A/N: Thank you for all your continued support and interest in this story. We are sorry for the long wait in between this and the last chapter. Purdy's Pal has been having some RL drama after her granddaughter fractured her spine in a riding accident (and who is going to be fine after a few weeks in a back brace) and Jedi Skysinger is being kept super busy with her hectic work schedule.
We have being talking about the delays, which keep interfering with the flow of our various stories, and have decided that maybe shorter chapters which should lead to more frequent updates might be the way to go. So after this chapter we will try provide more "bite size" installments more often.
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Nineteen
Fiona lost her herself in the kiss, molding her body against her lover's strong muscular frame. A promise of a honeymoon in Paris was closer to a proposal of marriage than she had ever expected to get from the dark haired man in her arms. Not that marriage itself mattered to her that much.
Unlike many of her peers at school or later at university, the thought of walking down the aisle of Belfast Cathedral in a fancy white dress to wed the man of her dreams had always filled her with nothing more than thoughts of dread. While her friends had talked wistfully about flower arrangements and photographers, the daughter of the PIRA's premiere bomb maker had only seen a security nightmare and all for a massive public display of affection and a piece of paper.
It was the commitment that marriage represented that Fiona cared about, the pledge of a life lived together, for better or worse as it were. By turning his back on everything and leaving his old life behind, Michael had made that vow to her. So she revelled in their embrace, their physical connection, while basking in the assurance of his intentions toward her and their family to be.
But the kiss couldn't last forever. Slowly pulling apart as the need to breathe took over from the passion of the moment, the Irishwoman found herself staring into dark blue eyes which still held the same intensity as before.
"Michael, I donnae need-"
He stopped her words with a finger to her lips, "We can talk about it later, Kim…"
It was clear from his expression that he wasn't merely deflecting. Fiona smile softly. He probably just wanted to get cleaned up as badly as she had.
"Thar's nae a lotta room in har," he continued. "Ya should go get dressed in tha bedroom while I get cleaned up... Cathy found me a shirt and some pants belonging ta one o' her sons." Michael gestured with a tilt of his head to the clothes laying beneath the lady of the house's flowery offering.
Spotting a pair of faded jeans and a plaid shirt beneath the hideous dress, for a brief moment she felt a pang of jealousy that he too wasn't going to be donning an outfit more suited to the seventies than the nineties. But she quickly squashed the ungrateful thought and turned her attention back to her fully clothed beloved.
"Let me help ya off wit' yar things and then I'll leave ya alone." Still feeling a little giddy from the kiss and the meaning of the words he hadn't quite said, the petite red head reached for the belt holding up her husband's jeans. "If thot's whot ya want…" she purred.
"I – I can manage, F – Kim, tis fine." Michael backed away, nearly falling down onto the toilet seat in an effort to keep her at a distance.
Pausing, her own smile slipped away as she ran a critical eye over her future husband. The bruising to his face had faded to just a mottled tinge of yellow and green, mostly hidden behind the ragged beard obscuring half his features. However, from the way he was standing, taking most of his weight through the right side of his body, she knew his ribs and knee were still causing him pain and from the eagerness he had just shown to get her out of the room before he stripped off, Fiona now wondered what else her stoic man was trying to hide.
"Nonsense, ya need help ta cut away all thot tape I wrapped around ya."
"I have a knife." Michael reached into the pocket of his jeans and held up the pen knife she had bought him early on in their relationship.
"Good, it'll save me huntin' up fer a pair o' scissors," the redhead replied and snatched the folded blade from his hand; now she was positive her dark haired lover was hiding something from her. "Nar, off wit' yar top or d'ya want me ta cut thot off ya taa?"
"Fine," he huffed and then awkwardly pulled the woolen jumper over his head. "This is nae necessary, Kim. I can manage on me own."
"Stand still," the Irishwoman ordered curtly. "If ya move nar, I might slice ya open and I donnae wanta make a mess o' Cathy's bathroom floor." She rolled up the long sleeves of the towelling robe she was wearing and then, gripping the hem of the T-shirt in one hand, she used the sharp blade of the knife to cut through both the material and the industrial strength duct tape they had used to support Michael's ribs.
As the garment came apart, Fiona found herself gazing at a mass of bruises, many of them still an angry red and purple, evidence of how vicious the fight in the cottage had been.
"I'd nae realized," she muttered softly, her fingers ghosting over the imprint of knuckles still visible on his rib cage. "It wa' dark an' ya war bein' an ass about-" Her words trailed away as it struck her that if his torso still looked like he'd been hit by a large lorry, what other damage was he hiding...?
