Be Brave Little Angel

by Jedi's Pal

This is a prequel to our Puppies, Kittens and Gun Totin' Babies series, in which we hope to answer the question: What would have happened if Michael Westen had refused to follow his orders and abandon his one true love back in Ireland? On the run from the CIA and the PIRA, will our lovers be able to find a safe haven of their own?

42. Chapter 42

A/N: Happy Monday all you #burners out there. Here's something to hopefully make it better. Thank you as always to everyone who finds time to read our tale of star-crossed lovers and we must admit, we do love the reviews, so thanks again. There is a new chapter of Reconnecting on the M-page for the 201 AU "Free to Be You and Me" (as well as a new one from marvelous Marg Hammerman). Please enjoy!

In this installment, our favorite couple have finally put the Emerald Isle behind them. On their flight into an unknown future, both Michael Westen and Fiona Glenanne will find themselves forced to confront their painful pasts. Previous events referenced herein are detailed in our stories "Victims of War" Chapter Two for Fiona and "Life with Larry" Chapters 8-10 for Michael for anyone interested in the full story. Other references for Fi may also be found in Chapter 4 of Purdy's Pal's terrific tale "Who We Once Were."

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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL

Chapter Forty Two

"Sister Margaret Mary, please, I have ta go ta tha bathroom…"

"Fiona Glenanne, ya must take me fer a fool. I know whot yer up ta."

"No, I really do have ta go," she pleaded, getting up from the long table where she sat with the other girls in a neat row in their starched blue-checkered uniformsand then crossed her legs just above her white knee socks to emphasize her point. She was going to embarrass herself and ruin her dress shoes too if that unforgiving nun in charge didn't let her leave soon!

"Tis a sin ta tell lies, girl," the older woman informed her sternly and the redhead knew she had given her teacher ample reason to distrust her, but she really meant it this time!

The Penguin, as all her classmates called their elderly teacher behind her back, laid a heavy hand along her cheek. Fiona stiffened, waiting for the pinch, or worse yet the slap, which would surely follow…

"Fi?"

The fingers on her face turned into the reassuring touch of her beloved and in a rush she went from the dark days of her secondary education in the hallowed halls ofSt. Bridgit's Catholic girls school to an uncertain future on an airplane. However, none of that mattered right now. She needed to go to the loo!

When the one-time terrorist returned from the small restroom at the back of the jet, his cobalt blue eyes held a question. Fiona shook her head and smiled wryly as she settled down on the edge of the chair opposite where Michael now sat up on the couch, leaning towards him so as not to be overheard.

"Nothin' ta worry about, jus' me bladder wakin' me up," she whispered low. "Speaking o' wakin' up, ya've nae been ta sleep at all, have ya?" He shrugged and didn't answer her. "I donnae know whar wa're goin' but me guess would be somewhar on tha continent, which means ya donnae have much time left ta rest."

She stared hard into his red-rimmed orbs, her expression daring him to deny that he needed the sleep.

The ex-spy opened his mouth to protest and a massive yawn came out instead.

"Fine," he acquiesced. "Will you—"

"I'll be fine taa, Michael, and I'll keep watch an' I'll wake ya tha minute anythin' happens. Anythin' else?"

"No," her lover answered with a trace of a weary smile on his lips before the dark-haired man stretched and groaned under his breath. After another attempt to loosen his stiff limbs, Michael stood up only take a step towards the middle of the sofa and lie back down again. Tucking the pillow from the back of the couch under his head, he let his eyes slide almost shut before glancing up at her again.

"Go ta sleep, me luv," Fiona ordered, though not unkindly, standing and stretching herself before bending down to place a soft kiss on his temple. "I said I'd watch yar back… Donnae make me knock ya out. Thar wa' a mighty fine lookin' clothes brush hanging up back thar thot would definitely do tha job."

The fact that her words were quiet and softly spoken did not in any way lower the impact of the threat.

Michael nodded and closed his eyes. Fiona watched him for another moment, seeing his face relax albeit nothing like the complete ease she remembered from many a morning watching him sleep during the wee hours when she'd awaken first in their flat back in a seamier section of Dublin.

The slim redhead settled into the nearest window seat, folding her legs under her while turning her gaze from the father of her child to the blackness outside. It was hard to tell where they were, but based on the pattern of the lights dotting the dark landscape below, she thought they might be near Paris.

The incongruous sound of the low tones emanating from the diminutive woman at the front of the jet speaking to the two men inside the cockpit drew her attention away from the exterior of the aircraft.

She hesitated for a moment and glanced back at the man resting in the rear of the plane before Fiona got to her feet and, refusing to give up any inches to her hostess who was no means tall herself, the petite redhead slipped back into the stiletto heels and navigated the luxurious interior of the Gulfstream to stop across from the Asian lady near the doorway. She plastered a confident smile on her face and struck up a conversation, this time in Italian, as she had many times during her gun running days with Seamus, using the practiced art of talking about everything while talking about absolutely nothing.

Eventually, the Irishwoman asked the two men at the controls where they currently were and where they were headed. The duo looked at each other before looking back towards the younger woman.

The raven-haired female answered in italia that they were about halfway to their destination and they would be changing planes after they arrived. She asked Fiona if she or her companion needed anything.

