, but the effort was too much and she sunk back against him.

"We should have stopped earlier, I'm sorry." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then her brow and finally her lips. "I didn't -"

"It wa' me, I wa' tha one who told ya ta keep goin'." Raising a hand, she cupped his hirsute cheek, thumbing away some of the moisture trailing into his beard.

Looking over his lover's shoulder, Michael pursed his lips as he noted the sun was beginning to rise. Liam and his new best friend, if they hadn't already gotten back to the hunt, they would be soon.

"We can't stay here. We have to get to the road. I'll flag down the first car I see and we'll take it to the nearest town and steal another. We'll have to keep changing vehicles until we've put some distance from this place."

"Michael!" Fiona squeaked as with a groan he shifted his beloved off his lap before he tightened his hold on her and rose up to his feet. "Michael, yar cannae carry me!" she protested vehemently as he staggered slightly under her weight. "Yar rib, yar knee… yer gonna cripple yarself!"

Getting his balance back, he stepped slowly forward, biting back on the pain the move caused him.

"Michael, ya cannae carry me and leave the packs behind! We're gonna-"

"Really? Cuz that what I thought I was doin'." Concentrating solely on putting one foot in front of the other as he had been trained to do, Michael set off across the open field. "When I get you to the road, you can cover me while I go back for the bags."

Fiona stopped struggling and wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to take some of her weight off his injuries, knowing she would only make it harder if she fought him.

As the woman he was holding become still, the ex-Ranger remembered the exercises that had taught him endurance as a soldier. Long forced marches through the dark on no sleep carrying logs four times his weight. The redhead was a feather compared to that, he told himself. On a muddy mountain road long ago in Ft. Benning, Georgia, his cousin Shane and another recruit named Wilson had managed to keep going when one of their number had fainted like Fiona had earlier and four had become three, the recruit no longer carrying his share of the load.

They had done it, he could do this… He had the training, he had the experience… He had been lounging around in Fiona Glenanne's bed this past year, drinking and pretending to be an Irishman, his ribs reminded him sharply as each breath became an agony. But Michael Westen kept going, refusing to stop until he achieved his goal of getting his beloved and their baby to safety.

()()()

At the quiet knock on door to his personal office in Stormont, Sir Richard Chambers looked up from the every growing stack of documents awaiting his special attention building up on his desk.

"Sir, I know you didn't want to be disturbed, but it's him," his long-time secretary announced with a pained tone she reserved only for certain people.

The senior MI-6 agent knew most of the names on that short list and Tom Card, American CIA PIA, had vaulted to the top of said countdown very quickly upon his arrival in the British Isles.

Her supervisor rolled his eyes and drew in a pained breath. He really didn't have time to play the diplomatic game. Since their last uncomfortable conversation, calls from Westen's gung ho superior from the other side of the pond had been mercifully absent. Of course, if the man had actually made the journey north from his current residence in the US embassy in Dublin, it had to be because his man had apprehended their rogue agent. In which case, the sooner he spoke to the man, the sooner the brash Yank would be out of his hair and on his way home.

"Fine, bring our American friend through. Hopefully, he's going to tell me he's found—"

"No," Caroline interrupted, knowing immediately which 'friend' Sir Richard was referencing and knowing that was not who was waiting impatiently in the outer office. "It's Arthur Meyers," she hissed.

The man from MI6 felt a headache beginning to form behind his eyes. The young British officer with a long line of influential friends and family had been almost as difficult to deal with as the American spy he'd been assigned to work with after the disappearance of the man's first handler.

He'd had multiple discussions regarding the young man's unhealthy interest in the Glenanne family that seemed to have gone in one aristocratic ear and out the other from the moment he'd learned that in his free time Lieutenant Meyers was running his own unsanctioned operation regarding Westen's primary asset.

"What the hell were you doing taking surveillance shots of the Glenannes? You do know you could have wrecked a high level operation?"

But that warning hadn't dissuaded the obsessed junior officer, even after being raked over the coals by his commanding officer. Meyers was back in a matter of months with more evidence on the youngest two siblings and their new best friend.

"Who Michael McBride is and what he is doing with the Glenanne girl is none of your concern. I don't care if they're planning on robbing every bank in Belfast. Stay away from him or I will see to it you are put up on charges."

It seemed no matter what he threatened the man with, or what punishment his superiors in the military brought down upon him, Meyers with all the tenacity of a rabid bulldog clung onto his belief that the Glenannes were the embodiment of evil.

