A/N: Thank you all for all the wonderful reviews and all the support we have received from the burners on Twitter. We appreciate your patience with the delay. The final chapter of Purdy's Pal's Behind Blue Eyes is coming soon and hopefully the next chapter of Three Sides from Mike's POV.
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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Seventeen
The soft rain which had dogged most of his journey home cleared away and the sky was just beginning to lighten when Liam Glenanne reached the guarded gates of his mother's home. With a grim nod in way of a greeting to the armed men standing watch, the head of the clan drove straight past and around to the side of the Georgian manor house so the vehicle would be out of the view of his mother's bedroom window. He had things to do before he faced his mam and explained to her how he had failed yet again to bring her youngest child home.
"Boss…" Davy Doyle rushed down the steps which lead into Maeve's utility room and the kitchen beyond to greet his best friend and employer. "I've got some tea brewing in tha pot. Tha family tis still in thar beds... Sean is restin'. He says he's got some pins an' needles in his hand, which yar mam reckons is a good thing, so it looks like he's on tha mend. I've done a coupla extra sweeps lookin' out fer surveillance teams like ya asked an' thar's definitely nobody out thar. If they be watchin' us, thar either doin' it fram so far out as ta be useless or they've developed some o' tham Jedi mind tricks."
"Jedi mind tricks, is it, Davy?" He was well used to his friend's sense of humor, though usually the man knew when to leave the joking aside.
"Aye, well, I sat up wit' Shay, Patrick an' thar twins last night watchin' those ol' Star Wars films. Thar releasing a new one ina coupla months, all tha young ones ar' talkin' about it," Mr. Doyle apologized, his usual pale complexion flushing under the steely glare of his boss's blue-grey eyes.
"I want ya ta get this…" Liam walked around to the back of the old Mazda and popped the trunk to show Davy the gory remains of the sniper he had found in the woods. "O'er ta Keiran's place, an' then take this…" He pulled out a mobile phone he had found near the body from his pocket. "An' give it ta Colin. I've already removed tha battery an' tha SIM, so make sure ya donnae lose tham. Tell me brudder I want ta know all about this fella ASAP." Liam paused for a moment, his pale eyes studying his mother's house as he was hit by another more worrying thought. "Has me ma had anyone new visitin' in tha last coupla weeks?"
"Not thot I know of," Davy replied. "Ya think –?"
"Am thinkin' I cannae believe tha Brits donnae have someone watchin' an' listening ta us wit' all thot has happened... Befer ya go, gather up all tha mobile phones, every one o' tham, no excuses an' take tham wit' ya ta have Colin check tha call logs."
Davy nodded and ran off without another word to carry out his boss's orders. Until the discovery of Michael Westen, the Glenanne's chief of security would have staked his life on the chances of a spy infiltrating the matriarch's home being next to impossible. Yet a CIA operative had not only won the heart of the family's only daughter, he had also managed to gain the trust of many members of the family and had even spent time alone in the company of the lady of the house. So now as a matter of urgency, he went to demand his men handed over their phones and any other communication devices they had on them. And God help anybody who turned out to be a traitor because the Irishman was damn sure that Liam Glenanne was planning on making one very bloody example of the next person who broke his trust.
Left standing on his own, the head of the family stood lost in his thoughts. If somehow the security forces had managed to find and corrupt a weak link in his organization, it wasn't only mobile phones he had to be worried about.
"Feck it," he snarled and hurried inside the house.
As much as his body and mind urged him to take to his bed for at least a few hours of rest, Liam couldn't give in just yet. His mother's home had been full of people for the last few days and it was at least a month since they had checked the whole house for listening devices. Right now his finely tuned sense of paranoia was telling him if there were no surveillance teams in sight, they must be monitoring the family in some other way... Had Westen planted bugs when he'd come calling with Fiona? Or was one of his men not as loyal as he pretended?
Going to the large cupboard under the stairs where his mother kept the family's emergency armoury hidden behind a secret panel, Liam scanned the shelves built along one wall until he found what he was looking for. He would use the radio frequency detector to clear the kitchen and then once the rest of the family was up, he would get Seamus to clear the whole house while he got some sleep.
When a clever man finds a listening device, the last thing he does is turn it off. A bug can be a direct line into the mind of your enemy. It's delicate, but in the right hands it's a weapon that can turn almost any situation in your favor.
