A/N: Now we wrap up this portion of the pursuit of our fleeing lovebirds. They've left Fiona's family behind, but what lies ahead for our favorite couple? We thank everyone for their continued interest, for reading and reviewing, and make the usual apologies for taking so long. Fingers crossed, there should be a new chapter of Reconnecting ready for Valentine's Day… Please enjoy!
BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Forty One
You don't last long as a spy if you don't trust anyone. If you're looking over your shoulder to see who's coming after you, you can't see where you're going. Sometimes you just have to trust your gut.
"We've come ta tha end o' tha road, me dear ones. Tis time fer ya ta go."
At her aunt's softly spoken words of regret, Fiona's body seemed to go into lockdown mode, as if she were preparing to take a blow or a bullet. The physical reaction Michael knew was merely a reflection of her emotional turmoil, so he had tightened his grip and nuzzled her hair. But in response to his tenderness, his mercurial lover had reacted harshly, jerking her head away and attempting to pull from his hold abruptly. Momentarily confused, he had let her go.
Though there was barely any spare room on the cramped back seat to accomplish the task, she still managed to sit up quickly, her jutting hipbone stabbing him in the stomach as she shifted forward. Fiona leaned into the front seat and kissed first her mother and then her aunt, a very brief press of trembling lips to wrinkled cheeks, before hurriedly clamoring out of the backseat as if it were on fire.
The dark haired man scrambled out of the car without looking back to follow her, grateful that Claire had cut off her headlights before she had even fully stopped her car. The ex-operative knew it was Fiona's stock in trade to seek out an adrenaline rush to distract herself from whatever was troubling her, but he was not at all liking her willingness to walk headfirst into danger in order to put her tangled emotions behind her.
Scanning the area for the Volvo they have left concealed behind a low tangle of brush and shrubbery, even in the darkness Michael could make out tracks of another heavier vehicle proceeding away from the place Gerry Coleraine's pride and joy had been. He would not have been surprised to learn that Liam had had the car removed. He would've done the same. The American took a fraction of a second to hope that whoever had taken it, the auto would somehow find its way back to its owner.
Catching up to his fiancée, Michael reached for her arm and then attempted to slow her flight towards the dark van awaiting them just ahead. The road had widened slightly where they had hidden the other car; however, it was narrow on either side beyond their position with low stonewalls hemming in the roadway. The woods on either side left way too many places for people to hide in and shoot from. Unfortunately, the former paramilitary appeared oblivious to all this.
He grabbed her by the elbow but she shook him off angrily, her sharp appendage aimed towards his still healing ribs. Michael was pretty sure she'd only meant it as a warning, but he maintained a safe distance between them nonetheless.
"Slow down, Fi," he hissed.
"Tis all right," she assured him but in a terse tone. "I recognize the van, tis the auld farmer's who lives down tha road fram me mam's house."
Michael's gaze shifted from trying to look out for all the dangers potentially coming at them from the dense underbrush to the old Ford Transit van that was more mud, manure and rust than actual metal in composition sitting on the side of the road in front of him. While Fiona may have indeed recognized the vehicle, the former agent wasn't entirely convinced of that fact at that particular moment. While he had to admit, it did appear to be an awfully unique auto, that didn't guarantee that the owner was in fact the driver or its only occupant.
The one-time terrorist skirted the double doors at the back of the van, which was not so quietly pouring smoky emissions into the cold Irish night, and reached out to grab the handle of the sliding door. Snatching her hand away forcefully before she could open the slider, the ex-operative pushed his pregnant girlfriend forward so that she was able to see through the glass of the passenger front door, as the vans sides had no windows at all, without being completely in the line of fire.
"Git in nar," the old man behind the steering wheel said, punctuating his point with a harsh cough.
Fiona stamped on Michael's toes and then reached back to fling the door open before he could stop her. With an irritated I-told-you-so clearly on her face, the petite Irishwoman stepped into the empty space in the back of the van, the thirty plus year old auto dipping on one side as she entered.
Giving the surrounding area one last quick glance, the rogue spy took a much larger stride into the back, unsure if the edge of the opening would actually hold his weight, and then shut the sliding door quickly but without excessive force. Settling onto a large smelly horse blanket in the middle of the dirty, hay strewn interior of the open cargo space, Michael noticed the only light was coming from the dashboard. The windows set into the rear doors had been covered with black plastic garbage bags and duct tape from the inside. As such, he heard rather than saw the Skoda Favorit drive past them until it was visible through the front windshield.
Their driver said not a word, merely put the vehicle into drive to the sound of grinding gears and then their transportation to their final destination on the Emerald Isle began to rumble forward, the noise and the vibrations increasing as the antique van picked up speed. As they paced the smaller dark red estate car ahead, the couple rode in silence, close but not touching while they wound their way through the narrow country lanes until the road widened.
"Naw ya donnae, auld gal, tis nae yet time ta go home yet…" the driver intoned while he corrected where he had started to drift towards a turnoff onto a gated farm track off to the right and began to confirm Michael's suspicion that they were headed back towards Maeve's home in Manor Kilbride.
A quick glance at the expression on his lover's face confirmed that she knew where they were too.
His paranoia spiked, as they could have easily been taking them back to the family compound in order to separate them, but it had lasted only for a moment. It had been made clear that Maeve's only girl was in danger as well as the lives of her kinfolk if she stayed. He presumed they would not send her off alone, although that didn't guarantee he would be the one accompanying her into exile.
Fiona was quiet, staring straight ahead as if she were straining to catch a glimpse of her mother's house hidden somewhere in the night. Michael wondered again if she'd change her mind when the hard reality of her choice became manifest, as it was nearly too late to reverse. But the dark haired man shook the thought off just as fast as it had come too. They'd settled this… he'd settled this… in Father Conlon's kitchen. Once they were out of Ireland and on the run again, he was going to be asking her to trust him implicitly, so he needed to trust her feelings for him as well.
"Ya told me I had ta trust ya, but ya don' trust me! I cannae shed a tear from what's left behind wit'out ya tryin' ta drop me back home? Am pregnant, Michael, God help me, I don' wanna, but Am gonna cry, so ya might as well get used ta it. Ar' ya gonna try ta take me back ta me mammy every time Am sad an' missin' har or has this all jus' got ta real fer ya?"
He couldn't doubt her every time she was sad or unhappy, as the woman who had stolen his heart had so rightly pointed out early on in their flight from her family. She was an ex-paramilitary and raised in the violence and chaos which had made her remarkably strong and capable and he knew that. But he also knew she was out of her element, dealing with the loss of her resources as well as her family with a hefty amount of pregnancy hormones and that was a dangerous mix…
The redhead choked back a sob as the older estate car carrying the elderly queens of the clan turned off onto the road that would take its occupants to the Georgian mansion her mammy called home and Michael reached for her hand, attempting to offer solace for her loss, until that hand turned to a fist that connected with his upper arm hard enough to draw a pained grunt from him in response.
