A/N: Thank you all for all the lovely reviews for the last chapter. We do appreciate them and enjoy reading each one. This next installment of Be Brave Little Angel is a little shorter than previous chapters as we had originally hoped to have it ready for Valentine's Day; however, once again real life and long hours at work, as we all too frequently find, have interfered with our writing time.
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Thirty Three
"Donnae thank me yet, lass," the old priest countered Fiona's words of gratitude."Thar's quite a ways yet ta go befer I can stop yar family fram murderin' tha father o' yar babby."
"Babe – Babby?" Mr. McBride stiffened as he turned around, all signs of the dark haired man's previous good humor gone at Father Conlon's announcement.
"How? Who tol' ya?" At the same moment Fiona sat up straighter, snatching her hands back to fold her arms protectively over her stomach.
The elderly man of the cloth chuckled softly and shook his head, obviously amused at the young couples startled response to his words. "I donnae know whot yer both lookin' so shocked about. D'ya think yer tha first pair o' fugitives ta come ta me door claimin' thar mammies ar' out ta kill tham?"
He looked from one to the other before he added. "Though in yar case, Fiona, ya jus' might be right... Nar, how about ya serve up thot fine smellin' fry, lad? I like me sausages well done an' tha bacon jus' crispy around tha edges – an' donnae ferget thot pot o' tea."
As an operative, you get used to being in uncomfortable situations.
And pretending to enjoy eating a full Irish breakfast while trying to remain calm as your girlfriend chats to her mother's priest as if it was old home week definitely qualified as an uncomfortable situation in the mind of the ex-spy.
"Yar mammy has been near outta har mind this las' two weeks, lass... Sick wit' worry fer ya, so she's been... Liam bein' away all tha time has nae helped either... She's been havin' nightmares about tha bad old days... About soldiers breakin' down tha doors. I seem ta remember ya used ta have a few o' those yarself when ya war a girl. Ye an' Claire taa, God rest har..."
Michael had nearly intervened as Fiona's face was almost grief stricken with guilt, but Father Conlon seemed to notice at the same time.
"Awww, it wasnae har thot told me thot. Ya know whot yar mother is like, taa proud ta admit she's scared o' anythin' thot one... It wa' yar Rosie ... Oh, an' har Sean is lookin' forward ta seeing yar head served up on a platter, young fella," he continued with a nod in Michael's direction.
"An' Seamus, why I had ham callin' me yesterday when he lost yar mam fer a few hours... Ya've put yar family through the wringer so ta have an' this nae the first time, is it me girl, whot with ya chasin' after Tommy O'Neill when yar sister wa' taken. Tis gonnae take a lot more than a simple sorry ta sort out this mess so tis."
Father Conlon had been informing Fiona on the mental state of her family in between mouthfuls of bacon, egg and sausage. Despite his momentary interest in information regarding the man who had attempted to murder them at the Coleraine's farm, the old priest's narrative was making the former covert operative more and more nervous. It was becoming very clear that the man who got to hear Maeve Glenanne's weekly confession had been involved in their lives much longer and was therefore far closer to his girlfriend's family than he had originally suspected.
But he should have known or at least discerned that all those years ago when Liam Glenanne relocated his mother and younger siblings far away from all the on-going troubles in the north that the newly appointed head of the family would have ensured the man his mother would rely upon for spiritual guidance and the protection of her immortal soul would be more than a random country preacher.
"So, Michael, I donnae mind tellin' ya, whotever yar faults, one thing is fer sure ya know how ta throw together a decent breakfast." Father Conlon pushed back his empty plate and smiled benevolently upon the younger man. "Nar, tis nae long 'til I have ta go an prepare fer morning prayers, so why don't we make a start wit' why tis Fiona's family is so against yar union?"
"Union?" Michael barred his teeth in a smile, designed to mask the sudden rise in his blood pressure.
Whether it's resisting interrogation in a foreign prison, fighting guerrilla forces in a tropical jungle, or being chased all over Ireland by a terrorist group's go to guy for torture and interrogation, it's just part of the job. What's harder to get used to is going into a situation you know little about. Just because you're exhausted doesn't mean you can stop looking out for trouble.