Liam smiled. If Michael Westen or somebody else had managed to get a listening device into his mother's home, he'd know soon enough and then he'd start a little disinformation campaign of his own to keep the enemy busy while he finished the job of finding his little sister.
()()()
"As an operative, you get used to being in uncomfortable situations. Whether it's resisting interrogation in a foreign prison, fighting guerrilla forces in a tropical jungle or running for your life through the Irish countryside, it's just part of the job."
The words of a long ago lecture mixed with the present thoughts of the weary spy as he fought to stay awake.
"What's harder to get used to is going into a situation you don't know anything about. Just because you're exhausted and disoriented doesn't mean you should stop looking out for trouble."
"Ya war lucky I came along when I did. On any other day o' tha week, ya woulda been standin' thar fer a month o' Sundays..."
Another louder more persistent voice laced with a lilting brogue began to replace the drone of his former training officer, drowning out the sage advice given in a stuffy classroom in the northern Virginia countryside what seemed like a lifetime ago.
"...Gerry is still on crutches, tha poor man. Though whot possessed him ta think he could try an' repair tha' roof all by himself tha saints only know."
Regardless of how hard the dark haired spy struggled to follow his training and stay alert, his head fell against the side window as Esme's non-stop chatter soothed his battered soul.
"Sometimes it's just a matter o' doing what ya think is right, even if it means putting yar fate in the hands of a stranger," the voice of his lover whispered softly in depths of his mind, sealing his fate as he finally relaxed and let his guard down.
"... An' Cathy cannae drive, she never saw tha point o' learnin', but wit' har arthritis playin' up sommit chronic an' o' course she's not as young as she wa' so now she cannae get around on har bicycle tha way she use ta."
The former spy turned rogue agent hummed an answer and wriggled his shoulders slightly as he sought to get as comfortable as possible in the confined space.
"Come rain or shine three times a week fer tha last month, I've been driving over fram Waterford and tis looking like it could be another month befer himself is fit ta drive... Still, it gets me outta tha house an'..." Then, in a far louder tone, she asked. "Are yar alright back thar? Yer being mighty quiet, laddie… have ya fainted on me?"
Jerked from his slumber, Michael banged his head against the window as he suddenly shot upright, looking around through bloodshot eyes as it took a second or two for his sleep laden mind to work out where he was.
"Sorry, did I make ya jump, young fella? Ya must be fair exhausted after thot tumble ya took. If ya donnae mind me sayin' so, ya picked tha wrong time o' tha year ta be gallivantin' around thot mountain an' on yar honeymoon, fer shame."
Cursing under his breath, Michael loosened his grip on his hand gun before turning his attention to his still sleeping girlfriend, gently brushing the short strands of hair back so he could see her face.
"How's ya young missus doin'? A nice cuppa tea will do ya both good."
Glancing up, the fugitive spy was shocked to find himself staring directly through a set of thick spectacle lens into the eyes of the lady behind the wheel.
"Huh, sorry missus," he swallowed, his eyes going wide, as the old lady continued to look over her shoulder at him. "Ah, Esme should ya nae be watchin' tha road?"
"Achhh…" the portly matron tssked as she turned back to peer out over her steering wheel. "Yer worse than me Ronnie. I tell ya I've been makin' this journey once a week fer tha last fifty years an' more than thot fer tha last month. This old car o' mine could drive itself thar," she chuckled.
Michael stiffened and sat up straighter, his hand reaching for a seatbelt which much to his chagrin was missing. The ancient compact car entered a series of sweeping bends, the road lined by high stone walls on one side and deep ditches on the other, neither of which he fancied the idea of hitting or careering into, and he vowed that until they reached their destination he was going to stay alert.
"As I wa' sayin', Gerry will be delighted ta have another man in tha house. He's been starved o' male company since he came off tha roof. Those old reprobates he calls friends down at tha pub have nae called in more than once or twice this whole time."
It seemed to Michael that it wasn't only Gerry who had been missing out on some company, as Mrs Hooley got back to filling him on every aspect of her life, her sister's life and what sounded like the goings on of the whole neighborhood.
Eventually though, the aging Fiesta slowed to what could only be described as a snail's pace and turned onto a stony path set between two fields. "Another ten minutes and ya can have a nice cuppa an' some o' me sister's freshly baked Barmbrack."
"Thot'll be grand, Esme. I donnae know how we'll be able ta thank ya enough fer yar charity."