Biting her lip, the ex-guerrilla turned away, using the time it took to add more hot water to the bath to strengthen her resolve. "Get tham jeans off while I see ta yar bath, then I'll take yar clothes ta tha laundry, though I think yar socks will be well past saving."
Adding some more of their host's bath salts to the tepid water, Fiona listened to the hitch in her lover's breath as he slowly and no doubt reluctantly removing the last of his clothing. Turning back around, she winced at the sight of Michael's left knee, swollen to almost twice its normal size.
"It looks worse than tis, honest." She watched as the ex-spy flexed the limb and then pressed more of his weight through the leg to demonstrate that the inflammation was nothing. "Tis swollen like this because o' sitting in tha car fer so long."
Pursing her lips, she thought about telling him he was a terrible liar, that if anything the extra damage done since the fight with the English assassin sent by Tom Card had most likely been caused by him carrying her across the uneven ground after her fainting episode. But calling the former operative out over his disassembling wouldn't get him cleaned up and rested any faster.
"Am sure yer right... Ya get in tha bath now befer tha water goes cold an' I'll take yar clothes down fer washing once Am dressed."
As Michael slowly lowered himself into the worn porcelain tub, her piercing gaze landed firmly on the filthy bandages still covering his wrists and his look on his face clearly told her he didn't want her examining them either, so she decided to make a temporary tactical retreat rather than a scene.
"Oh, an' Bobby…" the redhead began as she bent to retrieve his discarded clothes and then picked up the flowery dress in her free hand. "Donnae even think o' getting dressed 'til I've had a look at those cuts an' strapped up yar knee."
()()()()()()
Flipping close the cover on his mobile phone, Colin Glenanne tilted his head back and breathed out a long sigh of relief as the stress from being overwhelmed by all the work his oldest brother had been sending his way slowly fell away.
"Ya have me checking out every CCTV camera between Tipperary and Waterford looking fer Fiona and Am still monitoring thot phone belongin' ta tha fella workin' in tha embassy and nar ya've had Davy dump another loada shite on me… Ya have given me enough feckin' work ta keep a whole roomful o' analysts busy fer a month. Am tellin' ya, Liam, Am nae a feckin' robot. If ya want this lot done at all, yer gonna have ta let me bring someone in ta help."
It had taken a lot to make the middle sibling stand up to the head of the family and tell his elder brother that he wasn't going to get what he wanted. But the computer genius had being building up to an explosion for the last couple of days. So whenDavy Doyle had emptied a carrier bag full of mobile phones down on the kitchen counter top of his Holywood home, that had been the straw that had broken his back.
"Har ya go…Tha boss wants ya ta go through this little lot as quick as ya can. He thinks we may have a rat problem. Tha surveillance on yar Mam's place has been called off, so he wants ya ta see whot ya can find out about it… oh, an' Fi an' har fella left Liam a corpse in tha woods which needs identifying taa."
The younger man had stared at the mixture of cellular phones and then at the series of gruesome photographs of a man with half his face missing along with a card with the dead man's fingerprints, his mind reeling at that moment over the mounting list of his sibling's demands to his time.
"Is thot it then?" he'd asked, his voice laced with sarcasm as he lifted up a clear plastic bag containing a dismantled satellite phone. "Ar' ya sure he donnae want ta know whot Tony feckin' Blair had fer his breakfast taa?"
"Tis a mess so it is." Davy had patted him on the back, chuckling briefly before turning more serious. "D'ya want me ta send me lad Kieran around? He's powerful interested in computers and electronics; he could give ya a hand."
The thought of having to supervise a sixteen year old apprentice when he was so overloaded with work had filled the computer wizard with dread, but it had given him an idea.
"Thank ye fer tha offer, Dave, but I donnae think thot this is tha time ta bring in somebody so inexperienced. But if ya want, when this thing is over wit', ya can send tha boy around an' I'll give him a few tips."
He had waited for Mr. Doyle to depart and then, after a fortifying cup of tea, had made the phone call to his older brother.
"I've got Jeannie monitoring tha CIA fella's phone an' I've got every feckin' computer in tha house tied up in searchin' fer Fiona. Am at tha end o' me tether, so I am."
Liam had listened to his rant silently; the only sound coming through the phone was the head of the family's steady breathing. Only when he had stopped to take a breath of his own had Liam replied.