"Aye lad, fram whot Am hearin' tha pair o' ya have been livin' together fer nigh on a year. If tha family had wanted ya gone, ya'd be swimming wit' tha fishes already. So, surely given tha circumstances – – ya do intend doin' tha right thing by tha young lady carryin' yar child, dontcha?" The man's soft lilting brogue harden just a touch at her alleged fiance's apparent lack of enthusiasm for the prospect of marriage.
"Of course." Michael swallowed thickly. "I jus' thought this wa' gonna be more o' a chance fer Fiona ta make peace wit' har mam sorta thing."
Working an intelligence asset is part acting, part strategy. Some people don't have the talent and some people do.
"An' ya donnae think a weddin' would hasten tha peace process?" It was becoming more and more apparent that Liam Conlon would have made a great covert operative if he hadn't chosen to be become a man of God.
"We have spoken about marriage, haven't we, Fiona?" He turned to his beloved, hoping his unusually quiet partner in crime was ready to extract him from the trap he had blithely walked into; however, the petite redhead appeared to be more interested in pushing around the remains of the food on her plate than coming to his aid.
"But we war thinking we'd wait until we got settled somewhar first."
"Mmmm," Father Conlon nodded solemnly. "Thot wa' a good plan an' Am pleased ta know ya have given some thought ta yar predicament. But if ya truly want Fiona's family's blessin' then yer goin' have ta do more than talk about yar good intentions, yer goin' ta have ta show tham how committed ya ar' ta bein' wit' har an' lookin' after yar child."
Unlike criminals, spies are trained to work with their captors to negotiate their own release. In most cases, it simply requires staying calm, relaxed and being as helpful as possible... Of course it's a lot more difficult when the person sitting across from you is your girlfriend's family priest who's apparently intent on performing a marriage ceremony before tea time.
Michael closed his eyes and breathed in and out slowly, the voice of his CIA training officer sounding in his mind was not helping him remain clear headed. Father Conlon wasn't exactly his captor, even if under the old man's unwavering gaze it felt that way, not to mention the uncomfortable image of standing before the altar with the Glenanne boys lined up behind him, shotguns at the ready.
Opening his eyes, he reached out to the woman at his side and took hold of her hand. It was true they had discussed marriage albeit briefly before they had broken in and it wasn't all that long ago that he had as gone as far as promising her a honeymoon in Paris.
"Fi -" the younger man said, his voice was little more than whisper. "Fiona, is thot whot ya want?"
When she didn't immediately reply, Michael squeezed her hand tightly until with a grimace she raised her watery eyes to stare back at him.
Had she changed her mind, now she was so close to being reunited with her family? Especially after having been given a glimpse of what their future held? If life on the run with a baby was a scary prospect for him, it must be even worse for her.
"Fi, we – "
"Ah, Michael," the kindly father placed his own hand over the couple's entwined fingers. "I believe tha pair o' ya have things ya need ta talk about an' I have duties ta perform. So Am gonna leave ya ta yarselves fer an hour or two ta consider whot ya require fram me."
"We donnae need-" Now he had come to terms with the decision to wed, the former spy and one time confirmed bachelor was desperate to get an answer from his future mate.
"Thank ye, Father." Fiona finally found her voice, speaking over him. Her moisture filled blue-green eyes were shining as the sun filtered through the net curtains covering the kitchen window. "Tis more than enough time fer us ta have a proper talk."
()()()()()()()()
Meanwhile across the border in the North...
Sir Richard Chambers, career civil servant and for the last six months MI-6's head of covert affairs in Ireland, strode purposefully along the corridors inside Stormont Castle pointedly ignoring every person he passed.
Being woken up at one in the morning was all part of his job. He had accepted the inconvenience because it was part of his responsibilities, especially during such sensitive times as now with the chance of an everlasting peace between two countries at stake.
But after three hours on the phone with his opposite number in the CIA, who because of several breaches in their own security now wanted to go over every single aspect of the security he had personally organized throughout the whole of the peace talks, his opinion about where his duty lay had wavered just a bit.
A chap didn't like to think ill of the dead, after all it wasn't the done thing. But Sir Richard couldn't help but think that this whole debacle was the fault of Tom Card.