Bobby Creegan flashed the older woman a dazzling smile before turning his attention to his still sleeping wife. Brushing his hand over his lover's shorn locks, Michael spoke in a whisper. "Fi, Fiona, tis time ta wake up."
"Mmmm, Am awake." With a yawn and an awkward stretch, the petite woman uncurled her legs and twisted around to sit up.
"D'ya sleep well, Kim?" Bobby reminded his beloved of her cover identity.
"Nae taa bad, Bobby... Oh my," she said, looking out of the side window, staring at the rolling fields and then twisting to check out the road behind. "It looks like we could be in tha middle o' nowhar... Yar sister must be fair isolated out har, Esme."
"Aye lass, thot she is. Tis ten miles ta tha nearest village, though thar's nae much thar, jus' pub an' a post office an' Clonmel is twenty five miles in tha t'other direction."
"D'ya hear thot, Bobby?" Kim sent her husband a knowing smile. "Miles fram anywhar… I betcha if ya dinnae visit, yar sister an har husband wouldnae see another soul fer days at a time."
"Days…? Ya mean weeks, it tis sometimes... I was tellin' yar Mr. Creegan, Cathy's two boys left home years ago, neither one o' tham interested in keepin' tha farm goin'. Rory tis an estate agent in Limerick, selling houses an' fram whot he says making good money fram it, nae thot poor Cathy sees any o' it, and Oisin is out in Brazil savin' tha rainforest, I kid ya nae. They spent all thot money sendin' tha boy ta university an' he up an' runs off ta save some trees a million miles away fram har."
"Er, Esme, tha road!" Michael snapped, as the old lady had once again turned to speak to her companions.
"Tha road is goin' nowhar… Achhh, tis yar man always such a worry wort? Jus' like me Ronnie," she huffed, but in deference to her nervous passenger turned back to guide the car along the track.
"Ronnie, M – Esme?" Fiona struggled not to laugh at her husband's expression.
"Ronnie, tis me own son, forty years old an' still livin' wit' his mammy. He's a good boy, so he is. I jus' wish he'd find himself a nice girl an' settle down... I don't suppose ya know o'–?"
"No... Sorry, Esme. I donnae have many girlfriends and Bobby har only has eyes fer me, dontcha Bobby?"
"I donnae think I could cope wit' another like ya, Mrs. Creegan," Michael murmured softly.
"I should think nae, Mr. Creegan," Fiona replied and shifted enough to place a kiss to the side of her husband's mouth. "Oh, look, I can see tha house; war nearly thar."
Ahead of them, the lower floors hidden by a tall unruly hedge, they could make out the upper floors and the roof of stone built farmhouse.
"I think we've found tha perfect sanctuary," his lover whispered, her lips brushing his ear before she leaned her head against his shoulder and sighed in relief.
And the American spy beside her sincerely hoped she was right.
()()()
"So, what have you got for me?" Tom Card swept into his outer office like a man on a mission. Refreshed by his shower and a hearty breakfast, he was ready and eager to get to work on his latest strategy to bring his wayward former protégé back into line.
At the sound of her boss's voice, his silver blonde personal assistant looked up from the mountain of paper work spread over her desk and smiled wryly at him over the top of her glasses.
"Six more messages, two from the first Mrs. Card, three from the second Mrs Card and one from your daughter who's presented you with your first grandchild… Have you seen the latest-"
Her boss gave her a sour look and waved his hand towards the intelligence reports. "As much as I appreciate the pictures of the newest edition to my own personal sorority, I'm more interested in some surveillance photos of Liam Glenanne right now."
"Well, getting the files on the Glenannes without raising any red flags was easy since you're already running the Michael Westen case," she announced dryly. Stuffing the pieces of paper she had been working on back into the correct files, the older woman gathered up the relevant folders and followed her boss into his private domain. "But securing a face to face meeting with Liam Glenanne without British or Irish intelligence finding out is going to be nearly impossible."
Dropping the dozen or so folders she was cradling in her arms down onto her boss's desktop, she handed him the thin manila colored file containing her report.
"So what is the problem?" Card asked as he flipped open the cover and scanned the first neatly typed page of his secretary's assessment of the assignment.
"The problem is Mr Liam Glenanne is too damned good at what he does. Let's face it, only the smartest and nastiest of these terrorists make it to old age. He doesn't meet anybody he hasn't had thoroughly vetted."