"So, who d'ya have in mind? Cuz ya just cannae bring any one in ta this, Colin. Ya know thot, don'cha?" He could hear the tiredness in the eldest's voice, but was well past caring as he had been living on cans of Red Bull during the day and only three hours sleep a night since their sister had lost her mind and run off with an American spy.
"If ya wanta know about tha situation at our mam's, thar is only one fella I know who could get us thot sorta intel... Murph Quinlan... He's tha best I know an' fer tha right price he's very discrete."
"I donnae like using mercenaries, ya know thot, brother. Find -"
"He's tha only one an' he's nae a mercenary. He's not some young kid who hacks NASA just cuz he can. He knows tha value o' keepin' his mouth shut... He's tha fella who robbed Lloyds o' London back in '86 wit'out ever setting foot in tha place."
It had taken the largest insurance company in the UK six months to realize they had paid out over three quarters of a million pounds in fake claims due to a computer virus which had been placed on their system by persons yet unknown, even thirteen years later.
"Fine, use ham; pay ham whotever it takes... But make sure he knows I want results an' whot tha consequences ar' gonna be if he crosses us."
"Thank ye. I'll get on ta him straight away."
"Ya do thot an' keep me updated."
Wiping a hand over his brow, Colin leaned back against the counter top strewn with mobile phones and, for the first time in the week Fiona had been missing, was able to relax. Finishing off the cup of tea he had used to strengthen his resolve, the red headed Irishman picked up his own cell again and began to scroll through the contact list. All he had to do now was find out where Murph Quinlan was holed up and then they could begin to answer all Liam's questions.
()()()()()()
Slowly straightening his spine, MI-6's present chief of operations for Ireland sat upright and let out a long sigh before placing the last of the many reports and updates regarding on-going missions he'd had to read through on top of the already overflowing 'out' tray on his desk.
All in all, it had been a good mornings work. Sir Richard Chambers settled back in his comfy high backed leather chair and congratulated himself on a job well done.
The last of the known troublemakers residing within thirty miles of Belfast were either locked up or under house arrest until after the next round of peace talks. The hotels where the British and American delegates were going to be staying had been put through a thorough security deep clean. The suites had been swept for bugs and all the staff, from the general manager to the lowest cleaner, had been either cleared to work or ordered to take the week off. He had even managed to green light the rotas for both the covert and uniformed officers who would be on duty for the four days of talks.
It appeared that finally orchestrating the removal of the loathsome Lt. Meyers to more hazardous climes had given him the boost he had needed to finish early.
Drumming the fingers of his right hand on the desk top, he glanced up at the large ornate clock on the wall opposite his desk. It was two in the afternoon and he had nothing left on the docket until a working dinner with the heads of the various intelligence agencies connected to the upcoming conference at eight o clock; a three course meal at La Scala with some very expensive claret while thrashing out the final details with his opposite numbers.
Thinking about those opposite numbers suddenly caused his smile to fade. Chambers had had several unsatisfactory conversations recently with the CIA's UK Station Chief, all of them concerning Michael Westen, the rogue spy, and Tom Card, the man sent to bring their wayward operative back into the fold. Just thinking about the brash young man, whom Sir Richard had instantly disliked from their first encounter, and said agent's over-confident training officer was enough to ruin the MI-6 man's good mood.
Pursing his lips, the Englishman reached out and pressed down on the button which would connect him to his secretary in the outer office, who was very good at guarding his privacy.
"Caroline, any news on when Mason Gilroy is going to grace us with his presence?" He had no doubt that Station Chief Fickas would at some point during the evening bring up the damn Westen debacle and, if he did, Chambers wanted to make sure he had all the answers, proving once and for all that the blame lay on the side of the Americans and their lax screening of potential agents.
"Sir Richard…" His PA's calm crisp tones came through the intercom, along with the sounds of several papers being shuffled. "I had word from the surveillance team an hour ago that Mr. Gilroy vacated his room at the Grand Hotel at ten AM and then left in a taxi which took him to the Plunkett terminus. The two man team followed him inside, believing he was about to board a train to Dublin and then onto Belfast... Unfortunately, instead of following proper procedure, both men decided to enter the men's restroom together when Mr. Gilroy failed to reappear after ten minutes."
Chambers closed his eyes and slumped back in his chair, seeing his chance of a relaxing afternoon fade away as his assistant continued to give him all the details of the sorry tale.
