A/N: Thank you, for all of you who are still reading & reviewing this story. Here is the another long chapter chronicling our heroes attempt to flee Ireland as the various factions lining up against them get ever closer.

BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL

Chapter Twenty Three

"Have they fergiven ya yet? Or are ya up har ta hide fram tha wrath o' a pair o' senior citizens?" Fiona twisted around, the water she was soaking in threatening to come up over the sides of the bath and onto the floor as the bathroom door swung open and her lover squeezed into the small steam-filled room.

"Ya coulda said something in me defense, Kim, instead o' just standin' thar wit' a smile on yar face," the former Terror of Russia grumbled while closing the door and flopping down to sit on the edge of the tub.

"Ah now whare would be tha fun in thot, Mr. Creegan?" She sing-songed back at him and reached forward to take hold of the bottle of cheap shampoo which stood on the ledge between the twin taps at the other end of the bath. "Har, ya can make yarself useful while ya tell me if Gerry has agreed ta yar plans fer tomorrow."

With a sigh, Michael took the bottle from her hand, placing it next to him. "Dunk yar head fer me then, me luv, an' I'll tell ya... Though ya nae deserve ta know," he added severely.

Sliding herself down the bath, the Irishwoman slipped her head under the water and then when she re-emerged, she tossed her shortened locks back and with a light chuckle sprayed her lover with little drops of moisture.

Ever since the little Ford Fiesta had returned to the farm at two o clock in the afternoon, the former spy had firmly been placed in the doghouse of his elderly hostesses. The first sign of their disapproval coming as soon as Esme's car had come to a stop and the returning churchgoers caught sight of Michael leaning over the edge of the roof, clearing the last of the winter debris from the rain gutters while she had been standing there keeping look out, or rather admiring the view, balancing easily with a foot on either side of the apex next to the tall chimney.

"Mother o' mercy!" Cathy had shrieked as soon as she had climbed out of the car. "Whot tha devil are tha pair o' ya up ta? Get down fram thar this instant... Robert Creegan, whot are ya thinkin' of letting yar wife onta tha roof?"

"Aach, tha man tis half goat, I swear it." Esme had joined in the shouting. "He's not happy less he's kissin' tha clouds... But thot donnae mean ya should be followin' him, Kim! Bobby, help har down right this second - and be careful."

In the face of the pair of cantankerous old ladies' anger, Fiona had found it impossible not to smile as the man who had taken down the Real IRA with such style had sent her an indignant glare before dropping his chin and, like a naughty child with nary a word, had followed Cathy and Esme's commands, taking her hand and helping her down from the roof.

"Kim, why dontcha go in an' put yar feet up, I'll be in inna minute ta make us all a nice cuppa tea." Cathy had taken her hand as soon as the redhead's feet had hit terra firma, urging her to get back inside the warm house before turning her attention back to the source of her ire. "While yar young man clears up tha mess his made all o'er me front lawn... I donnae whot ya war both thinkin' larking about up thar. Didnae thot old fool o' mine tell ya thot's how he broke his leg?"

"We warn't larkin' -" Michael had finally made an attempt to defend himself when he was cut off by Gerry, who had just managed to hobble up to the scene taking place on his door step.

"Aah, leave it, lad. Ya know ya cannae win against a coupla old hens..."

"Old hens, is it, Gerald Coleraine?" Cathy's severe tone had gone up an octave.

The former paramilitary had lost track of the argument after that point, as the door was closed behind her and the two women turned their fury from her boyfriend to the older but obviously less wiser male in their company. Just the recollection of how she had leaned back against the thick wooden door listening to the spirited squabbling taking place outside sharply brought back the sweet melancholy memories of the home life she had left behind.

But whereas Michael had gone silent, his feelings closed off behind an expressionless mask, any one of her brothers would have come back with some good natured cheeky comment designed to charm the old ladies out of their anger and wriggle out of the trouble they had gotten into.

The delicious sensation of her lover's fingers combing through her hair and massaging her scalp brought Fiona back to the present, though she was still wondering why she had witnessed the most resourceful man she knew charm a hardened terrorist into trusting him, but he somehow couldn't seem to use that same talent to get himself out of a tiny bit of domestic trouble.

"Are ya alright, Kim? Ya've gone awful quiet." The fingers working the cheap shampoo into a lather stopped their movements.

"Am fine, Bobby. Just thinkin' back ta tha look on Cathy's face when she got outta tha car." She sent him a teasing smile.

"Thar over it nar, thank god." He sighed heavily. "Ya would think they woulda been happy ta have tha damage up thar repaired. At least Gerry seemed pleased, though ya shoulda seen his face when I started up tha car fer ham." For the first time since he had entered the cramped bathroom, the former spy smiled a little. "Tha old guy started tellin' me about how he an' Cathy used ta go out fer long drives every Sunday afternoon."