Of course one had sympathy for the young man's position. It was an unspoken truth that his older brother, Captain George Meyers' disappearance and most likely murder three years earlier was at the very least sanctioned by Liam Glenanne in revenge for the death of his youngest sister.

But what the young idiot couldn't seem to get his head around was that there were bigger, far more important issues of national importance going on than worrying about the whereabouts of one MIA junior officer. Especially when one, there was no new evidence as to what had happened to said officer and two the Glenannes were a prominent powerful family within the PIRA and bringing the head of the clan in to be questioned at this time about an incident which he'd already been held and interrogated at the time of the abduction would cause more trouble than good.

Smiling grimly, Sir Richard got to his feet and began to hurriedly leaf through one of the tall stacks of folders on one corner of his desk. "Give me a minute and then send him in... Oh and Caroline, when Mr. Meyers leaves here, get me Lieutenant Colonel Fisher-Martin on the phone... Ha, found it! I knew I'd seen it somewhere."

He straightened up holding a pale blue folder in his hand. "You can bring him in now... Just be ready with that other call."

"Yes, sir."

Sitting back in his chair, Chambers placed the folder before him, his fingers running over the cardboard cover. Ever since the loudmouth bore Card had been called to Whitehall to explain his operative's actions, he had known word would reach young Mr. Meyers ears and that the Lieutenant would soon be banging on his door demanding answers to questions which didn't concern him.

So while Mr. Card had been meeting with the Home Secretary, he had been holding a meeting of his own with an old friend over in Belfast on a fact finding mission for the Ministry of Defense.

"Sir Richard, I'm sorry for bothering you again." Lt Arthur Meyers stood rigidly at attention, the young man's aloof expression making in perfectly clear that regardless of his words he wasn't the least bit sorry. "My father sends his regards by the way; he was only saying during my last leave that he has missed seeing you at Boodles."

Chamber's pursed his lips at the mention of his favorite gentlemen's club when he was in the City and also the reference to young Mr. Meyers sire. George Senior had once been an astute financier, the life of the party and an all-round good chap. But the disappearance of his son and heir had quickly turned the man into a brooding drunk, who when sober went about slaughtering the local wildlife surrounding his country seat with an unbecoming amount of zeal. Still, it did explain where Arthur got his rugged determination from.

Even though he knew the answer, he had to ask the question. "What brings you here, Meyers? Are they not keeping you busy enough at the barracks?"

"Fiona Glenanne… I've heard rumors." The young officer paused and shuffled his feet as the older man cold eyes stared back at him in disdain. "If there is a crack in the family's loyalty, we should exploit it, sir... That woman, your agent Westen's asset, she was helping him, yes? All you have to do is bring her in and make her talk."

Leaning back in his chair, Sir Richard Chambers smiled at the young infantry officer. "Arthur, I have done my best to indulge your obsession with the Glenannes, but it stops now..." He held up a hand to stop the outburst at the rebuke. "You are not employed by any Her Majesty's intelligence agencies... You are a soldier, an officer in the armed forces of the United Kingdom and Northern Ireland and it is about time you learned to take your responsibilities seriously."

The older man picked up the pale blue folder and held it out to the young Lieutenant. "I was speaking to an old friend about you. I was explaining about a young, obviously bright officer who since graduating Sandhurst has buried himself away in Northern Ireland."

"Sir, I -"

"I said to my friend that you seemed unhappy, always looking for reasons to leave the barracks, not fitting in with the other chaps." Sir Richard's eyes were like flints as his gaze cut into the younger man's soul. "My friend suggested that you might just need to expand your horizons, see more of the world so to speak. My friend then mentioned a wonderful opportunity for the right sort of man, a position as a full Lieutenant in the 23rd Battalion."

"Sir, the 23rd is about to -"

"Yes…" Chambers revealed his teeth in a shark like smile. "Embark on UN Peacekeeping duties in Bosnia. My friend in the MoD was obliging enough to draw up the transfer papers... Nothing is set in stone of course until your commanding officer agrees to the transfer... I had them faxed over to him this morning – suggested he hold them on file, just in case."

Arthur Meyers haughty expression had been wiped away by the threat of a dangerous, far away posting. The young officers mouth open and closed wordless until he regained the ability to speak. "Sir, I, er, I -"

"Need to go? Please, by all means, go. You are dismissed, Lieutenant."