But he also needed to remember that Fiona liked to hit things when she was hurting…
Trying to increase the space between them and get out of her reach, he shuffled back and into a large canvas bag, which he had previously disregarded as belonging to the driver. As the Skoda Favorit disappeared into the darkness, the former agent realized that the sound he was hearing over the dull drone of their transportation was not just the auto in front of them. Another vehicle was behind them as well and he was temporarily distracted, attempting to determine if there was pursuer or protector behind them.
But as the kilometers passed and whoever was back there came no closer, Michael decided it was most likely a car full of men who were making sure that Liam Glenanne's wishes were being carried out… which hopefully didn't include dumping his dead body somewhere in a remote loch when they arrived at the final stop…
As the road began to wind its way through the Wicklow Mountains, the rogue spy became curious enough about what might be in the luggage to risk attracting his pregnant girlfriend's ire again.
"Fi… is this nae tha carry all we got Rosie an' Sean fer Christmas?" he asked quietly.
The resurrection of McBride's accent caused a flash of emotion across her face that Michael had trouble discerning in poor light of the van's interior, but Fiona hadn't hurt him… yet… which was a plus, as he did not need to alert the old man upfront that he was an American by speaking in his own voice. The not so lithe woman turned towards him and then leaned down to inspect the bag.
"Aye, tis so…" she agreed, biting her lip and the faux Irishman was fairly certain that she was remembering the same thing she was… the curiosity on her brother's face at the large present swathed in yards of deliberately garish wrapping paper…the bewilderment of his young blonde bride as she unwrapped it and then the couple's mutual blush as Fiona had informed them it was a proper bag that would hold all the clothes they would need for their now long overdue honeymoon.
"They left it fer ya… yar family…" the elderly neighbor advised, his rough voice and forward position making it hard to hear over the roar of the engine as the long suffering farm vehicle was tasked with climbing higher up the mountainside. "Thar's a torch back thar somewhar…"
While his lover looked for the aforementioned flashlight, patting around the space in the darkness, Michael took their driver's momentary talkativeness as an opportunity to attempt to get some intel.
"Beggin' yar pardon, sur, but would ya be knowin' how much longer until we get thar?"
"Yer about halfway thar nar, son… Twill be about as long as we've already come."
"Thank ya," Michael said sincerely. That one sentence had given him considerable hope. First off, the man driving was most definitely not one of Liam's men nor a trained operative, which made it all the more likely that he was indeed exactly who Fiona thought he was. Second, based on what he had already seen and where he thought they were, then their most likely destination was Newcastle Aerodrome near the sea… Interpol had had quite a lot to say about that particular airstrip.
The rogue spy was distracted from his calculations by a weak beam of illumination flaring to life, back lighting the petite woman holding it as she moved closer to the heavy canvas object and reached for the sturdy zipper. "Hold this," she snapped, pushing the flashlight towards him before pulling at the carry all with both hands in her hurry to examine the contents.
"Tis Rosie's bag…these ar' har clothes an' some o' Sean's taa…?" Her mood shifted again abruptly and her confusion was clear but brief. "They've packed fer us…?"
"Am sure twas Rose," he finished as Fiona's voice drifted off while she pulled her sister in law's jeans and several loose tops out to sit them in her lap. Of all the Glenannes, Sean's wife had been his biggest supporter in the family, practically campaigning for his acceptance for Fiona's sake.
The young blond was roughly Fiona's height but definitely curvier than his beloved; however, it no doubt would be a great blessing for his pregnant girlfriend to get into something substantially less constricting. As she continued to sift through the contents, Michael was relieved and grateful that there was something there for himself as well. Even though Sean was approximately his build, the Irishman was slightly shorter and not quite as slim either.
But he didn't really care because he was certain they would feel and smell better than what he'd been wearing for the three days since Cathy Coleraine had last done their laundry. Washing up at the family priest's place had helped, but clean clothes and a fresh start would help things along nicely.
"I donnae how Am gonna keep har things fram fallin' off me," Fiona complained and her lover realized that she was referring to the undergarments in the bag, as well as covering her emotions with a waspish temperament, which he wisely chose not to exacerbate by keeping his distance.
However, the dark haired man couldn't resist taking the pictures tucked into the end closest to him before his surly beloved to get her hands on them. No need to upset her more than she already was.
"Give tham ta me," Fiona demanded. "I saw whot ya did. Am nae stupid."
"I have nae ever said ya war, luv, I jus' donnae think –"
"Thot's right, ya donnae think." She held her hand out imperiously, waiting for him to obey.
Michael reluctantly surrendered the snapshots, watching her reaction while trying to get a better look at the prints. This proved to him that Rosanna had indeed packed for them. Liam would never have allowed such dangerous things to find their way into the hands of fleeing fugitives had he been in charge of preparing their 'going away' package.
"Oh, Michael…"
There were three photographs… one of him and Fiona at St Augustine Parish Hall, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, happiness shining from her eyes as well as her wide smile at Peter's christening. They had both been more than a little inebriated at the festivities and later he had awoken with a bad hangover after he had apparently passed out between her sticky naked thighs…
Another had been of the entire family, himself included, gathered around the lavishly decorated tree this past Christmas… the last holiday he had been welcomed into Clan Glenanne with open arms. They were all there, Liam and Colin, Sean and Rosanna with their infant and toddler as well as Seamus and Belle and their large brood ranging from diapers to grammar school… and at the center of it all was Maeve and Claire with the latter's mother, the formidable Fionulla Glenanne.
The last image was of himself lying on the couch at Rose and Sean's house, shirtless and sleeping, a large bandage covering his upper left arm and shoulder… a two-year old's small body and blonde curls draped over him, a tiny hand alongside his slack jaw…? He remembered how he'd gotten hurt and how he'd gotten stitched up… but sometime after he'd blacked out from the tranquilizers and the pain, apparently their oldest daughter Sian must have crawled onto his chest and gone to sleep.
"I remember thot," she whispered. "I'd gone ta tha car an' Rosie had jus' snapped thot when I came back in…" Fiona bit her lip and sniffled. "Ya war always so nervous around tham, Peter an' Sian, when we war watchin' tham, but Jaysus, thot little girl loved ya, Michael… D'ya think we'll—"
Her question trailed off as he reached over to take the pictures from her. Fiona snatched her hand back, cradling the precious mementos to her chest.
"Fi..." he entreated.
She shook her head in denial, setting her mouth in a hard thin line.
He wanted to tell her that she couldn't take the photographs with her, that they would have to be burned along with their old clothing once they had changed and left the van and Ireland behind.
"I'll put 'em in me field jacket," she declared in a low and dangerous voice that he had learned long ago meant serious trouble.
He wanted to tell her that it would endanger them and her family if they were ever found, that they couldn't take the risk… that the potential liabilities outweighed the perceived rewards.
"Fi…Luv, please," he tried again, keeping his tone soft and cajoling. "Ya- hold on a tick, thar's sommit written on tha back..."
Moving slowly, clearly telegraphing his intentions, his large hand encompassed her smaller one and then gently turned her wrist until the back of the photographs were within her line of sight.
He wanted to tell her that having those pieces of the past would only make it hurt more, make it harder to move onto the future, that her old life was best left completely behind.