"It was a trap, of course. An elderly traveller on his way to Liskeard found our operatives knocked out cold, one in a cubicle, the other- well, the other with his head in the urinal. He called the emergency services, so now our two men are having their injuries treated at the Infirmary and the Garda are investigating a violent mugging."
"Mr. Gilroy certainly has a sense of humor," Chambers drawled. Opening his eyes, he immediately narrowed them as his quick mind began to analyze the potentially embarrassing situation. "So we've lost him... And your reason for failing to report this fiasco earlier, Mrs. Caruthers…?"
"Sorry, sir, but I knew how busy you were. So I took the liberty of alerting our assets at the airports and docks on your behalf, as I suspected Mr. Gilroy's actions were those of a man about to attempt to leave the country and I was right. He boarded a plane at Shannon Airport at one forty using a false ID and is due to land at London Heathrow at three PM... I also took it upon myself to contact our London office and arrange to have an extraction team put in position to bring him in as soon as he clears the gate."
"Good work, Caroline..." Chambers praised warmly, but then in his next breath slapped her down. "But in future, regardless of how busy I am, I expect to be informed immediately when something like this happens. Protocols have put in place to ensure the smooth running of my department."
"I am sorry, sir."
"No harm done, just as long as you remember in future," he advised officiously. The man in Her Majesty's Service thought for a few more moments, falling silent while running through his options. Finally he saw only one way to come out of the situation without looking like an incompetent.
"Alert the team in London to let Gilroy go. Trying to arrest a man of his caliber in a crowded airport will be a disaster. I for one have no wish to stand in front of a Home Affairs Committee and have to explain why I endangered hundreds of lives unnecessarily... Then once you've done that, bring me a revocation order... What was it our American friend called it? Ah yes, a burn notice. I'm going to burn Mason Gilroy and then let's see how that young man does when the work dries up."
Sir Richard had hoped after his early start to the day that he would get to spend a few hours at home. His garden was in need of a little tending, now that the days were getting longer, and the children would be coming home from boarding school next week. Once that happened the chances of any peace and quiet away from the office were going to be very slim indeed.
Chambers rubbed his temples, hoping to stave off the building headache. What was it with the younger generation anyway? For all their competence at their trade, neither the freelance assassin on Her Majesty's payroll nor the CIA's pet agent was worth a damn when it came to following orders. Even his faithful secretary had taken it into her head to exceed her mandate. The sooner things settled down and certain meddlesome Americans were out of his life for good, the better.
()()()()()()
While his old handler was being kept busy dealing with the fallout from the other rogue spy in his life, Michael Westen was standing in the kitchen belonging to his elderly hosts, staring blankly at the large oak table which was now covered with various small medicine bottles and boxes of pills, in the midst of a severe flashback of his last visit back home to Miami.
It certainly wasn't the mouth-watering smell of lamb roasting in the oven reminding him of home nor the sight of flames rising up around the logs recently thrown onto the fire across the other side of the room that were causing his thoughts to center on a long ago scene from his past. No, it was the sound of two geriatric ladies arguing as they compared the merits of the contents of the vast array of medication spread over the kitchen table which had sent his thoughts spinning back to somebody else who liked nothing better than to bitch about her current health problems.
It had been following his recovery from his last ill-fated mission with his former mentor Larry Sizemore and just before he had begun his new assignment in the employ of MI-6. With his training almost complete and everything in place for him to begin to assimilate into the tough Belfast neighbourhood, which would position him perfectly to enter the life of the two youngest Glenanne siblings, he had received an unavoidable order to return to his home town to bring an end to his mother's calls to Langley and to the FBI and various other agencies regarding his whereabouts.
Apparently, some overly eager clerk had decided he wasn't going to make it alive out of ICU after being caught in the oil refinery explosion which had claimed Larry's life and had mistakenly informed his family of his demise prematurely. While Madeline had been trying to discover where her oldest was and when either he or his body was ever coming home, his younger sibling, never one to be too overcome by grief to miss an opportunity, had taken the chance to steal his identity.
Obviously emboldened by the idea that his big brother would not be around to confront him over it, Nate had been in the process of leaving a very visible trail for the spy's enemies to follow whilst destroying his credit rating, taking out ten credit cards in his name and running up a massive bill, which Michael was now being chased by ten different financial agencies to pay his debts in full.
But before he'd gotten the chance to confront his kid brother over the trouble the young man was causing with the various CIA front companies who were his titular employers, the eldest Westen boy had had to spend an hour or more listening to his hypochondriac mother explain all about her most recent set of medical tests and go through the vast array of medicine bottles with her while she had insisted on informing him in great detail what each one was for.