"Okay, so he's clever, resourceful and very private." Card ticked off the relevant facts at hand. "Are you running for president of his fan club or are you getting to a point?"
"The point is," Mrs. Joyce continued. "The RUC as well as MI-6 and Interpol suspect him of a series of kidnappings and murders in Ireland, the UK and Europe dating back to the mid-eighties when he took over as head of the family. All the victims were either former members of the IRA or had close ties to the organization, informers whose whereabouts was supposed to be secret. MI-6 has had a dedicated team that runs surveillance on him since the beginning of '96, after the youngest of the siblings was accidentally killed during a riot in Belfast."
His assistant leaned forward and directed her boss's eyes to the relevant paragraph. "The officer in the charge of that patrol is still missing; unofficially presumed dead. The infantryman who fired the shot was himself shot a couple of weeks later by a sniper, who has also never turned up."
Card's face said plainly what he thought of the police work on this side of the pond. Mrs. Joyce, reading his mind as usual, continued on with why things turned out the way they had. Despite her employer's sarcasm earlier, she had come to have a grudging respect for how Mr. Liam Glenanne managed things as she had pored over the details of his life and that of his extended family.
"Before any investigation could get under way, the PIRA began a bombing campaign first in London and then in Manchester... caused the most damage since World War Two and massive chaos. Their intelligence services all agree that Liam delayed avenging his sister's death until just before the start of the offensive so the investigation into the murders would be stalled."
The Company man placed the thin folder down on the desk and then proceeded around it towards his high backed leather chair.
"You still haven't told me what I want to hear," the silver haired man declared while settling into his seat and staring up at his assistant in anticipation.
The older woman made a face. Apparently she would have to spell it out for him. "Any time the man shows his face in public, there's a cadre of agents following him and he's good enough at what he does that his private business has remained just that, private. So, even if by some miracle you were able to get a word to him and Mr. Glenanne decided to accept your invitation for a chat," she concluded. "The likelihood is that Mr. Chambers would know about it about the same time you did."
Card pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair, his bright blue eyes narrowing as he stared up at the ceiling deep in thought. "There is always a way, Mrs. Joyce... Finding a way into any criminal organization is all about observing social dynamics."
The blonde refrained from rolling her eyes as her boss began one of his lectures. The man frequently forgot he was not back at Langley instructing a bunch of green recruits. She had been working for the CIA while he was still in grade school.
"We just have to discover the weak link. The ones in the inner circle... Mr. Glenanne's brothers, as you just pointed out, will be too cautious and are most likely under surveillance." He got to his feet warming to his subject. "However, drivers and bodyguards are easier -"
"You mean, Mr. David Doyle, Liam's driver and his chief bodyguard, who was also his childhood friend? I think if you look closely at that brief I spent half the night finishing, you'll notice that your target is godfather to Mr. Doyle's oldest child."
Tom Card sent his PA a stern glare for interrupting his musing. Huffing, he continued. "What I'm looking for is somebody with access to the inner circle who is hungry for a little bit more recognition... A frustrated middle manager if you will."
"Here are all the files on Glenanne's entourage, brothers, cousins and long-time friends." She arranged the documents out on the desk, laying them out before him. "They've all proven unbreakable by the UK security services and the police forces of both Northern Ireland and in the South for the last, oh, forty years give or take, so unless..." She left the sentence hanging, knowing not only how devious that Tom Card could be, but also to what lengths he was willing to go to get what he wanted. While the man annoyed her, she had to respect his tenacity and determination.
"You just leave that to me," he instructed. "They were all interrogating an enemy. I'm trying to be someone's new best friend. There's some hot shot out there, some overlooked foot soldier, who wants to move up in rank..."
Sitting down, he began to pour over the vast array of information before him. His assistant had done an impressive job as always getting him this far. Now it was up to him to sift through it all and find a way to make the approach to what could be his former protégé's future brother-in-law. But he didn't have long to come up with a plan.
Another thought hit him just as he sank bank down into his comfy leather office chair, sending a chill up his spine. "Mrs. Joyce," he called to her retreating back. "Has Tyler Grey checked in yet?"
If Grey had killed the Glenanne girl, all this would be for naught and they would all soon be too busy running for their lives and hiding away from the enraged father of her unborn child...
()()()
The farmhouse and its outbuildings all showed signs of recent and not so recent neglect. A metal gate, resting back against the stone wall which marked the perimeter of the farmyard, was hanging off bent hinges so it could no longer swing freely, the lower part hidden by a tangle of grass and tall bushy patches of stinging nettles.