Fiona read through the words on each one, speaking to herself in a broken whisper and he couldn't really understand what she was saying, although he could tell she was speaking Gaelic. Her voice faltered completely as she read the inscription on the back of the last snapshot and then she cried.
The spy that he was wanted to tell her all those things…But the man that loved her held onto his fiancée while she soaked his dirty plaid shirt with salt water, kissed her forehead affectionately and wiped away her tears with his thumbs before softly brushing his lips over hers. Then he spent the rest of the ride to their awaiting plane figuring out how to hide those precious pictures in his belt.
()()()()()()
While Michael Westen was busy thinking about concealing a few treasured photographs, Liam Glenanne was resting a shoulder against the rear entrance of Sir Richard Chamber's government supplied home, waiting for the heavily armed soldier standing outside to move off on his patrol of the grounds.
As he stood and waited, his mind went back over his last conversation with his over cautious sibling and mother hen of a bodyguard. He'd had a hard time getting his younger brother to understand that his plan was nearly as fool proof as it could be when breaking into the home of the highest ranking member of British intelligence on the Emerald Isle, but it seemed like lately all his family did was oppose his wishes.
When ya've spent tha last fifteen years earning yar livin' chasin' down enemies o' tha Cause, ya get ta be a bit o' an expert about tha various ways o' capturin' a building. I think I know whot Am doing. As a matter o' fact, little brudder, one o' tha most effective techniques I have found tis officially known as tha 'Hammer an' Anvil.' Davy thar remembers how thot one goes…
First, yar team surrounds tha house or structure yer plannin' ta take, sealing off all exits. Then on a signal, ya all enter fram all points at once, sometimes quickly and quietly an' sometimes wit' shouts an' violence. But nae matter whot, tha goal is always tha same: ta find tha target fast enough ta avoid a stand-off or a fire-fight. Tis hard ta interrogate yar target if tha man's dead or escaped through an unguarded window. Twill also work with this particular target as long as we can get his security looking tha wrong way.
Normally he wouldn't have bothered to give Colin such a detailed explanation of his logic for his approach to the former hunting lodge that housed his hated enemy, but on that occasion he'd found it useful to review his strategy as a means of cooling his temper in preparation for the assault.
Twill easy fer me ta wait fer tha response ta cousin Ryan's security specialist takin' over all tha camera's inside Sir Richard Chambers home an' then sneak in behind all tha troopers sent ta investigate tha sudden dip in power.
Colin and Davy both had tried to talk their employer/older sibling out of making the entrance personally and alone, but it had been his home that had been violated and Jeannie made to suffer. These were extraordinary times that called for extraordinary measures.
Ya think getting away would nae be so easy, well ya'd be wrong, cuz another thing I learnt when huntin' people who donnae want ta be taken is thot fer tha most part security devices ar' generally one-way. They keep people in or keep them out. Most high-security devices ar' a lot less secure if ya come at tham backwards.
The Irishman remained totally calm as he continued to wait. He was an expert at reading people and he was in no doubt that even though the spymaster hated him with a passion and would enjoy nothing more than seeing the man who had threatened to murder his wife hanging from the nearest tree, Sir Richard Chambers would do the sensible thing and put all his own hatred aside to do what was best for the country he served regardless of how much it stuck in the Englishman's throat doing it.
Tha man has nae choice. Ta do anything else would risk tha peace process, destroy careers an' most likely reignite tha civil war thot's been raging fer tha last thirty years. Liam knew the other man had as much to lose as he had and more. Target selection wa' tha most important part o' tha operation.
Soon the Irishman's patience was rewarded and the guard moved away from the door to walk the perimeter and as he moved off, the PIRA premier interrogator slowly opened the back door and slipped outside. Following silently in the sentry's wake, it was only a matter of seconds before he reached the high stone wall and made his escape.
Once on the street, the head of clan Glenanne pulled the collar of his coat up and walked swiftly along the pavement as if he hadn't a care in the world. As he passed by the black panel van holding the security expert and all his toys, Liam banged once on the side as a signal that all was well and it was time to go and then continued on his way to where he had left his own transport.
Nearing the vehicle, he slowed as he realised there was already an occupant inside. Retrieving his handgun from the pocket of his coat, Liam approached cautiously, only relaxing when he realized it was his personal bodyguard Davy Doyle.
Slipping into the passenger seat, he glared at his life-long friend. "Whot ar' ya doin' har?"
"Backing up yar arse," Doyle growled back. "Whot tha hell war ya thinkin' stickin' ya head inta tha lion's mouth wit'out a team at tha ready ta pull ya out?"
"I thought we'd talked about this a'ready, I told ya I donnae need a babby sitter, Dave. If ya remember, I've been doin' this sorta stuff fer nigh on fifteen years."
"Aye an' how many times have ya gone after a target all by yarself?" Doyle scolded his boss. "Ya've been out on yar own more in tha last two weeks than ya have in tha last two decades."
Liam snorted derisively. "I hadda job thot wa' mine ta do an' tis done nar. He'll do tha right thing."
"See, ya're nae even thinkin' about tha rest o' us. Whot about me? Whot would've happened ta me if I have ta tell yar mam or Jeannie I warn't there when ya went off an' got yarself killed or arrested?"
The two men chuckled lowly and Liam settled back in his seat. "Well nar ya hare, ya can drive me straight ta tha airport an' on tha way ya can fill me in on whot's been happening."
Without a word, Davy put the large luxury car into gear and set off at a sedate speed along the tree lined suburban streets. "Thar is a road block on Woodstock Road, which I take ya would like ta avoid, so AM gonna take tha North road an' get on ta tha by-pass -"
"Jus' as long as we get back befer me flight is due," Liam interrupted his friend, his eyes narrowing at Doyle's sudden desire to keep him informed on minor details of their journey, especially when there were far more important things he should have been talking about. "Ya war about ta tell me about whot I've missed."
"Okay then, Colin has given me a whole load a messages ta pass on. Jeannie made har flight an' she said ta let ya know she'll be waitin' at the airport fer ya tomorrow morning. He's also heard fram thot girl ya had sent round ta keep Frankie Duggan outta tha way; she's done har job. Tha fecker is lying in a hotel room stoned outta his head an' she's off ta make har fortune in London. So when tha cops or any o' tha other interested parties turn up ta ask whar he wa' when a warehouse got blown up, he's nae gonna have an alibi worth a shite."
Liam nodded thoughtfully, the girl, a high end escort from a brothel run by the PIRA, had been lured away from the Belfast streets with a promise of cash and a one-way ticket to London to keep the CIRA Sergeant at Arms out of sight while the missiles were being stolen. With no alibi and witnesses claiming one of the thieves was named as Mad Frankie Duggan, the man who had threatened his cousin Ryan was looking at a very short future.
"I take it Shay has called in?"
"Aye, he has, a coupla a hours ago. Everythin' went like clockwork, much ta Sean's disgust. Apparently yar little brother did nothin' but bitch tha whole time about tha way Shay runs things, nuttin' new thar, heh? He also wanted ya ta know he's had a word wit' Sean an' he's agreed ta take Rosie away. They're off ta Madrid fer a coupla weeks an' when they get back he said about maybe takin' har an' tha kids over ta visit har family fer a while."