"I swear this new doctor is trying to kill me, Michael." She had glanced up at him through a fog of cigarette smoke from where she sat at the dining room table. "He took me off my heart pills; he says I don't need them anymore, that there is nothing wrong with my heart." She had held up a bottle containing maybe a half dozen small white tablets. "These are my last ones. You know, I'm thinking of trying that new place in Ft. Lauderdale on the Intracoastal. Mrs. Reynolds never has problems getting prescriptions from them. Oh, I know, while you're here, you could give me a ride up there in that fancy rental car of yours. Your father's taken my car apart again."
He had heard all this before. Every time he actually called, which was rare, all she could talk about was her health and the doctors that he was paying for, all of whom she complained knew nothing.
"Mom, you should listen to what the doctor says, if he -"
"He said I'm too dependent on my tranquillizers, that taking them for so long is what's causing my palpitations. What does he know? He actually said he wants to reduce the dosage and have me try counselling. Well, I told him I don't need to talk about my problems and I need those pills to help me sleep. I have a very stressful life, Michael. Nate is running wild, you're off god only knows where, I still don't understand why you couldn't have just called and let us know you were alive and, as for your father, don't get me started on him. Do you know what he said when we got the letter that you-"
"Bobby….Bobby…" A sharp elbow jabbed into his less bruised side, bringing his attention back to the two old ladies, who were still going through their stockpile of pain medication and comparing the effectiveness of one against another.
"So, whot d'ya think, Kim?" Cathy asked as the sisters looked over expectantly at his spouse. "Tha distalgesic work wonders on me arthritis; though Esme swears thot they made har feel as sick as a dog when she tried tham." The older woman held out the blue and white box containing the pain relieving medication. "But thar marvellous fer reducing swelling, so they ar'."
"What d'ya say, Bobby, ar' ya willing ta give tham a try?" She was already opening the box and using a thumb to push first one and then another of the tablets out of their foil packaging. "It sounds like thar just whot ya need ta help bring yar knee down."
As soon as he had entered the kitchen, it had become obvious to him that Fiona was determined to make sure he began taking care of himself. He had already succumbed to her almost passive aggressive bandaging of his knee.
"Yer lucky none of tha ligaments snapped. Yar coulda ended up crippled out thar. Ya do realize thot, ya daft man?" she'd muttered as his beloved had helped him on with his borrowed jeans then watched with pursed lips as he had pulled on the plaid shirt. "Come on, I fergot ta bring up tha antiseptic ta clean ya wrists."
When he had first realized what Fiona was planning, he had surreptitiously started checking out several of the labels on the medication being offered, and had been unsurprised to discover that some of those old dusty boxes and pill bottles were over two years out of date. The last thing Michael wanted to do was accept unknown medication from strangers. Yet when he looked into the steely eyed gaze of his loving wife, his resolve began to waver.
"Take tham, Bobby... Or d'ya like sufferin'?" The redhead held out her hand, daring him to refuse.
"Har, laddie, take tham wit' some water." Esme was shuffling towards him, holding out a glass. "Thar a hell o' a lot easier ta swallow than some o' those round ones. D'ya remember how they used ta get stuck in yar throat, Cathy? But then thot nice Doctor Orson changed ya over ta these and thar coated taa, so they slide down a treat."
Whether it was the heat in the overly warm farmhouse or the uncomfortable memories of the last visit to his own home along with the talk of doctors and medical matters which was leaving him feeling disorientated and dizzy, Michael was unsure. But for a moment he swayed and then before he had a chance to recover his balance, found himself being pushed down into a chair and the palm of a soft hand on his brow.
"Yer burning up, so ya ar'…Take tha tablets Bobby, har…" A glass half filled with cold water was thrust into his hand and, under the watchful gaze of the three women, he swallowed the pills.
"I'm fine, Kim," he protested weakly, but to no avail. As soon as he placed the glass down onto the table top, she captured his hand in hers, turning it over and exposing the cuts to his wrists, which were still an angry red and appeared to be slightly swollen.
"Fine is it? Ar' ya still gonna try sellin' me thot line, Bobby?" Her blue green eyes narrowed dangerously. "Any fool can see these cuts are infected."
"I'll keep tham -" Before he could finish his sentence, Esme leaned over, her nose inches from their joined hands, causing the words to dry in his throat.
"Oh thar nothin' ta worry about, Kim," their elderly savior announced after her examination. "Barely more than scratches… I've had worse off me old tabby cat."