It was the American's lack of control over their asset Mason Gilroy which had brought down the US embassy's helicopter. Although he had only had the displeasure of having to deal with Michael Westen for six months, even he knew one did not paint that young man into a corner unless you wanted him to massively over react.
But if that hadn't been bad enough, the fool then went and forgot what country he is in and drove straight into oncoming traffic. Again, it had nothing to do with MI-6 that Tom Card had chosen to hire a car under a false flag and then had crashed said vehicle and yet somehow the Americans were trying their damnedest to place the blame at his front door.
Reaching his outer office, he swung open the heavy oak door and stepped inside. If three hours on the phone with SC Fickas hadn't been enough, the call from the Under-Secretary for the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland at five AM had certainly finished the job of ruining what had been left of his nights sleep.
"Caroline, that damned woman Mowlam wants to be personally read in on all the security arrangements for today's talks. Those blasted Americans-" He paused, pursing his lips while he reined in his temper. "I need to see every head of department in my office in -" he paused again, narrowing his eyes to look at his wrist watch. "Ten minutes."
"Sir..."
Half way through the door into his private office, Sir Richard came to a stop and turned to face his personal assistant, frowning when the older man spotted the thin blue folder she was holding out in his direction. "This had better be more important, Caroline. You know how I feel about bad news before my morning cup of tea."
"There has been several developments over night and this morning that you need to be made aware of... I did try your phone," she added as her superior snatched the document out of her hand.
"I had a very busy night," Chambers answered brusquely as his eyes quickly raked over the two photographs pinned to the front page. The first showed a car resting against the guard rail of what looked to be a mountain road somewhere on the continent from the direction the vehicle was facing. The second showed two bodies lying on the ground nearby, covered by a tarpaulin.
"What is this?" he demanded.
"An assassination, sir. Escarletta and Antonio Ortega...Thomas O'Neill's sister and her husband... The ETA's bomb-maker," Mrs. Carruther's elaborated when her boss continued to frown. "They were targeted while travelling towards San Sebastian in northern Spain. As you can see from the first photo, they were forced off the road, most likely by at least two vehicles. The Guardia Civil's preliminary report says though they believe a single gunman was responsible for finishing off the couple."
The younger woman hesitated and then almost reluctantly brought out another folder. "And then there is this... It may be connected. It just came in less than fifteen minutes ago. I haven't had time to verify the intel, but there are reports coming along the wire about an explosion outside Clonmel this morning."
Chambers growled under his breath as he opened the cardboard sleeve carrying the second unwanted bit of bad news.
"Three victims," Caroline continued. "But only one officially identified as of yet, one Martin McCullough of Waterford. However, one of the others has been unofficially identified as Thomas O'Neill. They've had the results in on one piece of DNA, but it was on a very small sample, not enough for confirmation. There's no information yet on the third victim. However, McCullough is a known associate of O'Neill's... The analysts upstairs are already linking the two events, so it could mean a resurgence-"
"I know exactly what it means, Ms Carruthers." At that moment, Sir Richard's day went from very bad to truly terrible.
The O'Neills though exiled to Spain had powerful friends within the Provisional IRA and if this was the opening salvo in a civil war amongst the rival Republican groups, it had the potential to end the prospects of peace in Ireland and most importantly end his career.
"Put back the meeting with the department heads. I need everything we have on O'Neill and his sister... Mowlam is bound to bring this up... Maybe this has more to do the Ortega's and the ETA... Have the analysts check that line too. We must cover every angle."
Finally, alone in his office, Chambers sat back heavily in his leather chair. Somehow he had to find a way to save the peace talks and his own reputation.
()()()()()()()()
Meanwhile back in the South, twenty five miles from where Michael and Fiona were discussing their future, someone else's fate had come to an unceremonious end.
In the mid-morning sunshine on a stretch of road outside the village of Lullymore, a young Garda officer climbed out of his yellow and blue liveried vehicle to join the middle aged man waiting for him besides a large green tractor.
"Mr. Brogan? Am Officer Hutchins, tha report said ya have found a stolen car?" He had already spotted the broken wall and fist sized stones scattered out into the road as well as into the neighboring field, but with the advice of his sergeant still ringing in his head, the newly appointed officer to the southern region of the traffic corps was determined to make a good impression on the sour faced man.