"Good, I donnae want thot girl anywhare near when Dessie McGarry comes callin'," the eldest muttered lowly. While Isabelle had been campaigning for her younger in laws to get a chance of a proper honeymoon, the head of the family had been more concerned about keeping his brother's young wife from coming face to face with the dreaded Taxman.
Thinking about the legendary interrogator brought Liam's thoughts back to his original question about how his bodyguard's evening had gone.
"Talkin' o' McGarry, how did -?"
"Oh, befer I ferget," Davy interrupted his employer. "Yar auntie Claire called me personally. She didnae want ta bother Colin, but yar mammy is heartbroken at Fiona leavin', so she's takin' har over ta stay wit' some relatives in Scotland til she's feelin' better. I thought ya wouldnae mind, I mean they cannae get into much trouble over thare can they?"
"Donnae count on it," Liam grumbled, his mind instantly going to their previous exploits during an afternoon visit to a Naas tea shop. One man poisoned an' another shot an' then blown up... Twas like they war determined ta relive thar past. Hopefully, tha pair o' tham could manage ta stay outta mischief until his mam got over har grief. Am nae sure if I could take watchin' thot again.
"Ahh, Am sure they've got all thot outta thar systems nar... Claire also said ta let ya know Fi and McB—er, Westen ar' on thar way."
Liam nodded thoughtfully. It was too soon to have heard from the team he had instructed to follow the old farmer and his van to make sure his 'cargo' arrived at Newcastle Aerodrome without any trouble. He knew what the duo thought was in the van given its final destination. The fewer people who knew his sister and her Yank spy boyfriend were just now on their way out of Ireland the better.
If McGarry somehow managed ta catch up wit' tham, all they could tell him is what they knew, which wa' nuttin'… They ran cover fer Shay's shipments outta thot airfield all tha time.
"Ya wa' telling me about-"
"Right, Shay is gonna keep an eye on yar mammy's while makin' it look like business is usual, at least fer him. Col says he'll get tha house secure an' keep up on information gatherin' while I watch over tha businesses... I'll be callin' ya everyday an' I promise I will do me best nae ta bankrupt ya while yer enjoying sun, sea an' ah, relaxin'."
Davy took his eyes off the road just long enough to send his childhood friend a knowing grin, before turning back to his job of keeping the powerful car on the road.
Liam flushed at the other man's comment, but didn't let his friend's attempt at humor throw him off. His most trusted employee and best friend was doing his best not to talk about whatever had happened and that made him nervous.
Staring ahead, gazing at the bright city lights and the crowds on the streets, mostly drunks on their way home from a night drinking in the abundance of bars and clubs, it wasn't going to be long now before they would be arriving at George Best Airport and he would be on his way out of the country.
If something had gone wrong...
"So how did it go wit' Detective Inspector Alan Keysoe?" he finally asked directly.
Doyle swallowed hard. "It went as ya expected. We picked ham up easy enough. I had a little talk wit' ham, tol' ham how disappointed ya war with ham... It dinnae take long fer tha bastid ta spill tha beans. Tha woman is a CIA agent, goes by tha name o' Olivia Riley. She told ham if he refused har requests, she wa' goin' ta see ta it tha counter terrorism squad got a copy o' his secret bank account. Tha one which gets weekly payments fram an offshore numbered account."
Liam blinked slowly. So thot wa' how tha bitch had gotten ta a man who had previously been completely loyal ta his provo paymasters.
"And?" he prompted when his henchman failed to continue his tale.
"And... after I made sure he knew nothin' about McBri- I mean Westen, I called Val ta let ham know we had tha man he wanted ta speak ta... And ten minutes later, Des McGarry walked in."
"Ya've met wit' tha Taxman?"
"Aye an' I can tell ya, he's nae a happy man. He had quite a bit ta say about ya killin' tham two in Mallow an' tha way ya left tha place. Thar wa' a few minutes thar I thought he wa' plannin' on takin' out his disappointment on me an' tha lads..."
Pausing, Doyle took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly. The fact that his man, who had been witness to how he went about punishing traitors to the PIRA cause, seemed so disturbed by one meeting with the legendary "Taxman" sent Liam's own paranoia rocketing... He hadn't factored in that they might bring in someone like Dessie McGarry.
Had he made a massive tactical error trying to trick the Provo council?
"Jesus, Davy whot is up wit' ya? Tis like tryin' ta draw blood fram a stone," Liam snapped at his premier enforcer. "Get on wit' it."
"I will, Jesus, give us a chance… Anyway, after tha wee bastid finished informin' me on whot would happen tha next time any one o' us got in his way, he turned around an' as calm as ya like shot Keysoe in both knees an' thot wa' jus' tha start o' it…" Davy ran the tip of his tongue over his suddenly dry lips before continuing.
"He tore thot poor bastid ta pieces wit'out askin' ham a single question. He said tha great Liam Glenanne had already gotten ham all tha answers he needed." Doyle wiped a hand across his forehead.
"He wa' makin' a point. He's warnin' me ta back off," Liam answered softly. "Whot happened next?"
"After he finished up, he said he'd leave us ta tidy up. As we're so good at it an' all… So I, er, burnt whot wa' left o' ham after thot bloody bastid left."
"Well, thot could have gone worse…" his boss muttered, thinking through the meaning of it all.
"But when Keysoe donnae turn up fer his next shift, suspicion is gonna fall all on us... I mean everyone in tha station knows who he arrested an' a fair few are gonna know who helps pay tha mortgage on his fancy flat in tha city center." His henchman's words reminding him of a more immediate problem.
Liam sighed heavily. "I woulda done tha same thing. While yer busy cleanin' up McGarry's mess, ya cannae get in his way..." he trailed off momentarily before finding the answer he needed.
"Get Colin ta empty Keysoe's bank accounts. Buy a ticket for a flight out ta someplace in his name. We'll make it look like he's gone inta hidin'. It still might bring some heat down on us, but thar'll be nothin' they can prove. Did McGarry say anythin' else?"
"Nae much, he's on his way ta visit wit' tha McCulloughs... Oh an' he wanted ta know whot I knew about Fiona's whereabouts... I told ham whot ya said, thot she an' McBride took off fer France and thot's all we know."
"Good... I have a bank job goin' down tomorrow usin' Fi's own explosive. In fact, Marty said thar is enough o' tha mix ta do at least another ten jobs... Have a word wit' Ryan tomorrow an' tell him ta get his gang over ta France an' join tham thar. Tell ham they can keep all they steal fer thamselves... Thot should stop me cousin whining about all tha money his lost... Is thar anythin' else thot needs sortin'?" They were nearly at the airport and he was runnin' out of time to finish wrapping things up.
"Nothin' I cannae handle... Me brother wa' askin' whot ya wanted done about tha Volvo. He's gonna give it a service tomorrow. I'll have it dropped back at tha farm when Joey is ready ta come home. Oh, an' I forgot ta tell ya, Claire asked about Connor O'Toole, she said yar mam wanted ta know whot ya gonna do fer his widow an' kids."
Liam closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "His wife, whot wa' har name? Sheila?" He tried to place the woman he had only met a couple of times. "She keeps horses, does she nae...?"