Fiona found herself being pushed to the outside of the group as Cathy then insisted on taking a hold of her guest's hands to check out the line of cuts crisscrossing his wrists until he jerked them away.
"I have just tha thing... I have some comfrey growing out tha back. A nice comfrey poultice will have tham cuts gone in a day or taa. It would help those ribs o' yars taa, young fella."
"Ya need ta stop crowding tha boy," Gerry spoke up from where he was sitting close to the fire, an open newspaper in his hands, his voice cutting through the motherly fretting of his wife and sister in law. "Yer fussin' away like a bunch o' old hens. Let tha boy alone. He jus' needs ta get out in tha fresh air fer a bit."
"Thot's nae a bad idea, Kim." Michael jumped at the opening, most appreciative of the lifeline being offered. "A little walk will stop me knee stiffening up. I know tis a little bit early, but would ya like us ta secure tha rest o' tha property fer tha night fer ya?"
"Secure tha property, tis it?" Gerry chuckled and coughed. "Yer nae in tha army now, young fella. All thar is ta do is round up a dozen or so hens an' get tham inta tha shed next ta tha barn."
"Am going out ta me garden ta get some fresh comfrey leaves," Cathy stared pointedly at her husband, who was busy back reading his newspaper again. "I'll make ya some poultices after we have tea. Will thot be alright, Bobby?" She then sent her dark haired houseguest a sympathetic smile. "We'll have ya feelin' better in no time. Nar, tea is gonna be ready in an hour," she added. "I hope yer alright eating so early. We like ta be in bed fer nine o'clock."
"Tis nae problem ta us, it is Bobby? Wer jus' grateful fer ya lettin' us stay." Fiona beamed at their hosts. She sniffed the aroma pervading the kitchen and Michael knew she was remembering the roasts dinners with her family every Sunday from the wistful expression on her face. "Eating early sounds divine," she added with a little too much enthusiasm for it to be entirely manufactured.
It took several more minutes of coddling, as Fiona insisted he didn't attempt leaning forward to lace his boots, before they slipped on their coats and stepped out into the fresh air.
"Will ya look at thot?"
Pausing on the door step, the redhead gestured with a tilt of her chin to the dramatic panoramic view, a patch work of lush green fields as far as the eye could see, topped by a sky which appeared to be on fire, rich hues of reds and oranges streaked through and contrasting with the darker blue of the pre-dusk sky. "Red sky at night, shepherds delight... It'll be another clear day tomorrow."
"It's beautiful," Michael murmured, his arm settling over the narrow shoulders of his lover, pulling her close against his side. "You're beautiful," he whispered softly, pressing a kiss into her hair. "But t'would suit us better if it rained, or better still a storm." She looked up at him waiting for an explanation. "Bad weather is notorious fer keeping a manhunt indoors in tha warm."
"Ya think a little bad weather will keep me brothers at bay? Ya do recall tha stubborn nature of tha Glenannes?"
"Aye, how could I forget?" Michael smiled down at her, remembering the comparisons that had gone through his head between his own family and her boisterous clan during his first experience of attending a family gathering in Maeve's large home in Dublin for Mother's Day, almost feeling the dread of that first meeting once more. Especially if that next meeting was to be him informing Liam Glenanne he was going to have a half American nephew or niece.
Not liking where his chain of thought was going, he sought to think of something else and found his mind drifting back again to the people he had very purposefully left behind.
When he had made the decision to throw everything away for the sake of the woman he loved and their child, he had failed to consider even for a second about how his actions would affect them back in Miami. There were many reasons he'd left home to join the Army at seventeen. While the primary reason of which was that he was far, far away from them, it also to ensure that the fallout from his lifestyle in first Special Forces and later the Agency stayed far distance from their doorstep.
A sick feeling of dread settled over his heart when he thought of the full weight of the CIA descending on his childhood home. His mother's medical bills would go unpaid, his dad was going to be furious at having government vehicles screeching to a halt outside his house and tearing through the property looking for any clues as to where their rogue agent might be thinking of going.
He blinked and felt utterly ill for a moment. Michael had no idea what story his old employers would use to ruin his reputation. There was a strong possibility that there were news trucks parked on Frank's front lawn right now, a thought which filled him with a momentary malicious pleasure.
The old man had insisted on the exterior being kept immaculate. Make sure it looks good on the outside, regardless of what was going on the inside…First he and later Nate as well had been responsible for keeping pace with the plant life that never stopped growing in the Florida heat....The old bastard wanted it perfect, but he never lifted a finger to actually do any of the work.
