A/N: The twists and turns continue in our story of what might have happened if Michael had chosen Fiona over the job while he was in Ireland, instead of sneaking away in the dead of night.

A big thank you to all those still reading and for those who leave reviews. Now hold on to your hats, this is one rollercoaster of a chapter.

BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL

Chapter Twenty Six

"Whot war ya thinkin', inviting a coupla o' strangers in ta yar home?"

Michael leaned in close to the door leading to the Coleraine's kitchen, concentrating on listening in on the conversation taking place on the other side of the thin wooded barrier.

"They needed our help, Sara. Twas tha Christian thing ta do." Cathy defended their actions in the face of her husband's distant relative's skepticism.

"Droppin' tham off at tha pub or lettin' tham use yar phone, thot woulda been tha Christian thing ta do... Can ya wiggle ya toes fer me, Uncle Gerry?... Inviting tham ta stay, havin' tham eat ya outta house an' home, thot… well, thot is just being taken advantage of, thot's whot tis happenin' har... Ye know nothin' about tham."

"Oh hush, Sara, war not as thick as yer making out." He half smiled as Cathy defended her guests to her husband's opinionated relative.

"Am not sayin' yer thick, Auntie, Am sayin' thar are people out thar who will take advantage o' yar kindness... I cannae see why a young obviously fit couple have nae moved on...Ar' ya having any pain, any soreness anywhar?"

"Tis fine, Sara," Gerry answered the question. "Though I'll be happier when tha blasted thing is taken off. And we tol' ya, tha young fella hadda a fall. He's black an' blue, so he is, an' his young Mrs. has been lookin' right peaky."

"Thot was tha other thing. Ya tol' me they only thought she wa' pregnant after ya mentioned tha possibility. Ar' ya tellin' me neither o' tham noticed har clothes ar' fit ta burstin'? Thar nae a coupla o' kids wit' no sense. Mark me words, thar's sommit more ta this than whot thar tellin' ya."

Running his hand over his cropped hair, Michael sucked in a deep breath. This had been what he had feared from the first moment the sturdily built middle aged community nurse had run her openly disapproving gaze over the house guests of her second cousin once removed.

"Aw, donnae be thot way, Sara. They've been been nae trouble at all. In fact thay've been a big help around tha place. Bobby has repaired tha roof an' cleared tha guttering an' he's got thot old Volvo o' Gerry's runnin' a treat."

"Bobby Creegan, have ya nae heard tha sayin' about eavesdroppers never hearing anythin' good about thamselves?" The former spy flinched away from the small slender hand which had just landed upon his shoulder before turning around to find himself staring into a pair of shining blue-green eyes.

"Ya must've been miles away… Tis been a while since I've been able ta sneak up behind ya," she commented and taking his hand, she drew him towards the couch in front of the fire. "Come an' sit down, I think we need ta talk. Sara donnae seem ta be tha pushover we war hopin' fer."

Not a pushover was a massive understatement as far as Michael was concerned; he had met friendlier FSB operatives and less suspicious Afghani tribesmen than the country nurse currently in the kitchen treating her official patients.

"Yer tellin' me, sweetheart…" He glanced towards the door as Esme joined in the semi-private conversation taking place in the other room, the elderly woman's loud voice making it seem as if she was sitting on the couch beside them.

"Ya should be ashamed o' yarself, Sara Moran. Ya have nae idea whot thay've been through."

"An' neither have ya, nae really," came the nurse's quieter reply. "Have ya talked ta yar Ronnie about this? Whot d'ya think he'd have ta say about his mam pickin' up strangers off tha side o' tha road?"

"D'ya think we should shoot har?" Mrs. Creegan leaned into her husband's side, her lips inches from his ear.

"I think she might be missed," he whispered back. "Let's get this examination over with an' then we'll move on befer tha good nurse can go tellin' tales."

"Maybe I'll just go tek a look at har car. It wouldnae take me but a minute or two ta wire a little sommit ta tha ignition."

"No, Fi." He didn't know if she was joking or not, but just in case he tightened his grip on her hand. "We'll jus' have ta be extra charmin' and besides we'll be on our way as soon as tis dark."

He watched as his fiery Irish lover pouted at his peaceful solution to the problem of the nosy nurse. Then she smiled and relaxed back against him.

"Very well, we'll try it yar way, but if we discover a whole battalion o' Gardai waitin' at tha top o' tha lane when we leave, I will kick yar arse all tha way ta Dublin Gaol."

"If thot happens, I'll surely deserve it, luv."

()()()()

Far away across the other side of a continent, inside a magnificent villa surrounded by lush vegetation and tall pine trees located in a secluded and very exclusive spot on the Monte-Carlo Peninsula, a tall dark haired man lounged back against the head rest of his super king size bed, staring out through the wide open balcony doors at the shimmering blue of the Mediterranean ocean below.