"Niente, grazie…" The former guerilla continued to stare out the front windscreen while examining the two men at the controls from the corner of her eye. The older one on the left, middle-aged and heavy set, she did not know, but the younger one on the right seemed vaguely familiar and Fiona was certain she'd known him in another time and place where he didn't have long wavy brown hair or a full beard.

"Aeroport Marseille Provence… arriveremo circa un'ora," he said without taking his gaze from the instrument panel in front of him and she might have had occasion to try to place from where she knew his voice, but what he had said had completely distracted her.

Aeroport Marseille Provence… no, it had to be a coincidence…

A noise near the galley sent her attention to the rear of the aircraft, where she saw the other woman standing way too close to Michael for her liking. Already upset, the fiery redhead strode purposefully back towards her lover's side. It looked like their hostess had a cellular phone in her hand, but she was holding it extended towards his face, as if searching for a number, as opposed to being held to her ear.

The Asian woman retreated towards the bathroom at Fiona's approach. She perched once again on the edge of the beige lounge chair next to the table near the galley rather than on the coach so as not to awaken her exhausted boyfriend, attempting to satisfy herself that he had not been harmed.

He looks absolutely knackered, she thought with no small amount of guilt. Although she wasn't any more responsible than he was for the situation they found themselves in… at least that's what Fiona tried to tell herself even though she knew better… she also knew the former American agent had been sleeping a lot less than she had just because she'd been sleeping so much more. Michael been up pretty much most of the last two days straight trying to help her make amends with her family. At least it'd worked.

Running her hands through her short-cropped auburn hair, the ex-PIRA guerrilla fought off the urge to curl up on the couch, which would pull out into a full bed they could both lie on, since she was fairly certain that Michael wouldn't agree to them lying down together under the circumstances.

As if to silently reinforce his unspoken objections, the other tiny woman in a red flight attendant uniform exited the bathroom without the silver device that had looked suspiciously like a mobile in her hands. They had a brief staring contest as she passed Fiona on her way back to the front of the plane.

The weary Irishwoman shrugged off her frustrations, a low growl of dissatisfaction escaping her lips.

Whotever she had… tis either hidden on her or tis hidden in tha loo.

If she searched the small albeit opulent washroom, she would have to either wake Michael or leave him unguarded. Neither option was palatable. In an attempt to ease some of the tension, she got up and walked a short distance down the aircraft while wondering again what their raven-haired hostess was up to and who the mysterious co-pilot was. But mostly she tried to shake off the sensation of something sinister that the knowledge of their stated destination was causing to stir in the center of her stomach.

Realizing she was attracting too much attention with her pacing, Fiona debated whether to pick one of the thickly padded beige lounge chairs that put her back to her potential adversary or to watch her as well. Finally deciding, she positioned herself such that she could see Michael and hide her face from the other petite female on the plane and still watch the woman from the reflection in the jets window.

Staring again into the blackness surrounding them, Ms Glenanne tried to discern where they were by the pattern of lights on the ground. Aeroport Marseille Provence was where Armand had a private hangar.

She knew this because when she left him to go back to her family after what'd happened in Bosnia not quite four years ago, that was the airport she had used to flee from his company, only then letting her lover of four years know that she had decided to stay home and fight for a chance at peace in her homeland. Armand had been obviously hurt but equally gracious when she'd informed him of such.

"Comme te vuex, ma chère… My door is always open for you… Toujours, mon amour…" he had answered in that typical mixture of French and English they had spoken in their most intimate moments.

Fiona shook herself, trying to dislodge the memory and the feelings that were welling up in her over it.

No, I cannae believe Shay would call Armand and arrange fer ham ta get us out o' Ireland. Me family knows thot his favors always come wit' strings attached… They know thot Am done wit' ham… Mabbe I dinnae ever tell tham why, but Am sure Liam had Colin looked inta it. He sticks his nose inta every bloody thing tha lot o' us ever do, nae leaves a stone unturned… But how much does he truly know about this?

And very much against her will, the former terrorist who'd turned gun runner and international arms merchant before she'd become a paramilitary again had found herself thinking about that last delivery into Bosnia, the one that forced Fiona to finally confront the reality of not only who she had been in a relationship with, but worse yet of who she had allowed herself to become…

It was Armand who had taken an Irish tomboy from a deeply Republican family, a young woman who had already tread a path filled with violence and the rule of the gun, and had introduced her to a world filled with beautiful things, designer clothing, expensive jewelry and exotic weapons and then he had shown her the world… the best hotels, the finest restaurants, living the high life amongst the criminal elite.

"We're going to have to delay our trip to Venice…" her French lover had informed her one day.

He'd gone on to explain there was a new client who was absolutely frantic to get his hands on some American military grade hardware and was willing to pay triple the price for it. Something about him losing his supply line and being most keen to get back into business. Fiona hadn't really cared at the time. She was far more interested in what she'd had planned them for their time together in Italy.

So, she'd suggested they do the deal at their depot in Trieste, near where the Italian, Slovenian and Croatian borders met which was not only near where the man had wanted the meeting, it was also not far from Venice and she would accompany the man she'd thought was the love of her life on said trip.

As she sat staring out the oval plexiglass, Fiona recalled that she had not liked his newest client from the Balkans from the beginning; however, she had been finding more frequently that her then-paramour's clientele list were not people she cared much for. The man had a nasty scar on his face, a cut with a burn mark over top of it and he frequently complained about pain in his shoulder and thigh from an ambush.

At the time, she had almost fancied that the darkness inside of him was showing in his physical body.