Once they were in the farmyard, it was clear from the barn with its broken guttering and large wooden doors held shut with just a piece of plaited baling twine to the row of low storage sheds with missing or cracked glass in the rotted window frames and the little flock of a dozen or so scraggy hens roaming loose, that the place was becoming too much work for the elderly couple.
"They used ta have a lad come over three days a week ta help Gerry wit' tha farm, but he went off ta find work in Dublin last summer." Esme brought her old Fiesta to a stop next to a narrow waist high wrought iron gate which showed the way up to the farmhouse. "Tis tha same all over, not enough o' tha young folk wanta keep up tha traditions."
"Yer so right thar, Esme." Michael watched as his wife linked arms with the older woman while almost walking on tiptoes to shout into her ear. "Me mammy is so lucky thot all o' us took ta followin' in tha family business... Well, all except meself, nar thot I've married Mr. Creegan."
"An' whot business is thot, Kim, if ya donnae mind me askin'?"
The former spy waited with interest to hear what tale Fiona was going to spin to explain her family. He found himself smiling fondly as the petite terrorist with a penchant for making bombs and robbing banks widened her eyes, giving her expression the air of innocence and began to speak.
"Mostly tis demolition work, but me brudders also do lotsa work in tha community taa." She flashed a grin back over her shoulder at him and winked.
Work in the community? Michael rolled his eyes. Bombings, acting as muscle for the PIRA fund raising efforts, scaring straight the petty thieves and drug dealers who infested the inner city housing estates and knee capping or worse the persistent offenders. He realized at that moment his girlfriend was as skilled at stretching the truth as his own mother.
"Ah, tis a grand thing when a family can stay so close. I feel blessed everyday knowing I have me Ronnie waiting at home..."
"Esme! We thought ya had got lost."
The door to the rundown house swung open and a slightly thinner but older version of the woman on Fiona's arm stepped outside to greet them, followed by a tall heavy set man balancing on a set of crutches, his left leg encased in plaster from his thigh down to his toes.
"Cathy, Gerry, I want ya ta meet Bobby an' Kim Creegan. I found tham stood out in tha middle o' tha forest road. Tha young fella had himself an accident out walkin' on Slieveamon while on thar honeymoon no less. I said I could bring tham as far as har an' ya would let tham use yar phone ta call fer help. So, nar Mr. and Mrs. Creegan, say hello ta Mr. and Mrs. Coleraine."
"Achhh, yar poor dears…" Michael could only watch as Cathy Coleraine took hold of his petite wife's free arm and hauled her into the house. "Come away inside tha pair o' ya an' have a nice cuppa o' tea an' we'll see whot we can do fer ya."
Coming to a stop, the former covert operative took a moment to survey the building he was about to enter and the group of strangers he was going to have put his trust in. He knew that the chances that this was all some extravagant trap by any of the half dozen agencies hunting them down was slim, but his years of experience working in some of the nastiest places on earth reminded him that one could never be too careful.
"Don'cha see how easy it will be?" Out of the dark recesses of his mind, a cold disembodied voice began to offer up what some people would consider a sound strategy. "This place is ideal. It's miles off the beaten track and you heard what the old woman said. They can go weeks without seeing a soul... It's per-fect. The only thing in your way is three ancient civilians who could be neutralized without even breaking a sweat. Tie them up or just put them outta their-"
"Come along, young fella, or ar' ya planning on standin' in tha cold all day?" The ex-agent banished the voice of his mentor and one time partner in creating mayhem throughout Russia and Middle East back to the dark where it belonged and picked up his pace.
"Sorry, sur, am coming right nar." They didn't need to harm these people to get their help, that much was obvious from the feminine laughter coming from inside as Fiona already had the two elderly ladies wrapped around her little finger. No more farmhouse massacres in his future….
Walking past Gerry, Michael stepped over the threshold to be hit by a welcoming wall of heat coming off the roaring fire in the hearth. Letting out a sigh, he was reaching for the zipper on his jacket, intent on doing nothing more than open his coat, given the gun hidden in his pocket.
"Take thot off befer ya melt. Ya can hang it up thar next ta tha door." Gerry gestured with a nod of his head to the row of hooks screwed into wall just to the side of the front door.