"Well, they'll be able ta start doin' it again once he's back on his feet." She patted one of his soapy hands. "Ya know Cathy an' Esme war just havin' a bit o' fun wit' ya, dontcha? When ya went off ta get cleaned up, they war tellin' me how they'd been worried about another storm bringin' tha whole roof down on top o' tham... Ya did a good thing... Have ya got 'round ta asking Gerry about borrowin' his pride an' joy fer a few hours?"

"No, nae yet, I thought I'd leave it til after tha' nurse has been ta check ya over... We'll know whar we stand then." He paused and then placed his hands on her thin shoulders. "Am done, dunk yarself again while I fill tha sink."

Washing off the worse of the bubbles out of her hair, she head tilted back while Michael emptied several jugs of clean hot water over her hair removing the last of the shampoo.

"Thar all done." He smiled and pressed a kiss to her waiting lips. "Time ta get out nar, so I can go back downstairs an' tell tham yar already fer another bite ta eat."

"Stepping back inta tha lion's den; thar's tha man I fell in love wit'." She breathed out the words and at the same moment wrapped an arm about his neck, drawing him into a deeper kiss.

The second little piece of news which had blotted Bobby Creegan's copy book had been after he had finished clearing away the broken tiles off the Coleraines lawn when he had let slip that apart from breakfast neither of them had thought to eat throughout the day.

"Oh, I donnae know whot Am goin' ta do wit' tha pair o' ya," Cathy had tutted while staring at the young couple, her hands resting on his hips. "Whot's so hard about making yar wife some cheese on toast? Did I nae tell ya she needs ta keep har strength up?" She had slapped Michael lightly on the arm before turning him in the direction of the staircase. "Nar get upstairs and get yarself cleaned up while I find Kim sommit ta eat."

That had been several hours ago. While the ex-operative had bathed, she had relaxed and accepted the offer of a couple of slices of cheese and tomato on toast being offered by the elderly sisters.

"Er, Fi, Kim…" Her lover disengaged himself from her grip. "Cathy will have our dinner on tha table an' I donnae think I can take another roastin' over me bad manners." He was half on his feet, reaching out for a towel, when her hand landed on his arm.

"And later…?" She held him motionless with no more than a light hand on his bicep and the glint in her blue-green eyes. She had seen the way his eyes had constantly scanned the horizon while up on the roof and, though she was sure nobody would recognize the signs, she had noticed his jumpiness once they were back inside the farmhouse.

"Later?" He raised an eyebrow.

"After everybody has gone ta bed, will ya be coming up ta sleep yarself? Or d'ya plan sitting up all night?" She watched as the dark haired man sucked in his top lip, his eyes taking on a faraway look as if he hadn't already made up his mind. "I thought ya said it wa' safe, thot we'd have at least a coupla days befer we'd have ta go back ta lookin' over our shoulders."

"Aye, I did..." His answer broke the spell and he got to his feet turning to help her out of the bath, drawing one of the two threadbare bath towels around her shoulders.

"But…?" Fiona pushed for a clearer answer when her husband failed to continue.

"Thar's other things in play now thot they've been been ta town. I cannae…

"Michael," she hissed. "I jus' wanta know, are ya comin' ta bed tonight or am I gonna have ta come get ya in tha middle o' tha night?"

"This is nae easy fer me, Am doin' tha best I can here... Tis built inta me, or rather it wa' drilled inta me..." She watched silently as he struggled to find the right words and was rewarded when he finally spoke again, his mouth close to her ear so nobody else could hear.

"Spies don't do well with down-time," he murmured, his breath tickling her ear as he spoke. "My idea of R & R is 'recon and renditions' so I never exactly cherished days off. It's hard for me to-"

"But yer no longer a spy," the ex-guerrilla whispered back. "Tha only one who could find us is Liam an' his tracker couldnae follow us once we war on tha road. Most o' his men are in tha North, or in Dublin... Wa're safe har."

"Thot sorta thinkin' is whot got us runnin' through tha woods wit' tha hounds o' hell on our heels an' ya know it..." He bit down on his bottom lip.

Whether you're protecting a client, monitoring electronic surveillance, or on the run with your pregnant girlfriend, you've got to be patient… In the real world, covert ops doesn't involve many car chases, or gun fights. Mostly, it's just hurry up and wait, not too exciting. But you learn to wait and watch and stay alert, because at any minute, the job can get way too exciting…

He taking one of her small slender hands between his large calloused palms, Michael pulled back to stare. "And we've had way too much excitement already because I let my guard down."