But while the view before him was one of the best in the whole principality, Armand Andreani thoughts were elsewhere. Pursing his lips, the international merchant of death could not tear his thoughts away from a certain beautiful auburn haired vixen with eyes the color of the turbulent Irish sea whose temper was as deadly as the explosives she loved to play with.

"Guns, C4, thot right pretty mortar wit' tha remote firing switch...and champagne?" She had sighed deeply. "Ya spoil me, Armand."

They had been inside a tent beside an oasis half a days drive outside Tripoli. A deal on a large shipment of arms had just been completed and the mysterious buyer from a small African nation had left with his newly acquired property. It had been time for their own celebration.

"Dontcha just love it when sommit big goes boom?" She had purred into his ear while her long manicured fingernails had scraped down his back, before digging into his backside.

It hadn't been until she left him that he had realized how much light she had brought into his life. He missed the way she threw herself completely into anything that piqued her interest. He remembered how much enjoyment he had gotten out of introducing the young woman from Ireland to all the finer things in life. Her look of wonder when he had taken her to see the Taj Mahal, her expression when he had arranged for a private tour of the Palace of Versailles or most of all her courage when she had stood at his side on the Pestar Plateau facing down a Serbian warlord and his entire army.

"They appear rather annoyed... Shall we kill them?" It had taken her less than two weeks to master the cut glass English accent which was so handy when impressing despots the world over... Had it really been five years since he had last held her in his arms?

And now it appeared she was in danger again. This time she or her new lover had done something to draw the attention of one of the most powerful players in the Russian underworld.

Using one hand to comb through his long dark mane, he pushed himself upright and then picked up the phone lying beside him on the bed. She might have left him, but he had always left the door open for her return. Maybe it was time to re-establish contact, remind her of what she had left behind.

He had come to the French tax haven for the sole purpose of a little rest and relaxation after a nightmare month stuck in some little village in the middle of Columbia. Three nights at the baccarat tables with lady luck perched upon his shoulder had added to his fortunes and then yesterday morning while he had been taking a stroll along the quayside at Port Hercules he had been approached by the representative of a senior member of a Middle Eastern family looking to acquire a new arsenal for his employer's private army.

Watching a performance of La Traviata in a private box at the Opéra de Monte-Carlo while discussing the military needs of a wealthy dictator had made for an almost perfect evenings entertainment. Or it had been until after they had concluded their business and the performance had finished.

It had been during the after-show party that he had felt a soft feminine hand land lightly on his arm and Mssr. Andreani had turned to find himself staring into the deep blue eyes of Estelle Parminter, the wife of one of the arms manufacturers who supplied him with the majority of the assaults rifles he sold to his South American clientele.

"Armand, dah-ling, it is sooo good to see you... Do you know we were just talking about you?"

At two o clock in the morning, the middle age woman was definitely worse for wear, her dilated pupils telling him it was more than alcohol that had her invading his personal space.

"Nice things I hope." He'd stared over her head, looking for her husband.

"Nice enough, it was more about your old girlfriend... The Irish one, oh, what was her name? Eddie remembers -"

"Fiona -?"

"That's the one... I think you should count yourself lucky you're not involved any more, she's attracting some rather dangerous attention." She paused and took a long slow look around the room and had then whispered. "Abish – Abish – Abishuly Naz – Nazi – Abishuly Narbayjef –"

"You mean Abishuly Nazarbayev?"

"Yes... Eddie says he is a nasty piece of work. You should be –"

He had walked away at that point, leaving the drunken and stoned socialite to her own devices. His head filled with thoughts about why a Kazakhstani black marketeer with his roots deeply embedded in the Russian underworld was asking for information about an Irish terrorist.

Once he had arrived back home, it hadn't taken him long to discover that Nazarbayev was offering large sums of money to learn the whereabouts of not only Fiona Glenanne but her present boyfriend too. He had thought about making a few more phone calls there and then, but in the end had decided to wait for a more civilized hour.

Squinting out of the balcony doors at the mid-day sun reflecting on the calm waters below the international merchant of death and destruction decided he had waited long enough. Scrolling through the contact list on his phone, he finally came to the number he wanted. If Fiona was being led astray by her new boyfriend it was guaranteed her family knew nothing about it.

()()()()

While Armand Andreani was contemplating the troubling news he had received the night before, one of his greatest supporters amongst his ex-girlfriend's republican family was preparing for an afternoon visit to the town of Naas, some twenty miles away from her home.

The Queen of the Glenanne clan brushed her hands over her hips and then down the sides of her calf length black woolen skirt, until she was satisfied that the heavy material was hanging as it should, before slipping her stockinged feet into a pair of sensible brogues.

Straightening up and pursing her lips, Maeve ran a critical eye over her appearance in the long mirror attached to the door of her mahogany wardrobe. Her long hair, more grey now than the red-brown of her youth, was pinned into a neat bun at the back of her head, the cream silk blouse she wore, with the high neck and long sleeves, was tucked neatly into the waistband of the skirt which usually only saw the light of day for funerals.