"Tis alright, I'll keep it on fer nar." He flashed his teeth in a charming smile. If he could wear a jacket in the burning heat of the Middle East to hide a firearm, he could certainly wear one here.
Before the old man could comment any further, Michael set off towards the sounds of feminine laughter coming from the next room, looking carefully at all the décor in the front room for clues about their potential protectors of the moment, just in case they turned out not to be as friendly as they appeared to be.
"Oh Bobby…" came the muffled call of his beloved from the kitchen at the back of the house. He found Fiona standing between the two sisters, holding a china plate in one hand and using the other to lift a bite of cake up to her mouth. "Ya have gotta try some o' Cathy's barmbrack. It's delicious."
Though never one for sweets, the smell of the freshly baked treat soon had Michael's neglected stomach rumbling, causing another flurry of merriment from the assembled women.
"Ach, Kim, ya've been neglecting yar Mr. Creegan, so ya have," their hostess teased. "Come on, laddie, let's get ya washed up and then ya kin have a proper spot o' tea an' a treat."
"No, no, yer taa kind. We'll just use tha phone an' be on our way."
Even though he was sure Fiona knew it was part of the ruse- after all who could they call?- her eyes popped wide and the look on her face while trying not to choke on the mouthful of cake was comical. Michael had to suppress the urge to laugh for the first time in recent memory.
"Oh rubbish," Esme declared, pushing her sister towards her seemingly reluctant guest. "Yar lovely bride thar has been through enough, man. Let har take a load off har feet and have sommit ta eat first. Ya cannae leave until ya've had a cuppa at least."
"Aye, Bobby, we could do with something hot ta drink. It's been a long day an' ya jus' war saying we needed ta take a moment ta rest ourselves, whot wit' yar injuries an' all. A slice o' barmbrack an' a good cup o' tea wit' such fine people will do us a world o' good, please fer me, Bobby?"
As the older woman hustled him towards the sink, even the ever vigilant operative had to agree that it did sound like a very good thing indeed.
()()()
A couple of days rest and relaxation nursing his battered body had done little to improve Mason Gilroy's simmering bad temper. The missing tooth was still a source of resentment every time he sat down to eat a meal. To make matters worse, now that the swelling was beginning to recede, it was obvious his broken nose was going to require a little rhinoplasty to return it to its proper form.
A little rough housing was all par for the course as far as the assassin was concerned, after all it added a little excitement to the mix when the prey put up a fight; however, not to the degree where said prey had made him into the laughing stock in the intelligence community.
Tom Card had been more than a little rude, but that was to be expected from a mere colonial who knew no better. For now the jumped up training officer was barely registering on his radar; he had bigger fish to fry.
Sitting in a high backed padded chair by the large sash window that gave him a clear view of the street below, Gilroy opened the file on Michael Westen and began to peruse the set of pages which covered all the intelligence MI-6 had managed to gather on Westen's star asset and her family.
Richard Chambers' secretary had already called him three times. The first call yesterday morning had been a polite request for him to show his face at Stormont for his official debrief, by the afternoon the call had been a little less civil and then this morning, when it had become obvious he had no intention of making the long drive up the coast just to get his knuckles rapped by a self-important civil servant, the politeness had waned, being replaced by a threat to cancel his status as a trusted asset if he failed to make an appearance by the end of the day.
The assassin glanced over to the door where his bags were already packed for his long overdue departure. He needed money, repairing his nose and his teeth were not going to be cheap. So, a quick job in London, which had just come to his notice, was going to be his first call. Just a short stop to lay a false trail and then burn to death a certain nuclear scientist who was due to hand in a damning report to a government select committee on the safety of proposed nuclear power stations. Then, with cash in his pocket, he would sneak back into Ireland to take care of his real business.
The loud trill of the hotel phone caught his attention and after closing the file, he reached out to the small table next to where he sat.
"Mr. Silver, tis Julie at reception. Yar taxi is har, sar... D'ya require any help wit' yar bags?"
"No, thank you, Julie, I'll be down in a moment."
He ended the call and got to his feet, tucking the Westen dossier under his arm. It was plain from what he had read that the Glenannes were a closely knit family and that level of love was a weakness just begging to be exploited.
Wincing as he bent down to pick up his bags, even the pain of bruised ribs couldn't dim his growing curiosity as to how much Glenanne blood he would have to spill in order to make Michael Westen stop running and face his fate.
And he was so looking forward to discovering that answer.