But business was business and, while employing the laizze faire attitude she had learned at her brother Seamus' side in that part of the family enterprise, the young Irishwoman did stay mindful of her feelings towards the self-style leader of a militia group. It had been toward the end of their relationship that Monsieur Andreani had asked her to cover a sale to this man, going with a contingent of security that included her own private bodyguards to make an in-person delivery to his customer's doorstep.

It was possible that Armand had sensed her growing dissatisfaction, one which she herself was only marginally aware of, and had sent her on what was surely an adrenaline-fueled adventure deep into Serbian held territory in Bosnia as a way of keeping her engaged in their high stakes lifestyle.

I wonder if mabbe Armand understood me better than I knew me self in those days…

No longer working for the Cause that had ruled her entire life to that point and away from her family for the first time, particularly her mam and Liam, and in the arms of a man she thought she loved... This was the part of her life where she'd had no limits put on her. With the wealth to do as she wished, she had indulged herself shamelessly.

Until she saw all that wealth had come off the backs of murdered women and children and then she was disgusted with herself. She had become in her own mind like the people she had always despised, rich and uncaring who suffered for it. How had she allowed herself to stray so far from who she had been…?

It had all been quite the adventure at first, not unlike some of the deliveries she had made with her older brother back in the day, a heavily armored truck filled with heavily armed men under her command, rumbling through the countryside to deliver its deadly cargo. She'd laughed at the thought of what Sean would have said, so convinced women had no place on the front lines and always disparaging her skills.

But as they went deeper into Serbian held territory, the beauty of the Drina River Valley gave way to a stark testimony of the destructive power of those same weapons secured in the truck bed behind her. A line of refugees, staring at the ground in mute resignation as they shuffled past, had been another sharp reminder that there was a human cost to her chosen profession.

But then they'd been ambushed by a patrol and she'd been so caught up in the thrill of the battle that she hadn't realized that the people who'd attacked them were in fact merely trying to keep those arms out of the hands of butchers… Out of the hands of monsters like the one she was supplying with the means with which to continue to commit the carnage.

As they had driven over a nearly bombed out bridge into what was left of a small Bosnian village, ruined buildings silently told the tale of the ruined lives of its former inhabitants. The smell of decay hit her right before the sight of the dead left to rot where they'd been slaughtered in the streets, bloated bodies remaining amongst the rubble that were apparently nothing to the men who eagerly awaited her arrival.

It wasn't just the sight of the bullet ridden corpses or the blood splattered…everywhere... the worst of it wasn't even that the men in the patrol they had just mowed down thought she was one of the monsters... No, the worst of it was that his client... their client... her client... Aleksander Petrovic had thought she was just as bloody thirsty and heartless as he was and in that moment, he'd been right…

Because she'd had no choice but to complete the deal or die. She and her small cadre were ridiculously outnumbered and while a part of her had felt like she deserved to die, her men certainly did not…

She stood there, watching the smoke from the remnants of dozens of fires drift away into the sky rather than look at the abhorrent devastation before her, tasting the acrid vapor on her tongue and trying not to choke on the stench of death and the bitterness of her own remorse and disgust with herself that seemed to cling to her like a second skin while they collected their weapons, wanting to scream out her rage to drown out the sounds of them laughing and bragging what they would do with them next…

"Preparatevi, atterreremo presto."

The flame haired former guerrilla fighter startled at the announcement that their flight would be landing soon, caught between an unconscious state and her current reality once again, only this had been far more of a nightmare than the momentary resurrection of her pre-teen adversary Sister Quinn…

She shuddered violently… Whot tha hell is wrong wit' me? How many more of these ridiculously vivid flashbacks in the disguise of dreams was she going to have to suffer through? Or was the stress finally getting to her? Fiona dismissed that thought with angry shake of her head, even more irritated now that she had met Michael's concerned blue eyes and realized she'd been caught out dozing on guard duty.

Her dark-haired boyfriend stretched out his long limbs and ambled towards her. The ex-spy gave her another questioning look but wisely didn't speak. His lover shook her head once more, albeit with less force this time, and dropped her gaze to her folded hands, her fingers tightly clenched.

In one of his rare moments of relational clarity, Michael merely reached over and locked her safety belt across her hips before taking the seat next to her and strapping in. He started to lay his hand over hers and but then withdrew it, dropping the apparently offensive digits down, splaying them on his thigh.

Fiona bit her lip, alternating between staring out the window and watching his stoic profile in her peripheral vision until she slowly extended her reach, intertwining her fingers with his without a word.

The landing quick and simple. There was not much air traffic in the airport in the dead of the night. Once on the ground, the anxious redhead couldn't stop staring out the small oval window to the outside world. Ms Glenanne felt rather than saw her boyfriend picking up on her angst, but she refused to give voice to her suspicions. If Am right, tha time ta deal wit' thot'll come soon enough.

As the Gulfstream turned and made towards the large hangar in a remote part of Aeroport Marseille Provence away from the main terminals, her mind was in denial despite the evidence of her own blue green eyes. The closer they came, the more she knew for certain where they were, even at 2:00 AM.