Reaching out, Maeve picked up a silver locket from her dressing table and after a couple of tries managed to fasten the thin chain about her neck and then settle the heart shape pendant in the center of her chest.

"I look tha image o' me mother, Patrick... Who woulda thought thot day would ever come." She smiled fondly at the photograph hanging on her bedroom wall, positioned so she could gaze upon the love of her life from wherever she was in her private sanctuary. "But needs must when tha devil drives, heh, me love?"

Turning to her neatly made bed, Mrs. Glenanne picked up her heavy British service revolver. Holding the weapon up to the light streaming through the window, she double checked it was loaded and ready for use before placing it inside the large ugly black leather handbag she had chosen to go with her outfit... How long had it been since she had fired that weapon in anger?

Staring down at the gun and the pill box nestled next to the firearm, which held a small but deadly incendiary device she had put together earlier, her thoughts continued along those same lines. How long had it been since she had felt the spark of rage which was now growing in her belly? Nobody threatened her children, not if they wanted to live another day.

It had been a busy morning. From the moment the elderly matriarch's slippered feet had reached the bottom of the stairs at six AM, the lady of the house had taken command of the welfare of her son's troops. First she had seen to it that the men coming on duty had their stomachs filled and their mouths wetted with copious amounts of tea. Then no sooner had those six men left the kitchen to begin their day than the night shift had arrived looking for a bite to eat and a hot brew to warm their bones before they went off to catch some sleep.

With the men taken care of, Maeve had taken a few minutes to fill the dishwasher and grab a light breakfast for herself before her sons and their families had descended upon the kitchen.

Maeve had been revelling in all the noise and chaos, the sound of the children's shouts and laughter and the good natured banter passing back and forth between two of her boys and their lovely wives had reminded her of the farmhouse where they had once lived before her beloved Patrick had been dragged off by the police, never to be seen alive again.

But two hours later, silence had returned to the large seven bedroom mansion. Seamus' four eldest were at school, with one of her son's men keeping watch over them from the road outside, while Isabella and Rosanna had taken the young ones outside to make the most of the mild spring weather.

She had been humming a little ditty as she made her way upstairs, planning on taking the opportunity while everything was quiet to have a nice long soak in her bath tub when the ringing of the house phone had changed her plans for the rest of the day.

She had felt her heart beat a little faster when she didn't recognize the number on the caller display and for a split second she had thought it might have been her girl, having come to her senses. But then her hopes had been dashed when she had picked up the receiver and instead of her daughter voice asking to come home, it had been her nephew delivering bad news.

"Auntie Maeve?"

"Ryan?" She had hid her disappointment behind the warmth in her tone. "Whot can I do fer ya?"

She had listened to every word her only nephew spoke, a cold chill creeping up her spine as Ryan explained how he had been taken off the street at gun point by a highly trained team of CIA agents.

"He said all he's interested in is getting' McBride outta Ireland; he is nae interested in Fiona or tha rest o' tha family."

Over the years she had heard the same fancy promises too many times to count. The men in power offering whatever they thought it would take to make a person give up a friend or family member, turn their back on their community, betray the cause.

Money, a new life, safety, a chance for peace, but only on their terms…. She could see the ramifications clearly in her head. Once the Americans had their spy back, she was positive that sooner rather than later they would use what they knew to turn the screws not only on Fiona but on them all.

"He gave me a card wit' tha time an' a place ta meet. It's today at two in Bewleys on Grafton street. I think somebody should meet ham, listen ta whot he has ta say... I think he knows sommit about Fiona... I donnae fer sure, but tha way he wa' talkin' an' hintin'...Nar donnae take this as gospel, I might be wrong... But I -er, I think Fiona might be in tha family way."

Maeve shivered and slipped on her long black coat and then picked up the bag, taking a deep breath to calm her emotions... Her only girl carrying tha traitor McBride's babby… Tha yank agent would nae have hinted about sommit like thot unless he had definite proof.

"Leave it wit' me," the queen of the clan advised.

She had made the decision there and then that she was going to deal with this problem by herself. Liam couldn't be pulled off the search and neither Seamus or Sean, as much as she loved all her boys, were capable of negotiating something this delicate without the use of heavy artillery or a large block of semtex.

"Call tha agent back an' tell ham Liam cannae be reached, but if he wants ta talk ta somebody, it'll have ta me and I cannae be driving inta Dublin, not at my age...Tell ham I'll be at Clary's Tearooms in Naas at two."

"Naas?! Auntie Maeve I donnae think -" Her only brother's male heir wasn't a fool. As soon as she had mentioned the proposed change of venue, he had become suspicious.

"Am nae askin' fer yar permission, Ryan. Do as yer told and let thot agent know thot if he wants ta come ta arrangement, he'll be in Naas at two." But luckily for all concerned, Ryan knew better than to interfere with his elder's decisions.

She had made one phone call after she had given Ryan his instructions and then spent a quiet hour putting her bomb making skills to use. Just a little something as a precaution, because decades of experience had taught her that there was no such thing as having too many weapons.