An idea was forming, but it would have to wait until he was back and the dust had settled.
"Let har know we'll pay fer tha funeral an' anythin' else she needs. Tell har when she's ready she should come an' see me."
The Coleraines were obviously in dire need of help if they were to live out their days at the farm and Sheila O'Toole would be in need of a job where she could keep her family and horses fed. And it wouldn't hurt to have someone friendly to the Glenanne family keeping watch on who came calling on the elderly couple... Whether the old man's pride would let him accept a housekeeper was another matter for another day.
They were at the drop off point outside the airport entrance. "Anything else?"
"Marcus Dwyer called an' he'll be hare tomorrow, said he wa' sorry he wa' gonna miss ya."
"He's hare ta talk shop wit' Shay an' see Robyn on har way... he dinnae need ta bend me ear. Has he got thot covered? Tha last thing I need is McGarry getting' his hands on thot girl."
"He's got it, boss. His oldest boy Pat will be takin' his new girlfriend over fer a visit ta New York."
Liam chuckled. Dwyer could talk about nuttin' fer hours on end, but the man knew his business.
Getting out of the car, the head of clan Glenanne pulled a small bag out from the boot and then checked that he had his passport and ticket in the name of Charles Oliver. Turning towards his right hand man, he narrowed his pale blue grey eyes, looking for any hint that Doyle was holding back.
"Are ya sure thot's it? Have ya heard anythin' fram Armand?"
"Same as before, his people will take charge o' Fi an' Westen at Newcastle. Said sommit about providing some extra discreet security ta make sure they weren't troubled boarding tha plane."
"Good, whot about Jamsey an' Donald? If McGarry is on his way, ya need ta tell tham thot they best have come home already."
"They're on thar way. They said the McCoulloghs war real agreeable ta the story they war ta tell tha Gard or anyone else thot asks. Thar boy Marty ran off wit' thot crazy bastid Tommy O'Neill an' all they know is Marty, Tommy an' nar Kev ar' all dead… Tis a terrible tragedy. The Mrs cannae quit bawlin' Jamsey said an' they convinced tha old man he shot somebody important when he blasted a hole in poor Dyl… He's taa worried about ending up shot dead an' thrown in tha cesspit himself ta go taa far off script. Go on, then, man, an' get on yar plane. Des'll get nothin' useful outta those two."
Liam nodded. The arrival of the dreaded Taxman would only reinforce the story and the senior McCoullogh's fear that he had accidently murdered someone he shouldn't have. Either McGarry would believe them or he wouldn't and he'd kill them… Either way it worked fer ham.
I still need ta call Val Temple an' let ham know Am off on holiday… The PIRA interrogator chuckled internally. Thot should sell me story better than any o' it… Val will nae believe thot Am off on a vacation if thar wa' anythin' afoot… Twill keep us all outta tha Taxman's way whilst he's chasin' his tail… It wasn't very far from the truth that he needed some time away to come to grips with what the youngest had done to the family all for the love of a bastard American spy, so he wouldn't have to sell it all that hard. Thot an' tha upcoming uproar at tha peace talks should cover his back.
"Donnae worry, boss," Doyle assured him. "I've got this covered. I wonnae let tha world burn – "
"Fi's already set it afire," Liam countered. "Feck it, I sent har on har way wit' tha bastid like she wanted an' done all I can ta keep it fram bitin' all o' us in tha ass. She's on har own nar."
The older man laid a hand on his long-time friend's shoulder. "Ferget about Fiona, at least fer now. Thar tis nothin' more ya can do fer har anyway...Ya should be thinkin' more about doin' sommit nice fer Jeannie. Thot woman is a saint fer puttin' up wit' yar shite, ya know."
"Aye," his employer agreed. "So she is… I best be gettin' on befer I miss me plane."
And even as he walked away from his personal bodyguard and despite his best efforts to center his thoughts on the woman who would be picking him up at the airport not soon enough, Fiona's eldest brother couldn't help but take a moment to grieve privately for the loss of his remaining little sister.
She'd always been a bit o' a pain in tha arse. Even as a babby, she'd been demandin' an' determined ta get har own way. Screamin' at tha top o' har lungs whenever their da went off on one his jobs an' god help anyone who tried takin' away her favorite toys, like thot bloody Teddy Bear soft toy thot eventually fell apart fram being dragged everywhare... Nae wonder Shay wanted ta shoot holes in it...The PIRA enforcer smiled at the memories of his flame haired sister as he handed over his faux passport and ticket to the young woman at the Aer Lingus departure desk.
Passing through the immigration gates, he picked up his single piece of luggage after it had cleared through the scanner and made his way over to the nearest cafeteria to grab a coffee while waiting for the call to board his flight.
She was gone now, fer good an' he wasnae quite sure how he felt about it... He'd only ever wanted har ta be safe an' happy. He remembered watching his little sister over the years, most of the boys she had dated had never lasted long. He'd hoped when Shay had set har up on a date wit' Armand Andreani thot thot relationship would last. But is wasnae ta be... once she'd discovered tha true horror o' whare some of his weapons wa' used... Andreani should a never sent har ta negotiate a deal in Serbia.
Pursing his lips, he picked up the cup of black coffee the waitress had set before him and sipped on the hot bitter brew, quickly pushing away any thoughts about Fiona's reaction when she learned who was providing her passageway out of Ireland. As the heated liquid warmed his throat, he thought instead about the man she had given up everything what he had learned of Michael Westen and especially from what he had witnessed over the last two weeks Liam had to reluctantly admit the spy was certainly dedicated to his asset. There was no doubt Westen loved Fiona, at least he did at the moment. But was that love strong enough to survive what was to come?
"Jeannie whot are ya doin'?" The shapely blonde he had know all his life finished closing the living room curtains and turned to face him, one hand slowly unbuttoning her blouse. The predatory glint in her eyes holding his attention as much as her softly spoken words. He was twenty five years old and had just finished his first job for the PIRA.
"I want ta be wit' ya... I know ya have already said it will nae work, thot ya donnae want a relationship, thot bein' wit' ya is taa dangerous.. Thot ya will never be able ta give me a normal relationship... But I donnae care about tha danger or any o' tha other stuff ya had ta say."
The soft silk blouse fell to the floor as she came to a stop before him, her arms raising up to slip over his shoulders and about his neck. "I love ya Liam Glenanne and because o' thot, nothin' else matters... None us know whot tha future will bring, but one thing Am sure of is thot whatever comes along, we can face it together."
The PIRA enforcer shuddered as he remembered the night he had finally accepted that Jeannie Marie Donahue wasn't going anywhere.
Wa' it tha same fer Fiona an' har man? It seemed thot way, she had certainly made it clear how much tha spy meant ta her, an' Westen, he had burnt all his bridges... The two men found beaten close to death outside their Dublin flat, the agent Westen had killed in the forest... And most telling of all, the blowing up of that helicopter outside Waterford. Tha spy's masters would nae fergive tha deaths o' so many.
Finishing the strong hot brew, Liam turned to study the information board, his eyes settling on the call to board the flight for Fuerteventura. It wa' time ta go... He had ta trust his little sister knew whot she wa' doin'... Thar wa' nuttin' he could do fer her nar, as Davy had reminded him...