"Joseph Brogan is a tightfisted miser wit' tha sense o' humor o' a stone. But he is also tha Chief Inspector's brother in law. So my advice ta ya lad is be polite, but unless tha wreck in his field is part o' an on goin' investigation, file a report an' have done wit' it as quick as ya can. Wa're still short handed because o' thot bloody crash o'er near Lucan."
"Aye, thar tis, right in tha middle o' tha pasture I've got cows waitin' ta go on ta." Following the line of the older man's arm, Officer Hutchins frowned at the sight of the still smouldering carcass of a small car with its few remaining larger parts scattered over the farmer's prime grazing land.
"Well, whot are ya gonna do about it? I suppose ya want me ta wait a whole week until ya have had yar crime scene investigators climb all over it befer ya have it towed away, wrecking even more o' me pasture in tha process."
Sucking in a deep breath, Officer Hutchins considered what his immediate superior had said and about all the paperwork he would be stuck filling in for what looked likely would turn out to be nothing more than a stolen car dumped in a farmer's field by the young hooligans who had taken it for a joy ride... Not to mention what odious tasks the Chief Inspector might find for him to do for aggravating his relative and he quickly came to a decision.
"I donnae think anyone would be bothered if ya just towed it out an' broke it up, Mr Brogan." He almost blurted the words out, flushing red he rushed on. "Er, I mean, if ya donnae want ta wait fer me ta organize tha removal. It's obviously been sitting thar at least over night. If, er, if ya find a chassis number, it would be helpful if ya can call it in, but I would say thot fire has most likely removed any chance o' an identification."
"Ar' ya sure?" the land owner asked, his rather grim expression lightening at the realization he wasn't going to have his best grazing land taped off while an investigation took place.
"Aye, thar is nothin' har fer me ta do. Thank ya fer reporting it though." Shaking the farmer's hand, the young Gardai hurried back to his vehicle and, as he drove away, his thoughts were already on his next stop.
Left on his own, Mr. Brogan climbed over his broken down wall and followed the car tracks to the side of the wreck... He wa' goin' ta have ta bring in a trailer ta tow away tha car and then spend a good few hours pickin' up all tha parts litterin' tha ground.
Staring down at what had at one time been the driver's foot well, the metal posts which had once been the accelerator, brake and clutch pedals that were now nothing but clumps of melted steel, something caught the farmer's eye and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Reaching down with a trembling hand, the land owner gripped the handle of what was unmistakably the remains of a semi automatic pistol.
With his heart beating loudly in his chest, Mr. Brogan examined the weapon, totally useless now as all the parts had been welded into one by the extreme heat of the fire.
Had it nae been on tha news thot very morning, an explosion over in Clonmel thought ta be related ta terrorism? An' nar this... He raised his eyes to look about his top pasture, already covered in a thick layer of grass.
If he called the young officer back, his land would be taped off and he'd have men destroying the grass he relied on to feed his cows over summer.
Had he nae just been told he could do whot he liked wit' tha car? Wouldnae thot include anythin' he found in it? Tha gun had nothin' ta identify it... If tha wreck in his field wa' anythin' ta do wit' tha explosion in Clonmel, did he really wanta get involved?
Abruptly the farmer turned away, slipping the gun into his pocket and hurried back to his tractor. He'd bury the weapon somewhere far away from his field and break up the burnt out car just like the policeman advised him to do.
He wa' a simple farmer an' he wa' jus' doin' whot he war told ta.
()()()()()()()()
"Fiona, please, don't get angry at what I'm about to say, but if this... If talking with him about your family... If that's... if you've changed your mind about this, I really need to know."
As soon as Father Conlon closed the kitchen door, Michael McBride, the wild Irishman she had fallen in love with, had disappeared to be replaced by the spy Michael Westen, the man who against all odds had stolen her heart.
She could hear the underlining hurt in her lover's tone and she couldn't blame him for that. After all, she was the one who had insisted on them making the detour so she could attempt a reconciliation with her mother. They woulda been in France by now if it was nae fer her, living free at least fer a while instead o' holed up nae two miles fram har mammy's house an' some o' tha angriest men in Ireland.