Sighing, Mrs. Glenanne straighten up and stared into the eyes of the love of her life. It had been a busy morning and it looked set to only get busier as the day went on.

"Wish me luck, me love," Maeve whispered softly before kissing the end of her ring finger and pressing the pad to the image of her husband, trailing her fingertip lightly over his features. "I will nae lose another girl."

With those words, she left her bedroom and made her way to the stairs. It was time for Maeve Glenanne, once the most feared woman in Ireland to step back into the fray.

()()()()

The slight creak as the kitchen door swung open was enough of a warning for the former spy and the ex- terrorist to pull apart.

"Thar, wer all done, Uncle Gerry. I want ya ta make sure ya rest thot leg. I'll speak ta doctor McGiven about ya getting' another x-ray inna coupla o' weeks." And by the time the Coleraine's over-protective relative entered the living room clutching a pair of latex gloves in one hand, the young couple were on their feet looking slightly wide eyed and nervous.

"Mrs. Creegan, did ya manage ta do me a sample ta test?"

"I did." Fiona quickly moved to where she had placed the small clear plastic bottle she had been handed almost straight after their introduction.

"Well, while am doin' tha test, why dontcha get yarself comfortable on tha couch... Ya need ta remove yar jeans and yar under garments taa. I see thar is a blanket on tha back o' tha couch ya can cover up wit' thot."

Michael went to close the curtains and switched on the living room lights while Fiona stripped off her jeans and panties before lying back on the couch and covering her lower body with the red and black tartan blanket which Cathy used to keep warm in the evenings.

"Comfy?" he asked, as he knelt down beside her, nervously taking her hand.

She nodded, her eyes wide, and swallowed thickly.

"It'll be fine." He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Jus' try ta relax…"

"Ya know she's gonna be askin' all sorts o' personal questions har, dontcha?" Fiona spoke in a low tone. "W-we never really got around ta talkin' about how much ta tell har. Me mammy…" She paused and took a deep breath. "Me mammy hadda miscarriage befer she had Claire."

He flinched at her words, in part in sympathy and in part due to the very unwelcome stirrings of a ruthlessly suppressed childhood remembrances.

"Sshe went out ta throw some hay in fer tha cows; but instead o stayin' outside, she went inta tha pen an' ….an' well…. nobody is sure whot exactly happened. Me da thought she musta slipped an' fallen, then got kicked... I jus' remember me Auntie Claire came ta stay wit' us, an' me mam took ta har bed fer a week... D'ya think I should mention it, ya know, if she asks?"

Michael swallowed thickly, his own thoughts forcibly dragged back to the dim and distant past.

"Maddy, whud tha hell are you bawling about now, woman? You're so damned clumsy, ya can't walk over a flat floor without trippin' over your own two damned feet… Go on now, git on up already…If ya'd done whud Ah asked ya to when Ah asked ya to, none a this woulda happened. Jesus Christ, Maddy! Holy hell…jus'… jus' stay there an' don' move now! SHIT!"

He did his best to suppress the memory, shoving it along with the feelings of terror which had come close to overwhelming the four year old who watched through the crack in the door as his sobbing mother lay in a growing pool of blood while his panicked father had called for an ambulance.

"They're comin' now, ya stay still. Shit, ya done hit yer head on the coffee table, they're gonna think I smacked you or something stupid… Don' cry, Maddy… they'll be here in a minute… You know I love ya… Hang on now, Maddy, don' cry no more… this here was just a stupid accident… You remember that, you tripped, fell right over your own feet again…Cuz who's gonna take care a Mike if I'm in lockup and you're in the hospital?"

"M-Bobby?" He felt a squeeze on his hand,

"I- It sounds like an accident, Kim. I donnae think thot's tha sorta thing we should share. Keep ta jus' tha stuff could affect tha – our –"

"Tha word ya're lookin' fer is babby, our babby... So d'ya have anythin' ta share?"

Share? Share about a manipulative alcoholic bully of a father, a mother who can't get through the day without taking a dozen or more pills and a little brother who last time he saw him was already an experienced gambler, drinker and, he suspected, also experimenting with cocaine?

"No, nothin', my family is pretty ordinary." He wasn't his dad, Fiona definitely wasn't like his mom and their child wouldn't have the home life he'd had.

"Jus' one ya nae wanta ever go back taa."

"Yer all I need me life." He sent her a dazzling smile and shifted closer, just as the nurse returned.

"Well ya are definitely pregnant, Mrs. Creegan. So, if yar husband will just move outta tha way, I'll tell ya whot I can."

()()()()

"So whot yer tellin' me is thot tha Brits have called off all surveillance on us, but ya donnae know why or fer how long?..."

Seamus Glenanne paced up and down in his mother's kitchen, his cell phone pressed to his ear, wishing for maybe the tenth time that morning that Liam had left somebody else in charge.