He rose up out of the chair and picked up his bag. Wit' that relationship potentially out in tha open nar, thanks ta thot black haired bitch, maybe it wa' time he did whot wa' right by Jeannie...
Showing his boarding pass and passport to the man on the gate, he joined the other passengers on the late night flight moving slowly towards the plane doors. Tha family wa' splintered, mournin' fer tha loss o' their last girl. They all needed sommit ta bring tham back together, mabbe a small, very discrete weddin' would help repair tha damage...
Finding his seat, he stowed his bag away and sunk down into the cramped seat next to the window.
"Jaysus, now I know Am wrecked," Liam thought wryly. "I'll be leavin' thot alone until Am sure we'll be comin' out tha other side in one piece." Maybe there was a happily ever after waiting out there for himself and his little sister, but knowing the luck of their family, it could be awhile before they got it.
()()()()()()()
When you work in intelligence, the worst feeling in the world is knowing nothing, being caught up in something you don't begin to understand. Because it's not the enemy you see that gets you. It's the one you don't.
The couple at the center of all the controversy on both sides of the Atlantic sat almost motionless, which was difficult given the swaying of their antique mode of transportation, as the old Ford Transit van made the final left turn onto the road leading into Newcastle Aerodrome. If anything, Michael became stiffer as what he assumed was the office swung into view through the windshield.
The American operative relaxed marginally once the lumbering vehicle angled to the right and proceeded past the large Quonset marked Skywest Aviation and continued on to the farthest of the two large hangars set next to a long airstrip that ended the rogue spy knew at the shoreline of the Irish Sea. Ghostly outlines of small prop planes that were parked next to the half-moon shaped grey buildings were barely visible and other light aircraft lay ahead, dimly lit by the van's headlights.
The hangar doors were only opened enough to admit them and then closed behind them with a metallic rumble and bang that made his beloved jump and shook her out of her seeming paralysis.
Michael could see the aircraft ahead in the middle of the vast unlit empty space, a sleek white jetliner with a pair of heavily armed men dressed all in black paramilitary uniforms standing before it, their faces covered with scarves made of the same thick material as their tightly woven sweaters.
"Fi?" he questioned as the driver shut off the engine. Mentally, he was already cataloguing the best way to take out their apparent hosts with just the two ceramic knives Rosanna had been gracious enough to hide in their 'going away' bag along with their change of clothes just in case he needed to.
But before she could answer, the ex-agent spotted another figure swathed in black, with his face masked, approaching their position from behind in the right side mirror.
"We've got company," he announced in a tight whisper.
"I'll be having a smoke nar," their driver informed the pair before sliding out of the van, the auto tilting to the side he'd exited from.
As soon as they were alone, the dark haired man reached forward for the handle to the sliding door, nodding for his lover to get behind him. But the door slid opened only wide enough for whomever was outside to push a soft-sided suitcase through the gap before slamming it shut. A quick check of the side mirror and the front glass revealed their armed escorts were withdrawing in the darkness.
The fugitives sat there in momentarily stunned silence, regarding the object as though it might explode, which was not an entirely unreasonable possibility, and the pulling out of the security.
"Well, if they wanted ta kill us, thar'd be better ways o' doin' tha deed than blowin' tha pair o' us in tha middle o' a fairly well known airport, y'know," Fiona declared at length in hushed tones.
"I donnae think yar family would go ta all this trouble jus' ta see ya in a million tiny pieces either," he agreed quietly, but he still cringed a little as he reached out to undo the snaps and open the top.
"Oh, Jaysus, ar' ya kiddin' me?" the redhead groaned softly. "Tis a fate worse than death."
It was really only the release of the tension he'd been holding in before that caused Michael to not quietly snicker at the expression on his lover's face when she pulled the garish red flight attendants uniform from the suitcase, but she punched him in the arm for it anyway. Luckily for him, it was the other side rather than the one she'd taken her emotions out on earlier.
"Am afraid it donnae get any better, Fi," he said, handing her the purple and white paisley print scarf that was apparently intended to accompany the sleeve dress Fiona was holding in front of her.
Reaching behind him, the ex-spy unzipped the other bag and reached in. "We'll be wantin' ta leave all our old things behind nar. Am sure yar family friend thar has orders to burn tha lot."
"Ar' ya jus' tryin' ta get me outta me knickers, McBride?" she smirked, taking the proffered undergarments as she folded the offending articles of clothing into her lap.
Michael could tell even in the dim lighting that her smile was forced and it wasn't difficult to detect the strain in her voice, but he appreciated what she was trying to do and opted to play along.
"I know ya think danger is foreplay and all, but I donnae think I need this much o' a warm-up, luv," he countered, leaning over to buss her quickly on the cheek before shrugging out of his jacket.
"Oh, I donnae know… nothing like naked gettin' in tha back o' an old van thot smells like horse shite on a cold spring night ta get yar juices flowin' is thar nar...?"
"I can think o' a few better ways, me darlin' girl…"
"I'll hold ya ta thot when we get ta thot Parisian hotel ya promised me…"
And they kept up the low flirtatious banter while they stripped out of their own rank garments and got into the things provided for them. Michael was grateful for Sean's belt that contained the garrotte concealed within as well as his boxers. It had given him a place to hide her pictures with relative ease. He was equally relieved to find the dress slacks, shirt, vest and tie that had been in the other bag fit reasonably well, although he would have preferred a suit jacket to the latter two items.
It only took an extra pair of socks for him to conceal the ceramic blades and make the boots he'd been left fit properly. He knew he would be far more comfortable and manoeuvrable in the airline steward's outfit he'd been provided by their mysterious benefactor than the ex-paramilitary would.
"This is Liam's revenge," Fiona muttered harshly. The red uniform was tight in all the right places for all the wrong reasons. "It has ta be," she complained bitterly as she pushed her arms through the accompanying jacket and attempted to slip her no longer dainty feet into the black four inch pumps.
Despite her discomfort, Michael took it as a good sign that clearly no one had taken his pregnant girlfriend's weight gain into account when providing her disguise.
"Come on, Fi, tha sooner ya get on board, tha sooner ya kin take those shoes off."
Opening the door cautiously, Michael stepped out quickly, alert for any sign of trouble. He held a hand out to his beloved, which his auburn haired lover accepted only in deference to the unwieldy high heels she had been forced into wearing. After two weeks in her hiking boots, Fiona was finding the navigating on the too small stilettos more difficult than she would have liked.
Reaching back to pull out the canvas bag left for them by the Glenannes, the rogue operative saw the old man climb back into the driver's seat, his task now nearly complete. He nodded to him before shutting the slider and the engine roared to life almost immediately. Stepping away from the van, the couple walked slowly towards the Gulfstream VSN 552 jet waiting to take them from Ireland, using the increasing dim headlights to guide them towards their final transportation as Maeve's neighbour from down the road slowly reversed towards the rear of the hangar.