The memory of coming home on leave to find Frank Westen sipping a beer in between loudly berating her for her inadequate performance while his sweating, huffing mother pushed around a broken down mower filled his head. He'd fixed the ancient machine within minutes of his arrival and managed to get into a full blown fight with the old man seconds after. The sorry SOB didn't-
The brush of lips and sharp teeth lightly nipping his beard brought him back from what might be happening Miami and all the bad times past to the sunny but cool present of Ireland in springtime.
"Shall we take a stroll, Mr. Creegan? Once ya have finished admiring tha view, o' course." Now that she had his attention, Fiona wrapped an arm about her lover's hips so she could slip her hand into the back pocket of his borrowed jeans.
"Aye, let's do thot, Mrs. Creegan." he agreed softly. Burying the guilt and anger as always, he instead turned his mind to things he could actually do something about. "D'ya get Esme's car keys?"
"Thot I did. We'll get tha guns after we've hadda look see. I grew up on a farm like this. Thar'll be plenty o' hiding places ta chose fram."
"An' how ar' ya at wrangling chickens, me darlin' girl?"
Fiona chuckled and then saw from his expression he was deadly serious. "Relax, Bobby, Am nae an expert on these things but fram whot I can remember when tha sun begins ta set, they go back ta roost all by thamselves. We'll check out tha shed Gerry mentioned an' if they're all thar, we can lock tha door an' leave tham to it."
The farmyard was made of a square, mostly overgrown with weeds and filled with broken pieces of machinery surrounded by a barn and several smaller outbuildings, which all looked like they were in need of repair. The chicken run had several holes in the wire that had been repaired with baling twine, though the actual sleeping quarters for the birds looked secure enough.
"Cathy said they have twelve birds. We need ta look inside an' see how many are thar. Then we have ta go find any stragglers." She glanced up at the setting sun. "Tis still early, so they might not all be in."
Carefully lifting up the hatch at the back of the shed, the former guerrilla looked inside and smiled with relief when she counted a dozen fluffed up birds already roosting on their nests. Dropping the hatch back down, she coughed and wiped her eyes.
"At some point thar gonna need a clean out... Mabbe we should offer ta find tham some help rather than do these jobs ourselves?"
"If we cannae clean out some old chicken coop, whot chance do we have with a baby...?" He smirked and pulled her closer still. "D'ya recall tha smell thot used ta come outta Peter's nappies? I used ta dread tha kid would need changin' after Sean and Rosie had gone out."
Fiona tried to smile back, but reminiscing about their cozy nights snuggling on her brother's couch while babysitting inevitability brought back memories of what she was leaving behind.
It had been a little over six months ago that they had received the call that the newest member of the Glenanne clan had been safely delivered and as expected they had dutifully driven over to Seamus' farm to welcome baby Molly into the family.
She remembered vividly the sight of Isabelle in bed propped up by several pillows, surrounded by her brood and nursing her newborn with a big contented smile on her face... She had never wanted that life. The redhead gulped and attempted to swallow down the wave of melancholy washing over her. She had never expected she would have the chance to have that sort of life...
At least not until she had met Michael McBride.
"Will we ever have thot, Michael? D'ya really think we can find somewhere safe enough thot tha only thing we have ta worry about who is gonna change tha stinky nappies?"
He stepped behind her, draping his arms over her shoulders, and pulled her to him, holding her close, tucking her head under his chin. "Let's not think about that right now."
"Wa're gonna have ta think about it soon enough, we -"
"We've got more immediate problems, Fi –."
"One o' tham being ya keep fergetting yar cover, Bobby," Fiona reminded him sharply.
"Sorry, I must be more tired than I thought." Sighing heavily, he did his best to stifle a yawn and continued to speak. "If Liam dinnae find whar we left the forest, I think wa're safe here, at least fer a few days, mabbe a week or even longer if wa're careful an' stay outta sight. Ya could stay har while I go off an find a private airfield ta stake out. I'll fly us over ta France and then we can travel almost anywhar... If we can make it ta Europe, we stand a good chance o' getting away clean."
He drew back, turning and holding her at arms' length, staring down at her body. In the loud print floral dress, there was no sign of a baby bump, but he knew there was already a slight rise to her belly. "We need to find a midwife or a nurse and get you checked out. We need to find out how -"
"How long 'til Am as fat as a whale and no good ta ya?" she snarked and then suddenly teared up.