"D'ya think ya can find out who is chasin' tham down an' whot thar getting' up ta? Because Sean has spent half tha morning on tha phone wit' Temple. Tha council is nae happy wit' Liam goin' dark an' Fiona still bein' in tha wind."

Organizing the security around his mother's property had been a piece of cake for the gun runner, who was used to having to protect the contraband he was transporting and arms dumps he had scattered about the Irish countryside. What had caused his blood pressure to rise and his nicotine craving to go into overdrive had been dealing with all the other fall out from Fiona's insurrection.

It seemed that every time he put his phone away, another call had come through with somebody else wanting him to make a decision for them.

Kieran Mulhay, the funeral director had called to ask how much longer he was going to have to keep Liam's "guest" as he needed the space. Finley Doyle, the older brother of Liam's personal bodyguard, had wanted to know what to tell Mrs. Irene Lovatt who was concerned that she had been unable to contact her baby boy for the last two days.

And so it had continued all morning… until Val Temple, the PIRA shot caller, had rung to find out why Liam was no longer answering his phone.

That last call had been the final straw, handing off Temple to Sean, who was spinning a long winded tale about how he had been shot, Seamus had contacted the family intelligence analyst to get some answers. So far though, all Colin had been able to tell them was that the UK government had seemingly washed their hands of Michael Westen and handed the search for their missing asset over to the Americans.

Sighing heavily, Seamus noticed the small light blinking on and off that told him another caller was waiting to speak with him. "Find out all ya can about who tha Americans have put on tha case an' can ya speed up tha search on tha identity of thot fella Liam brought outta tha woods?"

Ending his conversation with Colin, Seamus took a deep breath. This… this wa' why Liam wa' always in such a bad mood an' why he wa' such a bloody mother-hen. He's away fer twenty four hours an' tha whole family falls ta pieces. Letting out that breath in a huff, the temporary head of the clan pressed the answer key on his cell. "Tis Seamus, whot can I fer ya?"

"Seamus, I was beginning to think you were too busy to take my call."

The gunrunner instantly recognized the refined English accent of his little sister's ex-boyfriend.

"Armand?" He couldn't hide the surprise in his voice. It had to have been four or maybe five years since he had heard from the man. "It's been a while, look am kinda busy at tha moment. If ya wantin' a delivery -"

"No, no, sorry, Seamus, this isn't about a job…. It's more personal, more of a warning. It's about Fiona."

"Fiona?" Seamus stopped his pacing and sat down on the edge of his mother's oak table. Whot now? The Irishman held his breath waiting for the next bit of news about his missing sister.

"Yes, I heard some rather disturbing gossip last night. Do you know of a man called Abishuly Nazarbayev? He's a Kazahstani black marketeer... He is offering quite a lot of money for any information about Fiona and some fellow called McBride. I thought I should let you know."

A black marketeer far away in Eastern Europe, well as long as he stayed there… Seamus decided Nazarbayev wasn't an immediate problem. "Thanks fer that heads up, but Fiona has barely been outta Ireland in tha last five years. I'll - Whot tha hell?"

A more immediate problem was his mother walking towards the front door having just picked up a set of car keys off the hall table.

"Am sorry, Armand, I gotta go. Ya would nae believe tha day Am havin'."

"You know me, Seamus, always a friend to those in need. If you have no objections, I'll look into it myself."

"Knock yarself out, Armand, I gotta go... Ma! Mam! Whar d'ya think yer goin'?"

Ending the call, Seamus dropped his cell down on the table before striding rapidly across the kitchen and out into the hallway, only just reaching the front door just in time to stop his mother from opening the front door.

"Ma, whar ar' ya off ta?"

"Stop yar shoutin' inside tha house, Seamus," Maeve chastised her third born. "Tis Monday an' Am off ta meet wit' tha ladies church group. Nar, if ya don' mind, ya can move outta me way –"

"Liam said ta keep everybody har, he didnae say anythin' about anyone goin' off ta church meetings."

"Liam also said ta keep things lookin' as normal as possible. Have nae yar own children gone off ta school?"

Staring down at his mother, the family gun runner sighed heavily. Whot tha hell was he supposed ta do? He could nae tie har ta a chair.

He gulped as he noted the narrowing of the blue-green eyes gazing back up at him and not for the first time that day did Seamus Glenanne wish he was on his ship sailing off somewhere far away. Dealin' wit' Somali pirates wa' easier on tha nerves than facin' down his ma...

"Am nae a twit, Seamus Glenanne, I can look after me self," Maeve interrupted her son's reverie. Opening her bag so he could look inside to see the gun nestled next to her bible and rosary beads, she fixed him with a determined stare. "I've been ta war since befer ya war born."

"Fine," he agreed, but he kept his hand on the door baring her exit. "But ya take a driver along wit' ya. He'll stay wit' tha car, but jus' in case -."

"If it'll make ya feel better, son... But I really have ta be goin' as tha meetin' will be startin' soon and if ya turn up late thar is hell ta pay, Am tellin' ya."