The elusive memory of where she'd seen the co-pilot before blossomed in her brain and brought with it a wave of nausea. She was walking towards this very building in the pre-dawn light, her boots sounding loud on the tarmac as she swiftly covered the distance between the limousine and the doorway to her freedom, the cold clinging to her long, wet hair because from the day she'd returned from Bosnia until the day she's arranged to leave her lover of the past four years, she couldn't seem to take enough showers…

"Fi…?" His breath was hot on her skin and she shivered at the proximity of his mouth to her ear; however, the kaleidoscope of questions swirling through her mind obscured everything else as the jet turned to enter the hangar, cutting off her view of it while the clear night sky seemed to mock her.

How could they do this ta me? They knew, they had ta know… Mammy always loved Armand… She would nae mind a moment if he shot Michael dead an' I spent tha rest o' me life wit' ham again… Did Auntie Claire know? She must have, but she knew… outta all o' tham she's tha only one I told about…

"Fi…?" The hand that held hers squeezed a little tighter. She knew she needed to say something, but she was drowning in a sea of competing emotions, anger fought with fear and sorrow, attempting to overcome them both only to be waylaid by guilt and remorse and anger again at her complicity in this.

As the aircraft came to a stop in an enormous enclosed space parallel to a Dassault Falcon 2000, a white plane with the blood red stripes that had been modified to carry concealed cargo she knew because she'd used it herself before, a contingent of ten men dressed in black combat uniforms and berets similar to the attire of the men in Newcastle came forward, filling the area between the two business class jets.

"Fi…" and Michael's tone was no longer one of polite inquiry into her health or mental state as the SA80A2 assault rifles they were carrying along their backs were suddenly in their hands at the ready.

"Tempo di andare," the deep voice of the diminutive woman at the front shook her out of her distracted reverie. "Ho tutti i dettagli della vendita, ma Armand piacerebbe parlare con te."

She swallowed thickly and stood up at the sound of his name. Whot tha hell have they done ta me…

The father of her child was standing in the aisle, holding out a hand towards her, his expression a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, the face of the spy she sometimes hated, but was now extremely grateful for. Fiona felt as if she were separated from her body, not moving under her own violation. As she passed him, she wondered how much he'd understood of the woman's speech.

"Who's Armand and what are we supposed to be selling for him?" he asked in a tight whisper.

Too much… The pale and shaken Irishwoman walked slowly forward towards the video screen that was engaging on the wall next to the exit at the front of the Gulfstream. She sat down heavily in the chair opposite the viewer while Michael stood behind her, purposefully attempting to keep out of line of sight.

It was him… handsome features below the widow's peak of slicked back dark hair that she knew ended in a small pony tail at the base of his neck… She used ta love running her hands through his long wavy hair… Fiona swallowed thickly and brutally suppressed the memories of her life with Armand Andreani, but she couldn't stop herself from noticing how similar the Frenchman's face was to that of her current lover… similar nose, same kissable cupid's bow above tha upper lip, a full mouth thot… STOP THOT!

"Fiona, so good to see you again. I trust your flight from Ireland wasn't too uncomfortable. Sorry I couldn't meet you in person, but I have a special guest here at the villa… You remember the one near Saint-Chamas with the view of Étang de Berre you were so fond of? I can't wait for you two to meet."

The Irishwoman was momentarily shocked to him address her in English among other things, though it made sense if the crew were continental and he wished to keep the conversation more private, but it must have showed on her face… as if every bloody thing Am feeling is nae plastered all over me mug…

"I guess Seamus didn't tell you I'd called and offered my services to help you with your hmmm… how shall we say, transportation needs? But since you're back in Marseille now, what with all that sad business in Ireland behind you, perhaps there's a little favor you could do."

The tiny raven haired woman handed her a small soft-sided suitcase before stepping back again.

An' thar twas – payment fer me ride out o' Ireland already come due. How could they do this ta me?

Again she felt rather than saw Michael behind her and knowing he was deliberately keeping a low profile didn't make her any less grief stricken for the loss of his comfort over her family's betrayal right then.

"I'm tied up here with some business at the moment and I'm in a bit of bind. I have a delivery that needs to be made today to our Serbian friend. I'm sure you remember him."

Once more, she was sure her expression was clearly indicating that she did indeed recall. Tha bastid…

"No field trips this time," Armand added immediately. "Just a quick exchange in Trieste as usual. I hope you like the outfit. It can still get a bit chilly in the early morning hours. Ping has all the other details you'll need. I'll look forward to catching up with you on everything when you get back, Fiona."

And just like that, he was gone. She continued to stare at the black screen, her mind momentarily flipping between the dark and dangerous men she always seemed to find herself attracted to…

Then the Asian lady was informing her in italia that her change of clothes was in the suitcase and that the merchandise was already on the other plane, but somehow Fiona couldn't make herself move.

Blinking rapidly as she felt his hand squeezing her shoulder, the hardened paramilitary in her took over as their hostess was telling them they needed to get onboard and get going because the delivery was set to take place at dawn and there isn't much time to waste. The fiery redhead rose up, handing Michael the small case and transitioning back into her former international arms dealer persona with frightening ease. Looking towards the cockpit, she nodded at the co-pilot briefly, a gesture which he returned.

"Is this command crew accompanying us?" she asked in Italian, hoping that they now had at least one ally she could count on here in Marseille. "Are we coming back here after the exchange?"

"The command crew for the delivery is already onboard," the other woman replied in kind.

"Who is handling the payment verification? Is the entire consignment on board or am I showing extra merchandise for sale? What are the security arrangements in Trieste? Or do I need to squeeze that entire security detail into the Falcon?" Fiona fired off the questions in rapid succession as their captain was now opening the door and preparing to lower the air-stairs.