"Then when tis time ta sleep, ya let me take tha first watch," she urged. "I've had plenty o' naps today. I've told ya befer ya cannae burn tha candle at both ends and be any good ta anyone. Donnae thot make sense?"

She could see the stubborn glint in his eye soften and then fade.

"Alright, luv," he agreed quietly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Am trusting ya ta wake when ya get sleepy nar."

"About time ya started trusting me again," Fiona quipped before kissing him back. "Nar, get back down stairs an' try using some o' thot charm ya used against the Real IRA on Cathy and Esme."

()()()()()()()()()()

In the pitch black, the head of Clan Glenanne stood with his hands buried deep into the pockets of his overcoat while his eyes were fixed, staring into the darkness at the outline of a lonely old rundown caravan standing in the middle of a large patch of wasteland surrounded by the remnants of a burned out car and a variety of other rusted and broken household appliances.

"Ya donnae have ta do this," he muttered lowly. "We could go back, air out yar trailer while ya call tha Gard an' inform yar brothers. Ya'll be safe an' protected and yar da' will be able ta have a proper funeral..." His words trailed off and then he sighed.

He had already lost this argument hours ago… He had known as soon as he had laid eyes on Robin Henessy that the grieving gypsy girl was going to be satisfied by nothing less than bloody revenge on the men who had killed her father and brutalized her body. However, he'd done his best to make her understand what she was asking for might lessen the pain in the short run, but in no way would it bring peace to her soul.

"Ya didnae see... Ya warn't thar when they broke in an'..." The young woman who had stood in stony silence while he had made the necessary arrangements to cover their tracks spoke in broken sentences, her grief still too raw for eloquence. "I want ta be thar at tha end. I want ta stand in front o' tham an' tell 'em whot bastids they ar' befer puttin' a bullet inta each of thar heads," she added more firmly as a strong desire for retribution took over.

"Thot's whot ya say nar, but later, when ya've had time ta grieve, ya'll regret it all."

They were just covering the same ground over again... Liam had already told her what he thought she needed to hear, not what he truly believed. Because he'd never had a single day of regret for building the bomb that was driven into Long Kesh in retaliation for the prison guards' part in his father's murder nor had he lost one single night sleep over gunning down the soldiers who had slaughtered his older brother in front of their mother and siblings. But just because violence and murder were a part of his life didn't mean he wished that existence on another.

"Thot is fer me ta worry about, isnae it?" she snapped back and then, after a short pause. tugged at the sleeve of his coat. "Will ya look at me when Am talking ta ya? Ya have nae looked at me once since ya knocked on tha door. I – we kept our mouths shut... Thar warn't much ta tell 'em, ya cannae blame me fer -"

Robin choked off the rest of what she was going to say, her small slender hand still gripping his sleeve, her face turned upwards waiting for him to respond.

There was a very good reason why the eldest Glenanne couldn't bear to look her in the eye, not that he was going to share that with anybody, especially not a slip of a girl young enough to be his own daughter. Liam knew exactly what he would see and it was too hard to face again.

Fiona's fearful expression, masked by blood and bruises on what should have been the happiest night of her life, the rage he had felt when he'd had it explained to him in brutal detail by their Aunt Claire before the old lady had ordered him to make sure the man who had raped his sister paid in full for the savage deed…

"I donnae blame ya or yar da fer whot happened. If I did, I would nae be har now, would I?... I wish ya would take me advice. Once we start this, thar is no going back. Ya will be dead ta everyone who knows ya. Ya can nae come back, nae see yar brothers again an' if ya insist on bein' thar at tha end, it will change ya more than ya realize. Ye cannae kill another wit' out it effecting ya deep down."

But that had been only the start of the guilt which caused him to look everywhere but into the young woman's eyes. He had studied the damage done to the interior of the caravan and then examined the battered body of the old man, silently counting the injuries done to the elderly tinker: broken cheek bones and nose, split lips, blood encrusted gums and a few teeth laying on the floor, broken fingers and arms, the cast on his leg shattered and parts of it hanging off completely…

The destruction to both the home and the people inside looked to be the work of madmen. But what had struck him hardest was listening to the young woman's demand for swift and bloody revenge.

If Robin's appearance reminded the head of the clan of the final hour of Fiona's graduation party, then her words and fury matched his sister's grief-fueled rage after the murder of their youngest sibling. Sweet, innocent Claire had cut down by a terrified boy soldier firing into an angry mob and a crowd of bystanders on his first patrol on the streets of Belfast.