Shaking his head Seamus stood aside and opened the door for his mother, he was pretty sure the ladies of St. Augustine were far too polite a bunch to raise hell over a little tardiness.

()()()()

"Nar then, Am just gonna push down on yar stomach, try ta relax... My, yer a skinny little thing – and it looks like ya have had quite a few scrapes in yar life."

Michael watched the outspoken nurse moved her fingers over her patient's nearly flat stomach pressing down at certain points. His eyes drifting over the small scar close to her right hip bone, remembering how late one night his hand had drifted over the slightly raised puckered mark as they were settling in for bed after a particularly long day.

"Oh thot, tis nothin' I came off me brother Colin's motocrosser. I'd taken it wit'out permission, so ta speak, an' crashed it inta a stone wall an' went clean over tha top catchin' me hip on tha way o'er. If ya wanta see a scar ya should check out tha one on top o' me head."

He had recognized the game she was playing and having no wish to have to come up with interesting tales for all of his own scars, he had turned off the bedroom light and kept her pleasantly distracted until they had fallen asleep.

"I have nae brought a set o' scales wit' me. D'ya know how much ya weight"

"I've been around seven stone fer years, have I nae, Bobby?"

He smiled weakly when Fiona twisted her head around, her eyes locking on his, as she reached out to clasp his hand. Somehow, she looked smaller now and more fragile as the nurse's hands continued to drift over his lover's stomach.

"I think ya'll find thot will change soon enough... An' yar height?"

"Five foot three."

"Mmmm, an' yarself, Mr. Creegan, ya look like a big lad. D'ya know yar height?"

"Six foot... Is thot a problem?"

"It could mean a big babby. Do either of ya know yar birth weights?"

"Six pound two."

He was surprised when Fiona answered instantly as he hadn't got a clue as to any details of his birth. But as he was beginning to flounder, Michael was struck by a bolt of inspiration. He might not remember his parents talking about his birth or early childhood, but he had been there to listen to his mom telling anyone who would listen all about her second born.

"Nathaniel was born at four o'clock in the morning and he weighed -"

"Mr. Creegan, if ya dinnae know -"

Nurse Sara broke through his thoughts and he blurted out: "Seven pounds nine ounces."

"Thank ya and ya both had normal births, no problems?" Sara looked from one to the other and the couple both nodded. "Thot's good... Nar Am reckoning, yer about ten weeks along, so tis still early days. Have ya been havin' any morning sickness?..."

Michael faded out the conversation taking place, his mind zeroing in on what they had been doing ten weeks ago. They had just returned home from working a side job for the CIA.

He had been sent to Amsterdam on short notice to locate and shut down a blood diamond smuggling ring. An easy assignment in which his orders gave him permission to bring along one extra, the Company suggesting he used his Russian asset, Samantha Keyes, for her breaking and entering skills and for her knowledge of high end jewellery.

However, he had decided to substitute Fiona in the place of the woman he had agreed to marry, as he'd had no wish to complicate matters by having to explain to Ms. Keyes that the wedding was off because you don't marry someone when you love somebody else. That had been the moment that his head had finally caught up with what his heart had already known.

He was sure now it had been his unauthorized change in personnel which had brought his attachment to Fiona Glenanne fully to his government masters' attention.

The mission had failed and failed spectacularly: a shootout in a packed night club followed by a foot chase through the narrow streets of Amsterdam until finally, in an act of desperation, he had sent them both plummeting into the freezing waters of the Prinsengracht Canal. They had been returned to Dublin in disgrace and Fiona with the added insult of a severe head cold.

The usually stoic spy grinned and a hint of pink flushed his cheeks as he thought how they had spent that first week back home in their cosy little flat. Both of them were in need of a little comfort. He had been censured for the mission and shaken by the realization of not only his feelings for her, but also the potential repercussions of those emotions.

Fiona had been truly sick, requiring a trip to the doctor for antibiotics, and it was the first time he'd really seen her ill instead of injured and though he had a hard time admitting it, Michael had found some peace in just focusing on tending to her and for once she had allowed it.

Feeling his hand being squeezed tightly and hearing a softly muttered curse, the former spy turned his attention back to his beloved and realized that he had missed a large chunk of the examination, as Fiona now had her knees raised and the nurse was at the end of the couch partially hidden by the blanket still protecting his lover's modesty.

"Mrs. Creegan, can ya think o' anything, anything at all which might might affect ya havin' a natural birth?" Sara straightened up; her stern expression had soften as she stared at her patient. "Has a doctor ever mentioned anything-?"

"I -"

"Would ya prefer it if we talked in private…?"

"Kimmie?" Michael brushed the palm of his hand over Fiona's brow, his heart beginning to beat a little faster as he looked from his lover to the nurse and then to her. "Whot's wrong?"

He could only watch as she ran her tongue over her lips, her eyes also going from his to the nurse and back again, before she lowered her gaze to the tartan blanket covering her belly and then she began to speak, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It wa' at a family party... I went outside, out back o' tha pub.., it wa' a stupid thing ta do, but... It… he, he hit me in tha head, I dinnae see it comin' an' -" She sniffed and took a deep breath before continuing. "I tried ta fight him, but I dinnae... I wa' ..."