The side of the aircraft opened then, the stairway lowering at a languid pace while the light from within became brighter than the dwindling light of the vehicle that had now backed out from the open bay doors of the hangar. Michael watched from behind his lover as he let the redhead take the lead towards the plane, presuming again on Claire's warning that these were her people and her niece would not be in danger from whomever was awaiting them ahead.
The antique auto turned and drove off, followed by what presumably was the car containing Liam's men that had tailed them from Manor Kilbride and would assumedly accompany the elderly farmer back home. Someone had clearly gone to a great deal of trouble to keep anyone from seeing them who might have occasion to talk about it. With the scarf wrapped around her head and ill-fitting uniform concealed by her gaudy overcoat, the Irishwoman was unrecognizable at a distance.
Still, Michael swiftly closed the gap between them as the one-time terrorist turned gun runner approached the entrance to the aircraft. At the top of the staircase was a heavy set middle aged man with dark hair now going gray. Based on the uniform, the American operative assumed he was the pilot. He greeted them in Italian before urging them to embark for their imminent departure.
Maybe it was just that his lack of facility with the language of his alleged temporary homeland which had gotten him into so much trouble on this assignment that caused Michael's paranoia to rise or maybe it was just the knowledge that the end of mission is always the most dangerous part, but his senses were on high alert while his multi-lingual lover was in engaged in conversation with their captain.
He ran a knowing eye over the cockpit and the co-pilot as he brushed past the older man to follow his fiancée down the center of the plane, weaving through the empty beige leather recliners that sat at regular intervals throughout the interior searching for a compartment in which to stow their bag.
Now that they were apparently bypassing security completely, the ex-spy regretted his assumption that they would not have been permitted to bring firearms with them until he saw a small Oriental woman in an outfit matching Fiona's emerge from the galley area at the rear of the jet with a wand.
The petite woman stopped in the space near the dining area, where four slightly smaller of the ubiquitous beige chairs sat in a group of four around a gleaming faux wood table top. As Fiona came eye to eye with the other woman swathed in red, Michael sat their bag down on the raised platform. He watched his beloved's back stiffened as she raised her arms and spread her legs slightly to accommodate the search as their hostess ran the scanner over her outstretched limbs.
"Togliere la giacca si prega," she requested with a deep voice that was incongruous with her slight stature. The redhead glanced back at her lover as he reached out to help her out of the outerwear.
"Va bene il mia amore," he whispered, though his words were more for the other female's benefit.
It was his first good look at his beloved in good lighting and he could see she was exhausted, physically worn out from the lack of sleep as much as from the pummelling her emotions had taken over the last sixteen plus hours give or take. Although it was probably a good thing that Fiona was too tired to fight back when she was then subjected to a swift but thoroughly expert pat down.
Michael motioned with his chin that his pregnant girlfriend should take advantage of the restroom facilities hidden behind another door of shiny panelling while he was given the same treatment, but former paramilitary stood firm, watching cautiously as first himself and then their carry all was inspected. Only when he lifted the bag off the table to place it into the storage compartments coming up from the floor opposite the dinette did she head into the small restroom in the rear.
Relieved that his weapons and her pictures had passed inspection, the ex-operative looked on while the tiny dark haired woman retreated to the front of the aircraft, taking a seat nearest the cockpit that gave her a view of the entire cabin and most especially her guests as he settled down on the thankfully comfortable couch that was located between the dining area and the galley at the back.
He stood up and held his hand out to her as the mother of his child to be returned from the bathroom sans her scarf, clearly having washed up in what would undoubtedly have been a small sink and finger combing her dishevelled short shorn auburn locks. Without argument, she kicked off the stilettos with a grateful sigh, slipped back into the ugly jacket and settled onto the chair facing the back of the plane opposite the sofa. Michael took his seat on the other side of the small table from Fiona and signalled to their hostess in the front of the Gulfstream that they were ready to depart.
Time moved in strange ways as the jetliner taxied out of the hangar and onto the runway.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion and yet suddenly they were breaking free of the bonds of gravity and climbing higher into the atmosphere as they shot out over the Irish Sea below. Part of Michael, the skeptical part that knew nothing ever goes as planned, was still waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop and the other part, the eternal optimist that made him the unstoppable sonuvabitch that he could be, was quietly celebrating this small victory on their way to a larger goal.
Soon enough they reached a cruising altitude and the small woman with the deep voice walked halfway down the aircraft before announcing they could help themselves to refreshments. Message delivered, she returned to the front and the laptop she had placed on her seat, continuing to appear occupied and ignoring her other passengers. It was a decent bit of tradecraft, the ex-spy decided.
For a fleeting moment, Michael thought about his former trainee Lucy Chen and just as fast pushed any memories of any other women to the back of his mind to focus on the woman who'd captured his heart and the rest of him along with it… The dark haired man rose up from his seat and smiled.
"You should get something to eat," he urged in a low tone. "Let me see what I can find…"
Pulling two Evian Spring Waters from the overhead compartment containing a wide selection of alcoholic beverages, the American operative discovered a good variety of fresh fruits contained in a refrigerated drawer. Further investigation revealed a variety of cheeses and even some yogurts.
Michael paused with the sealed carton in his hand, briefly remembering being fed a drugged dairy product during his stay at the CIA headquarters in London prior to the start of the Irish assignment.
He put it back where he found it.
Pairing triangles of fontina d'oasta and gorgonzola with slices of pears, apples and grapes, her lover made sure to rinse the fruits thoroughly and select only the sealed cheeses. It was a gamble, but so was guessing on when their next meal would come and she needed the nourishment. He set the plate onto the smaller faux wood table top with a flourish which drew a weary grin from Fiona.
Turning on the inflight entertainment system to cover their conversation, Michael fiddled with the controls until he found the universal classical music feed, selecting a volume that would frustrate any listening devices or the potential hearing of the Oriental woman sitting at the front of the plane.
The quality of the fromage and the fruits was excellent and the former CIA agent took a moment to appreciate the fine food. It had been a while since he had played a part that that included rich cuisine… not that he truly missed it… it was just a perk of the job… The auburn haired siren on the other side of the table, delicately nibbling on a piece of expensive cheese, was far more important.
"So, any idea where we're going or what we're up against?" he asked, finishing off an apple slice, presuming that her relatives might have given Fiona more intel than himself.
She shook her head to the negative. "She wa' more about tellin' me why we have ta leave and nae come back than whar we war headin' after we war gone."
He reached across the glossy surface to still the fingers which were twisting a piece of grape stem.
"I'm sorry, Fiona," he whispered.
"Donnae be…" she said sadly. "I knew whot wa' gonna happen… I jus' dinnae want ta believe it."
He squeezed her hand and nodded. As dangerous as contacting her relatives had been, he could be happy now they had been able to give her some closure without any more collateral damage to their cause. Of course, what came of this particular flight from her homeland still remained to be seen…
She shook off her sorrow. "At least me family wonnae be chasin' us anymore. Thank ya fer thot."
"It is a better tactical position to be in," he agreed with a soft smile. "Now we only have worry about all the government agencies chasing us…"
"Oh," she breathed and then leaned forward. "We might have a few less o' those bastids after us."
"Fi…?"