He had done his best to slow his remaining sister's quest for revenge until Liam had realized the futility of his actions. Fiona Glenanne, wallowing in her own guilt, had been nearly impossible to control. So he had found her a target. But after she killed that young soldier, he had been left to watch from the side lines as the young woman, who as far as he was concerned had only played at doing her part for the Cause, had turned into a fully-fledged member of the PIRA, becoming far more deadly and dangerous than most men in the entire organization.

"Am no child, Mr. Glenanne, an' I promise ya I wonnae get in yar way... Can we do this nar?"

The older man sighed heavily and then reluctantly withdrew his hand and his phone from his pocket.

"Last chance, sweetheart."

"Jus' do it, will ya? All this dillydallying is nae gonna make me change me mind."

"Okay then..." Pressing down on the keys, he didn't have long to wait for a reply.

"Aye, Mr. Glenanne...?" came the strained voice through the speaker.

"Get it done." With those three words, he ended the call and let his cell slide back into his coat. Then, knowing what was coming and how bad it was going to be for the young woman at his side, Liam reached out and took hold of her hand.

In his minds eye, he could see his driver, Joey Lovatt, opening the valve on the gas canister under the hot plates and then placing a can of soup into the microwave before setting the dial for cook on full power for two minutes.

He felt Robin's fingers tighten against his hand as they both caught sight of a figure sprinting away from the trailer and then came the explosion which made the ground shake as the fragile frame of the ancient caravan disintegrated in a massive fireball which lit up the sky.

All around them car alarms began to sound as curtains twitched and lights were coming on in the houses which looked out over the wasteland, while the blaze continued to shoot flames into the air.

"We have ta go, sweetheart." He tugged on her hand. "Come along nar, get in tha car."

"I -" Large tears welled in the dark eyes of the woman as she watched the fiery blaze.

"Robin, get in tha fecking car, nar!" Growling out the order, Liam jerked the slender figure so hard she nearly fell as he forced marched her over to the waiting vehicle and thrust her inside.

"D'ya see thot?" Young Mr. Lovatt, now back behind the wheel, could barely contain his excitement. "Fecking hell, man, it went up like a rocket. I was fair knocked off me feet."

"Shut yar mouth, Joey," Liam snarled, as his pale eyes went from the back of the younger man's head to the distressed expression on the face of the girl at his side. "An' get us tha hell outta har."

"Sorry, Miss, I didnae think..." the chastised youth gulped before getting back to the serious business at hand. "Whar ta, boss?"

"Lissivigeen... Let's see if we can catch Patrick Moffatt befer he gets back on tha road."

It had taken hours, but once he had finally begun to get some sense out of the devastated girl he'd found futilely scrubbing at the blood on the walls of her home, it had only taken minutes to work out where the three men had met their target. From that moment on, it had been a quick nights work using his network of contacts to find out that "Gypsy Jack" had spent his evening chatting and drinking with a lorry driver called Paddy Moffatt who regularly passed by the area as he had a girlfriend living a few miles away in Lissivigeen.

With one culprit identified, it had been easy for the man who had at one time made a living hunting down IRA informers to discover that Paddy, or Pat Moffatt, was friends with Martin McCullough of Waterford, who along with his younger brother Kevin had once been part of Thomas O'Neill's gang of felons and troublemakers, a pair of wannabe members of the Real IRA who hadn't made the grade when put to the test by that organizations recruiters.

Somewhere, possibly close by, three men connected to a hooligan who had every reason to hate all the Glenannes were hunting down his sister. So his next move had been to contact every one of the men he had scouring the area close to the south western side of the Slieveamon National Park, ordering them to redouble their efforts to find his youngest sibling. Now more than ever it was essential he reach Fiona and her traitorous spy boyfriend before the worst of the jackals snapping at her heels caught up with her…

This time, he hasn't going to settle for just taking out Tommy O'Neil's teeth with a hammer. This time the solution would be much more permanent.

()()()()()()()()()()()()

At thirty two years of age, Maeve Glenanne's only nephew had risen far and fast in the Dublin underworld. Starting in his teens as a car thief before graduating to getaway driver, Ryan O'Keefe then moved onwards and upwards under the tutelage of one of the city's infamous old style villains, first as a quartermaster and later as a planner until taking over as the leader of the most successful armed robbery crews on either side of the border.

And it was his position as leader which meant when one of his lads slipped up it was almost guaranteed that whatever the trouble was, it would eventually end up at his door for him to solve.

"Am sorry ta be dragging ya away fram yar family, especially on a Sunday night, Mr. O'Keefe. But ya know how tis sometimes when a little bit o' business cannae wait."

The sandy haired crook sucked in a breath and then as he let it out, he flashed his teeth in a wide cheery smile. "Tis nae a trial ta see ya, Mr. Duggan. Whot can I do fer ya?"