For a few brief moments, Michael's mind went completely blank, stunned at what she had almost said, and then just as quickly questions flooded his brain, the next one asked before the first query could be completed.

Why didn't he know this? They should have told him. It should have been in her file. How could he not know this? Why didn't she tell him? She had... How could she have trusted him enough to go to Derry alone with him after... But she'd trusted him... She, she should have trusted him enough...

"He didnae finish, Am sure he didnae finish. Me Auntie… one o' me aunties came looking fer me and when she found me, he ran off."

His blood was pumping so strong and fast that the roaring filled his head. Without conscious thought his fingers slipped away from hers and he got to his feet, his hands curling into tight fists as he crossed the room.

Just for a split second, he was back in southern Bosnia in a town called Višegrad, the stench of death invading his nostrils, the screams of the victims of Captain Orlovi's White Dragon paramilitary group filling the air. The desperate, tormented faces of the women and girls who had suffered at the group's hands that had been haunting his dreams for years, the teenage girl who had begged him to end her suffering... All the ghosts who had been silent while he had been Michael McBride suddenly were screaming at him again.

Someone… some filthy bastard had done the same thing he had witnessed night after night being done to those women, some animal had done that to his Fiona. His hand drifted towards the knife that was no longer there, the one that he had worn when he had hunted such prey.

"I – didnae go ta hospital… it warn't reported ta tha police…." Her eyes filling with tears, the young woman's voice broke and that fast he was snapped back to the present.

Of course not… her family would have closed ranks. Her brothers would have found the beast themselves. Her pride, her family's pride, their involvement in the Cause had kept her from getting proper care...

He closed his eyes and tried to take back control.

"Bobby!" she called to him. "I-I wanted ta tell ya. But I dinnae know how."

Hearing the stress and fear in her tone, Michael turned to face the woman who had stolen his heart and in an instant was back at her side. This wasn't about him.

"Tis alright, Am sorry." He dropped down beside her and cupped her cheeks between the palms of his hands. "Am so sorry this happened ta ya, me love." He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead and rested his face on the top of her head for just a moment before drawing back.

"I couldnae tell ya… Ya wa' in tha army, tha British army… If I'd tol' ya, I know ya woulda gone lookin' fer answers."

For several seconds, they remained frozen, staring intently into each other's eyes, their foreheads touching as they reconnected and calmed their souls.

"Am sorry fer causing such upset, but ya understand I had ta ask," Nurse Sara apologized, interrupting their moment and clearly uncomfortable with the unseen turn of events.

"We understand," Michael answered as he sat back on his heels. "Does, does whot happened…" he paused and sucked in a breath as he tried to find the right words. "Has whot happened ta har gonna cause a problem fer tha birth?"

"Am nae a mid-wife, but I can tell ya thar's some scar tissue thar which may or may not be a cause fer concern. Yar wife needs ta see an obstetrician an' I'd say sooner rather than later."

He swallowed thickly, his mind still trying to process fully everything he had heard.

"Bobby, whot are we gonna do?"

"We'll find somebody, we'll find a doctor. Thank ya fer all ya help, Ms Moran. Is – is thar anything else?" He fell back on what he knew, masking his emotions behind a façade of politeness and charm.

"I would suggest yar wife starts taking some Ferrous Sulphate, thot's iron tablets. Ya can pick tham up at any chemist and me other suggestion is thot when ya get ta whar ya goin' ya get registered wit' a doctor an' booked in fer yar ante-natal care. Yar wife needs some proper rest."

The nurse was on her feet now, removing her latex gloves and dropping them into a plastic bag which she had brought with her, clearly in a hurry to leave after all she had heard. The look of sympathy and concern which had been on display a few minutes earlier was already fading.

However, the return of Nurse Moran's stern visage was not going to deter the former spy getting the answers he required. So, while his spouse was quickly slipping back into her clothes, using the blanket as a shield, Bobby Creegan followed the community nurse towards the kitchen door where his hosts were waiting for the consultation to be over.

"Befer ya go, is thar anythin' Kim should refrain fram doin'? Ah – um exercising, thot sorta thing. She's been getting really tired recently."

The older woman huffed and turned to face her relative's guests, unwelcome guests in her opinion. "Tha feelin' o' fatigue will pass, Am sure. Everything wa' normal… well almost everything... She seems ta be a healthy young woman, yar Mrs. Creegan, though she's a wee bit on tha skinny side. Am sure everythin' will be fine, but ya just make sure ya get registered as soon as yer settled."

With that, she brushed by the tall dark haired man blocking the exit and went to say her goodbyes. Michael stood facing the wooden barrier, biting his lower lip and gathering his thoughts. It felt silly, but he wanted to give Fiona a moment to dress in private.