"Fi, will ya at least talk ta me?" He was squatting down now, leaning forward, his hands on top of her thighs as his deep blue eyes stared up at her. The return of McBride's lilt a ploy on his part to gain her attention, at least it was in her opinion.
"I -" she stammered and then, feeling boxed in, Fiona pushed her own chair back and got to her feet. In an effort to give her hands something to do, she began to clean away the plates from the table, dropping them into the sink with a clatter until the dark haired man followed her, his hand wrapping around her bicep to bring her frantic flight about the room to a halt.
"We've talked about this... Maybe I didn't come straight out and propose exactly, but I thought we agreed. I thought this was what you wanted." The roughen skin of the palm of his hand stroked down her cheek, a calloused thumb tenderly wiped away a stray tear which trickled down the side of her nose.
"Tis not about whot we agreed, Michael." Stilling his hand with her own slim one, she leaned back against the counter top, her breaths coming deeper now as the young Irishwoman fought to control the whirlwind of emotions flowing through her mind.
Whot tha hell is wrong wit' me? One minute she had been so happy, everything had been going so well and then out of nowhere... She sniffed and wiped the back of her hand over her eyes. An' tha cryin'... Whot wa' it with all tha tears?
With a shudder, she looked up and, for the first time since they had sat down for breakfast, took a long look at her beloved's face. "Am sorry, Michael." Her lips quivered as she tried to smile. He looked so lost and confused, staring back at her as if she was possessed.
"Are you okay now?" he asked softly.
"No," she admitted. "I- I feel like Am all over tha place. Half tha time I donnae know if I should laugh or cry. An' Am goin' fram feelin' like I could eat a horse an' tha next minute tha mere smell o' meat makes me wanta throw up."
This time when her lover touched her, his arms wrapping about her shoulders to pull her into his body, Fiona didn't fight. Instead the slender redhead buried her face against his chest.
"Tis whot I want," his beloved whispered so quietly the ex-operative almost couldn't make out the words. "Tis whot I've always wanted. Befer I knew yar real name I loved ya an' befer thot, befer I shoulda, I trusted ya. Because even though ya turned out ya be a spy, I always felt like I've known yar heart."Her voice trembled as she made her confession. "But right nar I feel like am trappin' ya inta stayin', like yer gonna wake up one day, hating me, hating our babby cuz I forced this on ya, stole yar life fram ya. I cannae bear tha thought o' thot."
The petite paramilitary pulled away, her blue green eyes full of anguish and fear. "Is this whot ya want, Michael? Is this truly whot ya want?"
And now there was disbelief mixed with a profound sadness in his cobalt blue eyes as her lover stared back at her. "So you still think I'll leave you one day?"
"Thot's whot ya wa' about ta do, Michael. Not so long ago, ya wa' gonna drug me an' slip away inta tha night."
Suddenly released from his arms, Fiona looked startled, more so when she saw in his expression just how deeply her accusation had wounded him.
"But I didn't, Fiona. I stayed." Letting out a long sigh, he captured her hands in his. "We can't keep doing this, Fi, we're no good at this... And you know how I hate doing things I'm no good at. After what he'd said, I thought... well, I thought maybe you had changed your mind. I'm sorry if I misjudged you."
He gave her hands a gentle squeeze and looked at her with all the sincere love and adoration he could muster.
"I'm right where I want to be and I will always be right here. With you, with our baby... So, that's how I feel and now it's up to you to decide if you believe me."
For several seconds, neither moved as they gazed into each other's eyes. Fiona wanted to believe him, she wanted to believe that she had found her soul mate. Then Michael did the the one thing she never thought she would see. As the ex-spy dropped to one knee, she let out a gasp.
"Miss Fiona Glenanne, I have nothing to my name. No job, no money and I can't even guarantee being able to provide a roof over your head. Will you have me?"
With her heart pounding away as if ready to burst out of her chest, Ms. Glenanne pulled her man to his feet, her lips sealing against his before he could straighten up. Wrapping her arms about his neck, his lover deepened the kiss, her tongue running against his teeth until he surrendered completely.
When they finally broke apart, both struggling to catch their breaths, Michael smiled down at the only woman he would ever truly love.
"I take it thot means yes?"