Being invited to attend a meeting in a dark empty alleyway by Francis Duggan, sergeant at arms for the Dublin branch of the Continuity IRA was never a good thing, particularly for anybody involved in criminal activities or for those with close family ties to another faction of the Irish Republican Army. The fact that Ryan had both was particularly troubling.

"Tis about yar man, Declan Cavanagh; he owes one of our bookmakers a tidy sum an' Am afraid his bill has come due." Duggan held up a hand palm out to halt the outburst he could see bubbling on the younger man's lips. "Now, I know this is nae strictly yar affair, but given how Declan has a family an' another wee one on tha way an' given thot wa're all aware who yer connected taa, I wanted ta give ya the opportunity ta make things right befer things get outta hand."

Ryan pursed his lips and stared over the shoulder of the taller, solidly built man facing him. This was the second piece of bad news he'd had to deal with since his cousin Fiona's disappearance had caused him to abandoned what had promised to be a very lucrative bank job.

It was supposed to have been an easy quarter of a million pay off. He would have taken a straight hundred grand off the top to cover expenses and his own share and the remaining hundred and fifty would have been split equally between the rest of his crew. Instead he was standing in a dark alleyway making nice with a Grade-A sociopath.

"How much did ya have in mind taa keep everybody happy?"

He'd already had to cancel a shipment of cigarettes due in from France. The cancellation was causing the lorry drivers who brought the tax free goods in to the country for him to threaten to cut him out of any future deals and find their own buyers for the contraband.

"Tis nae a question o' cash, Mr. O'Keefe, nae anymore. Tha leadership is more interested in a little trade so ta speak. Thar willin' ta clear ya man's debt if ya could see it in yar heart ta do a little favor fer the Cause we all hold so dear."

This was something Ryan had always dreaded. He knew full well that once he did one little favor it would soon turn into two and then three not so little favors and before long he'd have Special Branch camped on his front lawn and his aunties, Maeve and Claire, screaming in his ear about family loyalty.

But on the other side of the coin what sort of leader would he be if he let one of his men take a beating or more likely far worse when he had it in his power to stop it?

"Ya know me, Mr. Duggan, I'd be happy ta do anythin' ta further tha Cause... But ya also know who me kin ar' and I cannae -."

"Oh, donnae worry about thot. Whot we want fram ya will nae be stepping on anyones toes, ya have me word." Duggan leant forward, draping one meaty arm over the shoulder of the shorter, wiry bank robber. "Honest, this will help ya outta a spot bother taa. It's gonna be a win win fer all o' us. Yar man gets ta keep his knees, ya get ta take delivery o' thot cigarette order ya thought ya was gonna have cancel - an' we get ta bring some weapons in thot lost thar ride across tha Channel."

Shrugging off the supposedly friendly arm from his shoulder, Ryan desperately sought out a way to turn down the offer while still keeping all his body parts whole and attached to the rest of him.

"Thar just lorry drivers, Mr. Duggan. They bring in a pallet load or two o' cigarettes ta make a little on tha side. Yer lookin' fer somebody more professional than my lads." He took his best shot.

"Thot's precisely why it'll work," Duggan replied with a cunning smirk. "Those buggers in Special Branch are workin' hand in glove wit' tha customs an' have shut down all our normal routes across tha water. They've got wise ta us an' tha men we use. But nobody would expect us ta trust yar lot wit' such high value cargo." He slapped Ryan on the arm. "Now ya go an' break tha good news ta them fellas. Let 'em know thar gonna get paid after all an' I'll meet up wit' ya tomorrow an' we'll go over tha details... G'night, Mr. O'Keefe, tis a pleasure doin' business wit' ya."

Ryan remained rooted to the spot, watching as Mr. Duggan and his retinue of four bodyguards disappeared out of the alley before trailing in their wake back to where he had parked his own vehicle.

The CIRA must have been waiting for the chance to approach him to piggyback their arms shipments off his cigarette runs and now, thanks to young Mr. Cavanagh, it looked like he had no way of turning the bastards down.

He was still lost in his thoughts when he reached the spot where he'd left his car. Using the fob, he unlocked it and climbed inside, slipping the key into the ignition without a care.

It was only when he turned the key and nothing happened that he was brought rapidly back to the here and now and in less than a heartbeat, he was out of the car and across the other side of the empty street.

Every class of criminal has their own set of fears. Usually the bogeyman lives in the mirror. Thieves triple-lock their doors, embezzlers check their bank accounts obsessively and those who were raised duringNa Trioblóidí get the hell out of a car that won't start right away, especially if they had just come away from having an uncomfortable discussion with a hard core paramilitary commander.