Sir Richard watched with amusement as his unwanted guest did an abrupt about face and strode rapidly out of his office and past his secretary. As the outer office door swung shut, Caroline's voice came through the intercom. "Sir, I have Lieutenant Colonel Fisher-Martin on the line."

"Thank you." He picked the phone. "Colonel Fisher-Martin? Good morning, David, just as I suspected Meyers turned up at my office, a little earlier than I expected. Still, I've broken the news to him and I dare say he is on his way to see you now."

The call lasted less than five minutes. After a few pleasantries, the commander of Meyers' unit was only too happy to transfer the green lieutenant who made little effort to fit in with the rest of his team.

With one problem solved, the over worked MI-6 operations chief turned his mind to another problem. No doubt he would be hearing from Tom Card soon and when he did he wanted to have more of the details of the first failed attempt to capture Westen at his fingertips than the American seemed prepared to share.

"Caroline, I want you to track down Mason Gilroy for me. Get him to come in sometime today."

Turning his attention back to the mountain of paperwork covering his desk, Chambers picked up the file on the top of the nearest pile.

"Oh, wonderful..." he sighed, opening the cover on one of junior analyst's reports on the activities of one Mr. Thomas O'Neill, former REAL IRA agitator and former foe of the Glenanne clan.

()()()

"Michael, it's been an hour and we've nae seen a single car, lorry or even a bloody bicycle... War gonna have ta pick a direction an' start walking soon."

Once he had carried her across several acres of open pasture, Michael had left his lover with the two rifles next to a large hawthorn bush and then gone back to retrieve their supplies, albeit after he had taken a moment to recover his breath. The former guerilla had watched his progress through her sniper scope, noting the way he was struggling over the relatively flat ground.

And all she could think on was how this was her fault; she should have listened to him earlier when he'd suggested stopping. It was typical of her American spy boyfriend that he would put her health before his own. As soon as he had gotten back, Fiona had insisted he sit down at her side and swallow some more of their rapidly dwindling supplies of painkillers.

"Will ya let me take a look at yar knee now?" she'd asked without much hope of him agreeing.

"I have to be ready to move as soon as we spot a car. I can't do that if I've got my pants down around my ankles. My knee will hold out a little while longer and the duct tape is helping."

The weary woman wanted to argue further, but was just too tired to continue fighting. So they had sat side by side for nearly an hour in silence, conserving what little energy they had left. But in the back of Fiona's mind was the fear that the longer they sat there, although it was exactly what she had wanted to do while they had trudged through the forest, more chance that either Liam or another of her boyfriend' enemies would come across their resting place.

"I know," he answered grimly as if reading her mind. With a groan, Michael got to his feet, his sharp blue eyes scanning the horizon. "I think I can see some buildings off to the left. If we head that way, maybe..." He left the sentence hanging as he straightened up further and then hefted the Tikka T3 hunting rifle he had taken off the sniper in the woods to use the scope.

"It's a car, Fi!" There was more than a touch of urgency in his voice as he held out a hand to help her to her feet. "It's moving pretty slowly. I should be able to get to stop. Let's get the bags over to the road and you can cover me from behind that bush." He pointed to another prickly Hawthorn tree this one which was growing in the straggly hedgerow marking the edge of the field.

For a moment, the car was out of sight as it went around a series of bends and then they could hear the engine as it drew nearer. Drawing his handgun, Michael took a deep breath and stepped out into the road, waving his hands to make the ancient looking saloon car come to a stop.

The ex-spy dashed around to the driver's door as the rusted Ford Fiesta slowed even further. He was on the verge of pointing his weapon at the occupant when he noticed the door was unlocked. Seizing upon this for once fortuitous turn of events, Michael wrenched it open and found himself face to face to a portly old woman staring back at him through thick glasses.

"Whot tis tha matter wit' ya? Ya young idjit, standin' in the middle o' tha road wavin' yar arms about like yar tryin' ta catch flies. I coulda flattened ya like a pancake, so I could." Michael opened and closed his mouth as the elderly lady berated him. "Speak up, boy! Why I swear young ones taday donnae have tha sense God gave a goose."

As she peered at him through narrowed grey eyes, the former operative realized the driver was so blind she hadn't even notice the gun he had been pointing at her. He almost cursed aloud. He couldn't just pistol whip her or leave her on the side of the road and take the vehicle.

While his dead partner would have put a bullet between her eyes and dropped her in the trunk in a heartbeat, not even at his worst would Michael Westen have murdered a little old lady in cold blood... even if he had just stood about while Larry had done the deed not so long ago.