"Thot English bastid, tha one thot gave ya tha beatin' an' shot Sean, he made tha mistake o' kidnapping me mam… oh, an' by tha way, Sean is gonna ta be okay in case ya war wonderin' about thot, though Am sure he's goin' mad while he's recuperatin' locked up in tha house wit' Rosie hoverin' over ham."
"Who are you?"
"Tom Card sends his regards, old boy,"
So the erudite assassin allegedly sent by Tom Card must have been wearing a vest to survive the two rounds he had put into his back at the cottage. But that still didn't explain how Maeve Glenanne had escaped the clutches of the apparently British mercenary.
"He kidnapped your mother…?"
"Thot is nae tha half o' it," Fiona continued while Michael's eyebrows scrunched in confusion over his slightly stunned expression. "She said he took her ta use as a hostage, ta draw us out, but he dinnae frisk har well enough an' missed tha gun, ya know, tha one we got har, an' she shot ham in tha back, an' probably in tha head taa if I know me mam at all. Then she blew up his car an' him taa."
"You're CIA?"
"Not exactly…"
Clearly the fact that he himself was having difficulty resolving the image of the tiny bird-like woman successfully murdering and then disposing the evidence of her actions was what had no doubt led the hired gun to fatally underestimate his opponent and made Maeve Glenanne one of the most dangerous women in all of Ireland back in the day, though apparently she was still quite capable and lethal. On the other hand, had he not seen his own fiancée use her petite, delicate appearance to her advantage too?
"Well, that's one less thing we have to worry about…" he conceded, still trying to wrap his head around the scenario his beloved had described, especially as he had already thought the man dead.
"But, as you were busy getting your hands dirty in Eastern Europe when I was making a name for myself, I'll give you a little clue and see if you can work it out for yourself… Algeria '93… the unexplained deaths of three Iranian diplomats?"
It bothered him that not only had the anonymous English killer claimed to have been sent by his former training officer, but also that he couldn't place the incident he'd referenced. However, the disgraced agent decided that it really didn't matter at this point. The most important part was they would not be seeing the maniac Brit again.
"Two less things actually… Mammy also said thot me auntie poisoned tha CIA officer thot had come ta bring ya in. He wa' tha one that told har thot I wa' in tha family way."
Michael coughed harshly, nearly choking on the bit of fruit and cheese he'd been consuming.
There was no one capable of unsettling the stoic spy quite like the redhead on the other side of the table and she had just done it again. Somehow his brain refused to process what she was telling him.
The CIA officer who'd had him locked in a dingy safe house basement, his former training officer… Was she seriously talking about Tom Card not only knowing that he'd gotten the asset he'd run off with pregnant but that her great aunt had killed the man in charge of bringing him back in chains…?
Suddenly Claire Glenanne's words had come back to him in a rush and left him chilled to the bone.
"I know… We can go off to London fer a weekend an' visit all tha sights. Thar's a certain American tourist's funeral I'd certainly luv ta attend, heh, me dear?"
"Tell me everything she said," the ex-operative commanded heatedly.
Fiona blinked. "She said he'd had Ry picked up ta get a meetin' with' Liam… I guess since Liam wa' out chasin' us thot she took it in har head ta go an' talk ta him harself. He told har thot he knew why ya'd run off wit' me, abou' tha babby, an' thot he wanted ya back an' on a plane outta Ireland."
Michael couldn't help it… his jaw dropped. "So, their solution to the problem was to kill him instead of handing me over…? I thought your family wanted me gone."
The former guerrilla shook her head in disbelief.
"I donnae know how ya could have spent eighteen months livin' wit' me an' seein' how things ar' done an' ask me thot… O' course she killed ham. D'ya think she wa' goin' ta leave ham alive ta hold thot over me family? Why d'ya care thot he's gone? Wa' he somebody special ta ya?"
That was a good question indeed… Tom Card had been someone important in his life, but more important still were the repercussions the murder of the CIA officer in charge of his retrieval would have. He'd already killed one operative sent to bring him in. It would make the Agency all the more determined to hunt them down… this time with a lethal finding attached to the order.
"This is bad, Fiona, really bad. It's going to make my people that much more determined to-"
She waved her hand in dismissal. "I asked har abou' thot after ya brought in tha sandwiches. Auntie Claire's nae avoided tha gallows all these years because she donnae know har business. Tha man got hamself run over by a lorry drivin' back ta Dublin she said. Twill look like an accident."
"And that body we left in the woods? You don't think they're going to connect-"
"Ya donnae think Liam wasnae smart enough ta dispose o' ham? Why d'ya think we got such a lead o' tham when they wa' chasin' us through tha woods? They've as much ta lose as we have har an' me family's done more than ya know ta cover our tracks nar… Me family knows thar business taa, Michael," she repeated. "Ya worry taa much."
Her dark haired lover drew in a deep breath through his nose and let it out on a sigh.
"It's not that simple, Fi…" He bit his upper lip in frustration.
Losing Card would certainly slow down the investigation and that was a benefit of sorts. Based on what he knew of his training officer, the man would have indeed attempted to use the news of Fiona's pregnancy as leverage over her family to get them to cooperate in turning him over to the CIA and as such, he would have kept the information to himself. How the hell the man had discovered their secret was the more disturbing thought, but hopefully the secret had died with him.
"We need to get off the grid as soon as possible after we land. Your family may have done us a favor in the short term, but it's going to make things harder on us in the long run."
He took both her hands in his as she opened her mouth to protest.
"Do you remember what I told you in the beginning? The CIA is not going to stop hunting for me. That's who's going to be after us now, not your family, not anymore. We're out of Ireland and off your turf. I need you to promise me you're going to do what I say… Please, Fi, I mean it," he pleaded when he saw that stubborn glint he knew all too well forming in those blue green eyes.
She let out a heavy sigh. "Fine… I'll try ta be a good quarterback or whotever tha hell ya called it, but ya need ta promise me thot ya remember we both need ya alive and wit' us. Agreed?"
Michael nodded. "I can't always explain what I'm doing, Fi, but we need to trust each other."
"I've always trusted ya, even when I should nae have… But ya cannae keep me in the dark either."
"I'll work on that," he promised with a sincere smile.
"Ya better," she threatened, though the vow of violence was mitigated by the massive yawn his beloved let out that she failed to cover in time.
"You need to get some rest," he urged, pulling her to her feet as he stood up himself. Taking two steps across the aisle, he settled himself on the couch and she sank into him without further protest.
"I don't know how long we're going to be in the air, but you should take advantage of it now."
"An' whot about ya?" she countered.
"I need you to be fresh to watch my back so I don't screw up."
"Fine," Fiona repeated, dropping her head into his lap and stretching out on the sofa. "Am taa tired ta argue wit' ya right nar."
"I'll sleep with one eye open," he declared, winking at her as he took the blanket from the back of the couch and spread it over her prone body before stuffing one of the pillows behind his head.
"Whotever," she slurred, already drifting into unconsciousness.
And with the woman he loved lying by his side, Michael Westen did exactly that. He'd learned a long time ago, long before he was a spy or even a Ranger to exist in that state of perpetual alertness, even at rest. So while his body relaxed, his mind continued to consider the options of his next move.