Breathing heavily, Ryan stared wide eyed at the silver Audi TT Coupé which he had owned for less than a month. This had ta be thot psychotic bastid Duggan's idea of a feckin' joke! Adrenaline was still coursing through his veins, making his limbs tremble as his brain tried to decide whether to run or risk taking a look under the bonnet when a weight crashed into his back sending him chest first against the side of his car.

"Car trouble, Mr. O'Keefe?" The pistol barrel being pressed into his side was far less interesting than the fact he was being held at gun point by an American woman. "You know, it's a shame. You just bought that car, didn't you? Lucky for you I just happened to be in the neighborhood."

So his car's failure to start was not a warning from the CIRA. But it seemed he now had more immediate problems…

The criminal barked a short laugh. "Seems me luck just keeps gettin' better an' better."

He held still as he was expertly patted down, his Webley Mark VI revolver disappearing from the pocket of his jacket into the dark skinned hand of his assailant.

"Well, maybe I can help make your night better."

This was getting curious and curiouser… A woman enforcer was unusual but not unheard of. But as far as he was aware none of his rivals in the underworld would go to the trouble and expense of bringing in an American mercenary to handle their business.

"An' how would holdin' a gun ta me head help ya do thot?"

"Just a precaution, Mr. O'Keefe…"

Sensing his assailant had backed off a step or two, Ryan turned around to face the woman holding him at gunpoint not liking what he was seeing. The slender dark skinned mercenary looked harder than nails, the weapon in her hand never wavering while her lips curved into a confident smile.

"So, this would be tha part whar ya tell me whot yer after then," Ryan remarked, taking note of the two men in black suits and ties behind her that screamed government lackey.

"Since your car seems to be out of commission, I thought you could use a lift, maybe meet a friend of mine."

"Ah, me darlin' girl, I hate ta disappoint ya, but I have all tha friends I need."

"Really…? Because from what I just heard, you need all the friends you can get, Mr. O'Keefe. I mean, what are your cousins going to think when they hear you're having late night meetings with Frankie Duggan and all? Doesn't seem like something I'd want getting around the family dinner table next week in that big old manor house your Aunt Maeve has out on the edge of town."

Ryan pursed his lips, his eyes narrowing as he weighed up his options. Fighting his way free was out of the question. He was under the gun of not only the woman but by her two henchmen, one on either side of him, who also had high caliber weapons in their hands.

"An' Am guessing it wa' yar friend who gave somebody in tha CIRA tha bright idea ta come after me in tha first place. Am I right?" The woman was too good at her job to be an amateur. Everything about her was smooth and polished, which meant she'd had training, and she clearly had more than sufficient intelligence on who he was and who he was related to. The only question remained was why an American would be interested in him.

"Seems like you're pretty smart, Mr. O'Keefe. Let's see if you can keep it up."

He watched as she put her gun back into the concealed holster under her jacket and replaced the weapon with a cigarette. She nodded her head and then gestured with the lit end of her cigarette towards the car he was leaning against.

"Do you smoke, Mr. O'Keefe?"

"Aye," he answered cautiously, wondering where this was going.

"Good, then you won't mind if I smoke in your car." She blew a plume in his general direction. "You drive."

Whether you're kidnapping a ruthless dictator in a foreign country or snatching the leader of a criminal gang off the street, it's best not to leave a mess behind. Using your target's own car as a get-away vehicle keeps neighbors from asking about the missing owner plus you don't have to pay for gas.

"My friend'll keep you company up front," the dark skinned woman advised, as the larger, burlier of the pair moved towards him, pressing his automatic into Ryan's ribs while the smaller of the two moved towards the front of his vehicle.

"Am sure ya'll have it running in no time," Ryan remarked ruefully.

"As soon as he replaces the HT leads to the spark plugs, we can be on our way," she agreed. "He'll be right behind us in case you were thinking of taking any short cuts."

()()()()()()()()()()

With his paranoia levels so close to overflowing, Michael Westen hadn't thought it possible that he could fall asleep so easily. But that was before he rolled over in bed and his eyes, which could barely focus on the dial of his wristwatch, informed him it was twenty past one in the morning.

Letting out a low groan, he sat up slowly and pulled the covers off his legs. The ex-spy had followed their hosts up to bed a little after nine o'clock, planning on resting his head for an hour before going back downstairs and telling Fiona that he was unable to sleep. But it seemed that as soon as his head had hit the pillow, his weary aching body had taken charge and that was the last he had known.