"Thot's nae whot I wa' going ta say," he answered quickly, squeezing her to him before the water works could start. The thought of another crying jag unnerved him. "We need ta find out how far along ya ar', so we can plan... An' ya never going ta be no good taa me." He drew her into a long lingering kiss in an effort to reassure the mother of his child how much he cared for her.
"Wa're supposed ta be running reconnaissance and har ya ar' havin' ta deal wit' me blubbering like some school girl." His redheaded spitfire wiped a hand over her eyes and began to survey the farmyard. "D'ya think Gerry would be up fer some vermin control? I feel tha need ta shoot sommit."
Michael laughed with relief. He had begun to worry about this new softer, tearful version of his lover. But now as she studied the overgrown and badly neglected property with the eye of a huntress searching for some prey, he was happy to see the woman he had fallen in love with was still there.
"We should check out tha barn; tis tha tallest structure. I'd like ta check out tha view fram thot window at tha top. I bet we'll be able ta see fer miles." He took her hand and began to lead the way towards the large wooden doors held shut by plaited strands of orange baling twine. "I'm sure Cathy wouldnae object ta us bringing in a couple o' rabbits for tha pot."
"Mmmm, ya know they call it lapin in France? An' I know a delicious recipe fer lapin à la moutarde. Maybe I'll cook it fer ya. I can actually cook a few things on me own besides a batch o' Semtex."
Untying the string holding the doors shut, Fiona went on ahead into the dark dusty building leaving Michael standing on the threshold shaking his head at his girlfriend's rapidly changing moods.
()()()()()()
"Am tellin' ya this is gonna turn out ta be another wild goose chase, brother... A total waste o' our time. Ya do realize I hadda blow off a date wit' Maire Garretty ta come along wit' ya?"
An old Series One Land Rover truck rattled its way westwards along the main route between Waterford and Killarney, carrying to two men under cover of darkness towards their destination. The driver of the ancient vehicle kept his eyes focused on the road as his companion continued to complain loudly about the reason for the late night journey.
"Have ya seen Maire Garretty recently, Martin? She's grown inta a fine woman, so she has, wit' tha ripest pair o' -"
"Kevin, will ya do me a favor? Will ya shut tha feck up about Maire bloody Garretty!" Martin McCullough snapped, taking his eyes briefly off the road for a second to glare at his younger brother. "Wa're drivin' ta Killarney cuz this is tha first decent lead we've had since we promised Tommy O'Neill we'd find Fiona Glenanne fer ham... Thot crazy fecker could be har any time now, expecting answers an' we have nae found a trace o' har."
"Decent lead me arse. Ya have been watchin' taa many o' those cop shows on tha TV. D'ya really think Liam feckin' Glenanne would go taa some drunken gippo fer help finding his sister?" The younger of the brother's dismissed their recently acquired intel as a fairy tale not even fit for children. "This is just Paddy Moffat lookin' fer some easy money."
After they had made the call to Thomas O'Neill two nights ago, the McCullough brothers had gotten caught up in the excitement of working once again for one of last remaining lights in the scattered remnants of the Real IRA. They had spread the word to their friends, who also yearned for the opportunity to follow their heroes into the war against the British; however, due to the on-going peace process looked like they would never have the chance to prove their valor.
Ever since the loss of the American helicopter close to Waterford, the group had been quietly searching for the whereabouts of Fiona Glenanne, without letting word of what they were doing getting back to her older and extremely protective brothers, knowing they didn't have long to impress the infamous Thomas O'Neill with their usefulness in the man or rather woman-hunt.
And now they had a rather vague lead given to them by lorry driving friend, Patrick Moffat, who was sitting inside a Killarney pub listening to some old, very drunken gypsy tell him a tale about how he had just had a big pay day after sending out his daughter, who had trained himself since she was a girl to hunt, to help a fine Belfast gentleman find his runaway sister.
"Well, tis tha only feckin' lead we've had since tha crazy bitch blew a yank chopper outta tha sky. So wa're gonna ask ham tha name o' this fine Belfast gentleman an' if it wa' Liam feckin' Glenanne, wa're gonna make thot pikey bastid tell us everything ham an' his piggin' offspring know, okay? Nar shut ya cake hole til we get thar. Cuz if I hear another word about yar girlfriend's titties, I swear I'll dump ya at tha side o' tha road an' ya can walk back home."
And Robin Hennessey went to bed that night with no idea of the trouble her Da had brought them.