"Only the order is onboard the Falcon," Ping answered, handing the redhead a burner phone and a folded piece of paper. "Contact me when he arrives and I will verify the payment. The security is the usual contingent for the type of client you will be dealing with. Take as many of the local crew as you need."

The petite paramilitary weighed her options… Take taa many an' me an' Michael'll have nae chance o' takin' tham out if we need ta. Take taa few an' it would set off alarms bells…

"What are the codes?" she asked as she moved to disembark; she assumed that Armand had not changed their protocols since she had last done deliveries for him.

"If there's a deviation in the payment, the code word is Milan. If there is a problem with the delivery, the code word is Rome. If there is a problem with anything besides the delivery or the payment, the code word is Paris."

"What's the distress word?"

"Say 'Mr. Andreani will not be pleased to hear that' if you want the customer checked out."

Ms Glenanne nodded curtly, handing her back the slip and turning on her stiletto heel.

Without looking back to see if either Michael or Armand's representative were accompanying her, she strode across the hangar and towards the awaiting aircraft with a confident arrogance that was wholly manufactured but convincing nonetheless.

Approaching the wall of well-armed and well-muscled men, she pointed at the four nearest her position.

"Vous, vous, vous et vous, avec moi," Fiona demanded, waiting only a fraction of a second to see if they would response to her command in French, partially pleased that they formed up in pairs, two in front of and two behind herself and her boyfriend, who hung back as befitted the hired help while mentally calculating the best way to distribute them within the plane to her advantage without being obvious.

The Irishwoman alighted into the jet, pausing to note the two aviators in the front were wearing the same uniforms as the two men they had just left behind, the same as had been provided for Michael.

The restrooms and the food prep area were at the front of the Dassault behind the cockpit and were much smaller than those on the Gulfstream, exactly as she remembered. The rest of the layout was virtually the same except for the aft area. Here, opposite the four chairs surrounding a table top was a long, raised countertop instead of a couch. Further back in the fuselage were two sofas which could be pulled out into beds sat behind a partial partition wall with a curtain hung between the two sides.

The two bodyguards who had proceeded her had already taken their seats in the front of the plane, facing back towards the rear. As her dark-haired lover entered, she headed towards the four loungers in the back, barking over her shoulder in French to prepare for immediate departure.

Fiona could see the questions burning his cobalt blue eyes as he sat across from her, securing his safety straps while she did up her own this time. But before the former American agent could press the issue, the rest of security team settled in, one immediately behind the table and the other in the seat diagonal to their position. She could feel the frustration rolling off Michael in waves, his every spy sense tingling no doubt. Thar is nae help fer any o' this until we get ta Italy an' mabbe not even then…

Once in the air, the ex-operative moved out of his seat, waiting for his arms dealer girlfriend get to her feet. The redhead instructed him using simple words in Italian to get the case that Armand's assistant had provided her with from the raised bins next to the table where he'd stowed it before takeoff.

She started to walk through the archway at the rear of the aircraft, hoping that whatever clothing her ex-lover had left, it was more comfortable than the garish red mini dress and jacket she was currently squeezed into, when Fiona heard out of the guards shout out.

"Asseyez-vous!"

Whipping around, she saw the man in all black grabbing Michael by the arm and then pushing him back down into the seat before he snatched the case from her lover's grasp. Cursing internally, she snapped out an order in French to let him alone before telling Michael in Italian to wait for her there. Taking the small suitcase from her security detail, the Irishwoman passed through the partitions and pulled the curtain behind her. She sat down heavily, exhaling a shaky breath once she was alone.

I cannae believe me family's done this ta me… I know we had ta leave, but ta put me in this bloody fix…

Gritting her teeth and then biting down on her lower lip to stop the salt water that was threatening to flow, the shaken redhead scrubbed at her eyes with her fists before dropping her clenched hands into her lap. Get it together, ya great cry baby, yer gonna get us both killed. Baby or nae, yer better than this.

Ya great cry baby… It was what she used to regularly call her now dearly departed sister Claire when they were younger. Fiona froze as she was assaulted by another unwanted memory.

"I dinnae know ya war so unhappy with yar man that ya had ta come home. Yer not happy har, tha' much is obvious. Dinnae he keep ya in beautiful things? Mammy said thot he took real good care o' ya."

She'd been wretched to her younger sibling. Angry at Liam for excluding her from what she perceived as her well-earned seat at the table and still wallowing in self-loathing over what had happened in the Balkans, she'd shouted at Claire for daring to unknowingly broach the subject her breakup with Armand.

"Cazzo!" she swore under her breath. Getting wrapped up in the memories of what she had done to send her little sister running out of the house and towards her eventual death in Belfast was not going help her now. She'd gotten Claire killed because she couldn't deal with what she'd done making that delivery into Bosnia and she was going to do the same for her man and her child if she wasn't careful.

Steeling herself, Fiona opened the case and her heart sunk again just as quickly as her resolve had come.

"Feck me," she muttered even lower than before. The short white fur jacket was absolutely exquisite and it was not the problem. The pale blue green tunic that she was positive would match her eyes was also quite beautiful but also quite sheer, such that she was not going to be able to wear it without Rosanna's over-sized bra becoming extremely obvious. She shook her head at the way she used to dress.