Slowly and carefully, he stretched out his injured leg, rotating his ankle first one way and then the other before moving onto flexing his swollen knee; not so swollen now since he'd started taking the old girl's arthritis medication. Michael barred his teeth in a mix of a grin and a grimace as he gently massaged the little bit of stiffness still in the joint.

Reaching out, patting a hand over the top of the bed covers, the dark haired man found his discarded jumper and pulled it over his head, revelling in the fact that the comfrey poultice had at least eased the pain from his damaged ribs.

Slowly getting to his feet, he paused with his head tilting slightly to the side as he caught the faint creak of stealthily moving feet on the ancient floorboards outside in the hallway. Instantly his right hand reached out, sliding under his pillow for the gun he'd put there before closing his eyes. But then he changed his mind. As the door softly swung open, he switched on the bedroom light instead.

"Why ar' ya so determined ta keep testing me reflexes, girl? One o' these days Am gonna shoot ya fer sure, ya know thot do ya nae?"

"I thought I heard ya movin' around," she said with a smile, closing the door and crossing the room before he could move. Coming to his side quickly, she wrapped her arms about his neck and pressed her body up against his. "Ya supposed ta be restin'," she whispered, her fingers combing through his short hair, scraping against his scalp.

"I wa'..."

His voice trailed off as she began nuzzling his neck and nipping at his earlobe. Taken aback by her sudden assault, he resisted her advances. Apart from his ribs still being far from healed, he had far more important things on his mind than she apparently had... Somebody should be on lookout.

One of the biggest challenges of being a fugitive is security. When you're being hunted, you have to be on your guard around the clock. If you're hiding in a safe house that means keeping an eye out the window, having your weapon ready and if you have them, spending some quality time in front of perimeter cams. And sometimes just as important as keeping your enemy out is keeping the rest of your team focused.

"Fi – Fiona... Kim...! We can't, I can't... not right now... One of us has to be on guard."

Now she was angry… He watched warily as her hands, which could be so deadly, fell to her sides and breathed a sigh of relief when instead of hitting him, his lover sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Yer no fun when yer like this, M- Bobby Creegan," she pouted.

"We talked about this, Kim. I'm doing this for you – for all of us." Now that he was sure he was safe from her sharp knuckles and deceptively powerful fists, Michael dropped down beside her and pulled her close. "You should get some sleep now. I'll take over."

"It's okay, I understand whot yer tryin' ta do," she sniffed. "But I'll stay up just tha same. I cannae sleep anyway an' ya have a weeks worth o' shut eye ta catch up on."
"Ya cannae sleep?" He chuckled quietly.

"Am thinkin' about tomorrow – tha nurse…" She leant against him as his fingers threaded through her short auburn hair and his lips softly pressed against her temple. "Tis tha first exam – tis tha first time war gonna learn somethin' about our baby..." She turned and he found himself staring into a pair of moisture filled blue green eyes. "Does it nae terrify ya? A baby… an' us... Whot if am further along than we thought? It feels like Am gettin' bigger by tha day. I wonnae be able ta hide it much longer. Whot happens if we only have-"

He stopped her words with a kiss. Was he terrified? Hell, he was so far past terrified he was doing his best not to think about it at all. No, he was concentrating solely on getting them somewhere safe and as for the rest… He had been hoping that was going to sort itself out naturally. But from the way she was looking at him, none of that was what she waiting to hear.

Ending the kiss, he cupped her cheek and looked into her eyes. "I recall a lass who said that she dinnae worry ever," Michael teased softly.

"Aye," she sighed deeply. "Thot I did."

"Ya'll just have ta be brave a little longer, me angel. I'll scout tha nearest airfield tomorrow night. If tha security is nae taa tight, I'll sneak in an' check out tha flight lists ta see if thar is any likely targets headin' out in tha next coupla days. We'll be on our way ta France befer ya know it."

"That'll be good. Then maybe ya will sleep more than a coupla hours at a time." She took hold of his hand, enfolding it in both of hers as her expression became serious. "Thar is sommit else… I wa' talkin' wit' Cathy an' she said tha nurse is gonna be askin' all sorts o' questions about our health an' about our parents, any brothers an' sisters... It helps 'em calculate tha risk o' problems with tha pregnancy or tha birth. Nar I know ya donnae want ta talk about yar family but this is important fer tha baby. Ya do see thot, do ya nae?"

When you give a piece of intelligence to anyone, even an ally, you never know what they're going to do with it. Because even if you completely trust that person, you run the risk of them taking that information and using it for their own purposes.

The thought of handing over any personal information to somebody without a security clearance, much less a complete and utter stranger, sent his highly tuned senses to full alert.