On the positive side, should anyone catch up to her, their ancient accomplice could only give the most rudimentary description of the passengers she had picked up in the middle of nowhere.

Though with their luck lately, it probably would be enough to set Liam Glenanne on their trail.

"Michael?" Fiona called as she emerged from the shrub line. She had seen through the senior citizen behind the wheel through the sniper scope and unless MI6 or the CIA was recruiting Irish grandmothers these days, she thought she was safe to come into the open.

"Whot's tha matter, lad? Cat got yar tongue? Speak up, boy. Whot're ya doing standing about out in tha countryside?"

"Am sorry ta frighten ya, Missus, but me an' tha wife wa' hiking in tha woods…"

"Whot's thot now ya said? Whotever it wa', I donnae think thot's a very good reason fer scaring me half ta death!"

Realizing their newest potential asset was almost as hard of hearing as she was visually impaired, the younger woman stepped in front of her battered boyfriend and pitched her voice perfectly to activate the heavy set matron's hearing aid.

"Am sorry, missus, but me husband har, we war back packing in tha woods, ya see, an' he fell off a cliff, collapsed right under him tha ridge did. Me poor man's broke a rib, hurt his knee an' fell on his head ta boot." Tears which were not entirely invented welled up in her tired eyes as Fiona rambled on, letting all the fatigue she felt come onto her countenance. "We've been walkin' fer days, tryin' ta get tha road. He dinnae mean ta scare ya, missus. He's nae in his right mind fram tha fall."

The old lady peered at the pair and then declared, "Ya certainly look as though ya've both been in the wars. Ya poor dear, would ya be wantin' a lift then? I can only take ya as far as me sister's house, but tis a land line phone thar an' ya can call for help."

"Could ya now? We'd be ever so grateful fer yar kindness, missus." Fiona scrubbed at her face with the back of her hand, looking truly appreciative.

"Aw, none o' thot nar, lassie. Ya could call me Mrs. Hooley, but I'd rather ya call me Esme."

"Oh, thank ya so much, Esme. Go and get tha bags, Bobby," she called out to her husband before climbing into the back of the vehicle while continuing to chatter away to its owner. "I wa' jus' sayin' ta Bobby thot goin' back packin' in tha woods wa' a daft way ta spend yar honeymoon, but he donnae listen. He's loves the woods, so me Mr. Creegan does. He wa' in the army before we wa' married, ya know? He cannae get enough o' tha outdoors, though he might nae think o' this-"

Michael let out the breath he'd been holding as his lover continued to charm their new friend while he retrieved the hidden backpacks and the weaponry from the shrubbery. Loading up their meager belongings and hiding the dead assassin's rifle and his girlfriend's Hectate in an old blanket amongst the junk in the trunk, the ex-spy then settled in the back seat immediately behind the driver, keeping one hand on the automatic in his jacket pocket in case it was a ruse.

Fiona leaned over to press a kiss to his hairy cheek and then whispered into his ear as the car started to move slowly down the road again.

"War Bobby and Kim Creegan from Derry and war on our honeymoon, which me barmy new husband decided to spend hiking in the woods. But Bobby loves sleepin' out under tha stars and I'd do anythin' fer me hubby, seeing as I married ya against me family's objections and we've eloped run off ta tha south fer some peace."

"Yar a genius, Missus Creegan," he murmured back, though he doubted the woman behind the wheel could hear a word they were saying.

"Thot's whot happens when yer required ta entertain a load o' maiden great aunts. Me mam's aunties would come around fer dinner every Sunday when we lived in Belfast. I learned young how ta charm tham."

Then Fiona yawned massively and laid her head down in Michael's lap. "Ya rest yarself, Bobby. We've another hour befer wer at the farm. I've gonna ta have a lil lie down now."

He was grateful that he didn't have to insist on her resting up and more so that she was not pressing on any of his injuries. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Michael laid his head back against the rear seat, determined to stay alert and but finding himself lulled to sleep by the motion of the car, the mindless droning of their savior from the front seat and his beloved's steady even breathing as she slumbered, giving into the bone weary exhaustion now that his adrenaline was expended.

Rubbing his free hand gently over her head, threading his fingers through the short tangled auburn locks, the former spy who had given it all up for the woman he loved, sent a silent prayer of thanks towards the heavens and let himself believe that this was all going to be alright in the end.

And he dreamed of the happily ever after that he sincerely hoped would come true for them all.