But the worst part was the certain-to-be-skin-tight black leather slacks. She had already been getting squeezed in her jeans. Setting the offending pants aside, she was relieved to see a pair of fashionable but comfortable lace up boots in the bottom tucked next to suitably thick hosiery and a nearly non-existent thong. Pulling the lacy piece of nothing out, Fiona heaved another sigh. At least it would fit.

Stripping out of the abhorrent sleeve dress, she shouted out in both Italian and French that no one was to enter unless they wanted to die a most painful death, then the one-time terrorist doffed her sister in law's ill-fitting underwear and got into the thong and the tunic, which was just as transparent as she'd feared. The socks were extremely comfortable and almost made up for the extreme discomfort of the modern chinos the-not-quite-slender redhead finally managed to wiggle into while lying flat on the sofa.

Fiona took a few minutes to get her breathing under control and decided now would be a good time to get Michael into the back on the excuse of him acting as her personal valet. Getting to her stocking feet, she reached over and pulled the curtain aside, keeping her arms crossed over her more-ample chest.

Acting as though she were still the number two in a vast criminal organization that she used to be, Ms Glenanne stared down the security guard who had manhandled Michael and ordered him en français to remain at his post while her assistant helped her before switching to Italian to tell her lover to do that.

The massive mountain of humanity started to follow her man in anyway and Fiona fixed him with a deathly glare, ordering him harshly in his mother tongue to find out how long it would take before they would be arriving at their destination and then closing the cloth with a flourish and giving him a flash.

"Oh, mon Dieu," she sighed again, loud enough to be heard by the hapless security squad she hoped.

Turning around, she saw the ex-spy had already emptied the suitcase of the make-up kit and the jewelry boxes and was sitting on the sofa on her right-hand side, leafing through the specifications portion of the arms manifest. "I think that bought us some time…" she said softly, continuing to speak to Michael in what was supposed to be her assistant's native language, being careful to keep the words simple.

"This is impressive hardware," he responded quietly as she moved to stand directly over him.

Her back stiffened as the sound of the curtain being drawn alerted her to the presence of another.

"Who told you to sit down? We have a lot of work to do!" she declared in a loud voice, momentarily startling him until Michael realized he needed to get into character quickly. Standing up and bowing his head, he apologized profusely while Fiona whipped around to stare down the one member of her detail.

"We'll be landing in Trieste in a little under three hours," the French mercenary informed her.

"I want to be notified when we're an hour out," she advised. "And if you even think of touching this curtain again, I promise you I will break your trigger finger. Do we understand each other, monsieur?"

"Our orders are to maintain visual contact with—"

"Who hired you? Was it Monsieur Andreani himself? Because that is who brought me in and that is who will be personally speaking to me about this delivery when we are done here and not you, mon amie."

Grabbing the edge of the fabric, Fiona pulled it closed with a jerk and a huff. Turning back to face her beloved, she planted her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. "What are you waiting for? Get to work!" she shouted for the benefit of the audience on the other side of the cloth barrier. Although her words were not in their lingua franca, the phrase and the tone would be sufficient to send her message.

Michael put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, a slight smirk forming on his face. The fiery redhead drew a large breath and blew it out in an exasperated puff before smiling and winking at him. Then she noticed he wasn't looking her in the eye anymore and her expression blossomed into a lascivious grin.

"D'ya see sommit ya like, laddie?" she whispered in his ear, moving to stand entirely too close, the friction of the shear material against her bare breasts causing the outline of her nipples to stand out.

"You're not helping," he replied in a tight hiss before stepping away from her.

Reaching over, he took hold of the white jacket and handed it to her.

"You look cold, ma'am. You should cover up," he suggested in italia, slipping back into his role as valet.

She laughed noiselessly as his eyes continued to follow the rise and fall of her breasts while she shinnied into the fur. The garment fit tightly across the shoulders and chest. Looking down at herself, she saw exactly as much of her cleavage was being exposed as she expected. Nothing distracts a man like a beautiful woman; the more sensual you are, the less likely he'll be prepared should you need to kill him.

She swiped her hand over her face, attempting to dislodge the memory of Armand's advice echoing in her head. Then she found herself staring into his anxious blue orbs again, as Michael was tilting her chin up to meet his gaze. She bit her lips and nodded affirmatively. Twas going ta be okay, it just had ta be…

Tugging on his arm, she sat them both down on the couch. The stress of it all was starting to burn through her adrenaline and whatever sleep she had gotten on the trip from Newcastle to Marseille.

"I think wa're literally sittin' on top o' thot large stock o' Russian RPG's wa're meant ta deliver, if they have nae changed how they do things since tha last time I used this jet." And somehow, she couldn't just get this close to his ear without giving the lobe a light nip when she finished imparting her intel.

"And how long ago was that exactly?"

"Tis been five years since I last used this particular plane, if thot's whot yer askin' me," Fiona hedged.

"So, how long has it been since you did deliveries for Armand? Do you recognize anyone?" he continued to query in hushed tones. Michael was apparently assuming theirs was a business relationship and that suited her just fine at the moment. She still had three hours on the way back to France to discuss it later.

"The co-pilot thot flew us outta Newcastle. If he's still in Marseille when we get back thar, Am pretty sure he'd do me a favor if he donnae have ta stick his neck out taa far. I think I know one o' tha security team, nae personally but he looks familiar. Thot's why I picked ham. The others war jus' standing next ta ham. He wa' sitting up front on tha left hand side when we took off. I donnae know tha rest."