"We wonnae be har long enough fer her ta need a family history. Tis nae like -"

"I know we wonnae be har fer tha birth, not even for tha first scan. But if thar is a chance o' sommit going wrong, we need ta know about it." She shook her head, rejecting his reasoning. "It makes sound tactical sense ta gather as much information as we can. An' whot if sommit happens befer tha birth, whot if Am taken ill or hurt?... I hope ya donnae think Am havin' this baby at tha side o' tha road, Mr. Creegan!"

Her voice started to go up as she voiced all the fears she had been keeping to herself ever since she had confirmed her pregnancy in the public toilets of the Drogheda Shopping Center.

"Shhhh, okay, okay, I get it. Tis fine...shh" His hands were back cradling her cheeks, but before he could offer any more reassurance, his fiery Irish lover pulled away and straightened up. He watched nervously as she gulped and swallowed thickly, forcing her scattered emotions back under control.

"Ar' ya alright nar? I promise we'll tell tha nurse everything we have ta." He got to his feet, intending on helping her into bed with the hope that some rest would bring some semblance of calm and quiet order back to the chaos and noise that had threatened to erupt moments before.

"Yer sure yer alright with thot?" she queried suspiciously. "I mean, twas only recently thot ya even admitted ta havin' a family"

"Am sure and Am also pretty sure we war both healthy as kids an' at least as far as I know thar's no real medical problems on me side o' tha family," the normally taciturn spy answered calmly.

"Good…" the mother to his child relaxed a little. "Thank ya,…I thought I might have ta twist yar arm ta get thot much outta ya. Me mam had no trouble wit' any o' us, or so she said. An' me Granma Fionulla is close ta ninety years old an' tha doctors all say she's as strong as an ox."

"See?" Michael grinned, relieved that he had avoided another emotional minefield. "Everything will be fine. Nar, why dontcha take a nap an' I'll go an' do a perimeter sweep."

She stretched out, arching her back as he pulled off her socks. "Thar's no need ta do a perimeter sweep. In fact, it would be safer fer ya ta wait until first light 'til venturing outside."

The look on his face would have been comical if he hadn't been so serious. "Whot have ya done?"

"I've made sure we can both get some well -deserved R n R, as ya like ta call it, rest and relaxation."

She stared up at him, a smirk curving her lips. "I've taken a coupla o' those little bombs ya left with our gear in the barn an' then used some o' Gerry's fishin' line ta wire up a few surprises fer anybody who tries sneaking up on us."

He should have guessed that left to her devices, the former paramilitary would take matters into her own hands. "Fi-ona," he growled low. "Thar are cats, foxes, all sorts of wildlife that could set off-"

"I thought ya war learnin' ta trust me again. D'ya think I'm a twit nar thot I cannae fit inta me jeans? I strung tham high enough thot all those little animals will be safe. Donnae worry, ya wonnae be cleanin' up any bodies out o' Cathy's path befer breakfast. I did it fer us, Bobby."

Her fingers were now on the button of her very tight pants. "This way we get some alone time, an' all ya have ta remember is ta get downstairs befer anyone needs ta go outside. Nar help me outta me denims would ya?" Her smile was growing smaller as he hesitated.

"Kim, I donnae think—"

The redhead propped herself up on her elbows with an irritated huff. "Ya need tha rest an' yer wife needs ta know ya still care. I've taken care o' everythin' except havin' ya har next ta me. Come ta bed already, my darlin' man…"

And not even Michael Westen, superspy, could resist such a request.

()()()()()()()()()()

Six fecking hours! Six piggin' hours soaked ta tha skin, dodgin' feckin' farmers and thar bastid dogs, reduced ta traipsing across feckin' fields an' along rutted tracks not fit for feckin' anythin' all b'cuz o' one feckin' big wave comin' outta nowhere an' he'd lost his fecking phone inta tha drink. It wa'nae just tha phone, it was tha whole piggin' bag... Guns, clothes, explosives but all o' those things he could replace... But tha phone, thot feckin' bloody phone...

Thomas O'Neill continued to fume as he trudged wearily along a dark narrow lane in the depths of the Irish countryside. He had made of a point of wanting to be dropped off along one of the most remote parts of the Irish coastline because of his fears of being picked up by the Coast Guard. But at no time had he considered what might happen if his small craft was upended and all his supplies wound up sinking below the waves.

Twice he had been foiled in his efforts to secure a vehicle, once due to two sheepdogs on guard duty giving him no choice but to run or get savaged and the second time by a gamekeeper or maybe he was a poacher, O'Neill had no idea, but the man had had hold of a very big gun.

How he wished he'd had the means ta get his hands on thot gun.

Cold, wet and filled a murderous rage, the Irishman stalked onwards...

Somebody wa' feckin' gonna pay fer this...