And the ex-spy who had used all his skills at social engineering to talk his way out of life and death situations literally hundreds of times before now had absolutely no idea whatsoever of what to say to the love of his life when he turned around…

()()()()

The quiet sobbing coming the far corner of the small lounge in the open plan flat barely registered on Liam Glenanne's consciousness. He had far bigger problems than the emotional turmoil of one overwrought gypsy girl or the visibly disturbed teenager who was standing by the bathroom door, having thrown up what had sounded like the whole of his stomach contents.

"When ya have finished up chuckin', Joey, ya an' Robin go round this dump an' either clean or bag up everythin' ya've touched. Find tha vacuum if thar is one an' give tha place a hoover. Thot should pick up any bits ya missed... I'll see ta tha bodies."

Not waiting to see if the two youngsters followed his commands, Liam grabbed the back of the chair which still held Kevin McCullough's bloody corpse and dragged it into the bedroom where Patrick Moffatt had lost his life hours earlier.

The younger of the McCullough brothers had been made of sterner stuff than his older friend, but unfortunately for him that had just meant Mr. Glenanne had had to send his driver back out to the car to bring in his bag of surgical instruments.

Within ten minutes of the PIRA's premier interrogator specialist getting to work, Kevin had figuratively spilled his guts as well as physically lost several fingers and an ear and Liam had learnt that Tommy O'Neill had not only managed to sneak back into Ireland but was now staying at the McCullough farmhouse.

"H-h-h his sp-spittin' bricks so he is... B-been t-t-tryin' ta get hold o' us fer… fer hours... M-Martin hadnae b-been answerin' his ph-phone. He thought twas our mam. I – wa' gonna pick up Paddy, an, an th-then we wa' t-ta meet ham in Clonmel."

Pursing his lips, Liam stared at the blood soaked floor, which having dried was already giving off a faint odor... By his reckoning they might have three or four days before the smell of death became strong enough to attract the attention of the owners of the shop below.

"Hurry up, we need ta be on our way. We've more work ta get done." He closed the door to the bedroom and quickly scanned the open space, noticing the three large trash bags by the only door to the outside along with the two pale looking figures waiting for him.

The lad Joey had made a bee-line for the bathroom about the same time as Mr. McCullough lost his second finger. The girl however had been made of stronger stuff, a tracker and a poacher by trade, she had butchered animals in the past so apart from the occasional grimace she had held firm.

"Come har, girl…" Having got all the answers Kevin Mccullough had had to give, he'd called Robin to his side and handed her his hand gun with a silencer attached. "Ya wanted ham dead, get ta it." He'd callously ordered as the girl's victim had begun to struggle against the ropes that bound him to the chair and beg for his life.

"Ya want me ta shoot ham nar?" Gripping the weapon in her shaking hand, she had looked from him to her intended victim and then back again.

"It's whot ya wanted, is it nae? Ta kill tha men thot hurt ya? Well, thar he is."

He had hoped that she wouldn't have been able to do it, that there was still something left of the young woman who had guided him through the Slieveamon Forest.

But it wasn't to be. Because after a sharp inhalation of breath, Robin Hennessy had squared her shoulders and then lifted the gun.

"He was nae a man, he wa' nothin' but a mad dog..." she had declared when the deed was done. "I did tha world a favor."

But as soon as he had taken his gun back, the young woman had burst into tears and collapsed into a heap in the corner of the room, leaving the two men in the room to exchange looks of bewilderment.

"Are ya still wit' us, Robin, or d'ya want ta sit tha rest o' this out? I can find ya somewhar ta hole up 'til this is over. Ya would be safe, I promise ya."

Any hope that the girl had used up all her grief-fuelled rage was dashed when she lifted her chin and narrowed her red rimmed eyes.

"Am nae goin' anywhar yet, Mr. Glenanne. Thar's still one evil bastid I have ta put in tha ground."

"Then grab one o' those bags then an' carry it down ta tha car. Tha sooner war on our way, tha better," he declared, giving his troops a hard glare to get them moving.

As his accomplices removed the last of the evidence of their ever being in Patrick Moffatt's flat, Liam reached into his pocket and removed two cell phones. One was his own and the other had belonged to Kevin McCullough. Weighing the two devices in the palm of his hand, he finally took his own phone up first and quickly found the number he was looking for.

First, he would call the idiot who had been ordered to keep watch on the McCullough farm and then… Liam turned his gaze onto the second phone and smile grimly.

And then he would send a text message to the surviving member of the gang hunting for his sister to arrange a meeting somewhere quiet, somewhere out of the way and with no chance of a witness stumbling onto the scene.

()()()()()

A/N: The details of Michael and Fiona's assignment in Amsterdam can be found in the first chapter of the M-rated story by Purdy's Pal, Who We Once Were.

For those interested, you can read our version of the history of the Glenanne family, including the death of Patrick Glenanne Senior & Patrick Junior, and Fiona's disastrous college graduation party in our story Victims of War.

And to discover what horrors Michael faced during his time in Bosnia read our story Larry With Larry.