"And the woman, he said her name was Ping?"

"Never saw har before. But fram whot she said ta me, thar still followin' tha same delivery methods."

He was quiet for a moment, obviously deep in thought. Fiona could almost hear the wheels turning as he digested the information she'd given the elite operative. They were trapped into making this delivery as surely as she had been stuck doing the same four years ago, albeit for different reasons… It sickened her that she was going to have to provide that vile beast with the means to slaughter more innocents.

But this time she was doing it to save the man she loved and her child, instead of saving her own skin… an' I wouldnae have had ta do it except fer tha mess me family's left me in… How could Shay do thot?

"Armand said that he'd contacted Seamus about getting us out of Ireland, how did he know about that?" Michael inquired, as if reading her mind. "Is he still in contact with your family? Because Seamus still does business with him? Seems like you were still on good terms with him. Can we trust him?"

"Thot's a good question…" she answered at length. "Armand does things fer his own reasons…"

She slipped off the sofa and back into to her arms merchant persona. Getting on her knees in front of the couch on the other side of the aisle, Fiona felt around underneath the edge of the cushions until she found the latch she was looking for. "We should inspect the cargo… We don't want any surprises."

He helped her fold the seat cushion up and out of the way. Michael gave her a quizzical look at the what appeared to be a small collection of hard black plastic violin cases. The Irishwoman not quite rolled her eyes at him when she reached down into the space and undid some unseen latch and then he helped her lift out the false bottom. Tightly packed below that were dozens of instrument cases, stacked end to end to make the most effective use of the small space that extended down into the plane's storage area.

After she pulled one of them free, Michael took it from her and laid it on the other couch. Inside was a portable, reusable, unguided, shoulder-launched, anti-tank rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

"I'm sure those aren't Stradivariouses either," he muttered, gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the tray full of violin cases that the RPG-7 was sitting on.

"Some of them actually look like violins, just not that rare, and they're made out of plastique."

"And the rest… H&K MP7's?" the ex-operative guessed.

"PP-19 Bizons fresh from Izhmash," she returned. "I'd almost be jealous if I wasn't out of the business. I'm assuming the rest of the ordinance is in the other couch…" Fiona continued, skimming the manifest. "When I worked with my brother, he took care of this part. When I worked with Armand's people, I have always watched them pack the order personally in the past, so I've never had to repackage a delivery."

"I've done it before," her lover replied in a way that made her believe he'd done it many times before.

"I dinnae know ya war a gun runner in yar past life. Ya've been holdin' out on me," she accused softly.

"I wasn't really, I just played one for the US government. We liberated a lot of our cargo, so repacking-"

"Wa' part o' tha deal," Fiona finished his sentence for him, amazed that he had let slip some of his past.

A small part of her almost felt guilty for not telling him the truth right then about her relationship with Armand, especially considering how often she was angry with him for withholding things from her.

"I don't plan on doing this all night, Signore Gallo. Let's get this done," she declared loudly with a wink.

Stepping close to him, she stood on her tiptoes. "Tha sooner we get this lot gone through, tha sooner ya can go hoist one wit' tha lads an' ask if I wa' always such bitch an' see whot else they know. Wouldnae hurt ya ta take a closer look at whot me security is packin' an' how ya might separate tham fram it."

And because she was that close to his earlobe, Fiona couldn't resist giving it another little nip again.

Then the petite paramilitary assisted her boyfriend in confirming that there were indeed extremely deadly weapons and not musical instruments within those innocuous looking pieces of heavy molded plastic, with Michael doing all the heavy lifting in deference to the integrity of her outfit. After they had verified and re-packed the contents of the first sofa, they turned their attention to the other couch. The first item they liberated contained TBG-7V's, three per box of what was allegedly an electronic keyboard.

She watched the dark-haired man shake his head and remove his outer dress shirt, which was starting to stain ever so slightly under the armpits. He had immediately stripped out of his tie and vest as soon as they had started. "What's this?" Michael asked, reaching for a folded note tucked in the case's corner.

The not-so-slender redhead snatched it away before her fiancé could get his hands on it. She recognized the handwriting of her former lover on the outside of the square of paper. Tucking it into her pocket, Fiona saw the spark of curiosity in his blue eyes and decided to quickly cut off that line of inquiry.

"I'll be puttin' tha rest o' me game face on nar an' checkin' tha bathroom. Thar wa' always a spare gun hidden on board somewhar…" the auburn-haired ex-guerrilla declared, giving him a quick buss on his scruffy cheek before turning about to pick up the Louis Vuitton bags containing her makeup and hair accessories as well as the jewelry boxes.

"Can I trust you to finish this properly?" she queried loudly for the benefit of other nearby ears.

"Be careful," he pleaded quietly, pressing a soft kiss to her lips and then he released her.

She flipped the cloth barrier between herself and the rear of the plane aside such that it swished back into place behind her. The petite paramilitary was pleased to see the two men nearest come to attention as she entered the space. But Fiona waved them off as they made to stand up. Without her boots on, the last thing she needed was them towering over her as they surely would have.

The quartet were sitting in the same seats as they had been since taking off, their rifles within easy reach. She would have to see what she could do to have them lower their attentiveness. But Fiona couldn't spend too much time making eye contact or inspecting their armaments. She strode straight to the cockpit and opened the door like she owned the aircraft, which she had once upon a time.

"Je veux savoir quand nous sommes à moins d'une heure de Trieste," she informed them, repeating her earlier request which had been presumably relayed by her security detail and using the opportunity to study the men and the machinery. She still didn't know them and the interior of the jet hadn't changed. With a sharp nod of her head in acknowledgement of their answer, Fiona retreated into the restroom.

Blowing out a breath, she leaned heavily on the faux marble vanity. It seemed surreal to be back aboard the Falcon after the intervening years. She was still having trouble dealing with the fury that she would be forced to supply Alek Petrovic with arms again and the bitterness of the betrayal by her family that had put her in this position. She didn't even want let herself even think about her apparently imminent reunion with Armand Andreani nor the emotions those circumstances were stirring in her stomach.

Despite that, the one-time international arms merchant couldn't stop herself from pulling the note from her pocket. Unfolding the thick linen stationary with trembling fingers, dreading what she knew it was going to say only to be proven right: Another opportunity to make beautiful music together perhaps?

They'd smuggled a load of highly illegal ordinance into Vienna disguised as instruments destined for the Konzerthaus. She'd made the remark about what beautiful music the deadly explosives and powerful assault rifles would make while they'd attended a performance of the symphony after the delivery and he had nuzzled her neck, sending chills down her spine, as he'd promised they would make music later too.

Shaking hands tore the paper into tiny pieces over the open toilet bowl before it disappeared to dissolve in the holding tank of the Dassault. She found back the tears that threatened to burst forth. How tha hell could they do this ta me? Damn ya all… No, jus' feckin' no, Am nae goin' ta let Armand get ta me…

Running cold water into the steel sink, Fiona prepared to wash up and put on the façade of her old life.

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

Michael Westen wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. He'd doffed the vest and the tie long ago and had more recently removed the dress shirt. The rocket grenades of various loads alone weighed between five and ten pounds apiece. Not a heavy weight in and of itself, but repeated seventy plus times over and he was getting a little bit of a workout, never mind the other weapons in the order.

"I cannae say whar yer going, but I can tell ya thot ya need ta be careful, me boy. Those whot ar' taking ya in ar' a dangerous lot with love fer nothing but hard currency."
Now that he was elbow deep in Russian anti-tank and anti-personnel ordinance, that part of Claire Glenanne's warning had become self-evident. Her aunt had also said these were Fiona's people and she would be okay, although his future with them was less certain. But his auburn-haired beloved was edgy in a way that didn't make sense to him. That she was irritated for getting caught dozing he understood.

He wondered again about Fi's reaction to the announcement that they would be making an arms sale, presumably in payment for their passage out of Ireland. He'd read her file and she'd spend quite a few years as an international gun runner so he wasn't entirely sure at first what is going on with her then.

Her Interpol file had listed Armand Andreani as a known associate in the weapons dealing business. Was she upset about working with the supplier again or was it the customer who'd caused the problem?

"You've been to Bosnia?"

"Aye, tha las' time wa' in early '95… I never went back... an' I have no wish ta go back nar either…"

She hadn't told him any more about her time in the Balkans than he had revealed about his. Michael was fairly certain Trieste was in Italy and not Serbia, but he was a little concerned about meeting with any Serbian, as he'd had occasion to deal with them both as Miljan Andic and Oleg Makarkin.

Serbia might be a big place, but arms suppliers tend to run in smaller circles.

He allowed his mind to drift for a moment to the last time he had played an international war merchant. With his former partner, they had followed up their time undercover by using the intel they'd take from Mitar Savic's weapons depot in Belgrade right before they'd blown it up to take over the deceased gun runner's business, playing son Oleg to Larry's Alexei Makarkin for seven months based out of Kiev.

Suddenly, all of Savic's Serbian contacts had a terrible run of bad luck… arrested, killed by rivals, their routes taken over by new management or cut off completely. During that time, they got the word out that the Makarkins were ruthless SOBs who didn't do business in the Balkans… too much damn trouble.

Those were our glory days, weren't they, Kid? The Kings of Kiev… We really had the world by the balls …

It had not only protected their covers, it had also flushed the other major supplier into Serbia out into the open. Then they'd not only taken out Vasily Andropov, but recovered a stolen Russian warhead too.

Larry Sizemore's smug laughter echoed in his head. You know you miss it. Look at you, sneaking around, riding your girlfriend's skirt, worried about being spotted. Used to be on the top of the food chain, Kid.

Michael blew out a frustrated breath. As much as he did hate to admit it, there was some truth in the ghost of his deceased colleague's comments. But he was in no position to recreate those covers. Oleg was clean shaven and far better dressed, Miljan a wild man living amongst animals for months on end.

Re-establishing an old cover ID isn't just a matter of changing your name. If you want access to the contacts that go with that cover, you have to recreate the past. The way you walk, talk and look has to be consistent with what people remember, down to the smallest detail.

And right now, being recognized as either of those men would probably be more hazardous than helpful.

Fiona was recreating the past as well, albeit as a previous version of herself instead of a cover ID. In some ways, that could be an even more risky challenge. The intelligence files he'd been given had been a little light on coverage during this period of her life, as it wasn't seen as being relevant since he was supposed to have been cultivating Sean Glenanne as an asset. But he was beginning to wonder what exactly the nature of her relationship with her supplier had been and what was in the note she'd taken.

That his lover would have dressed provocatively back then he did not doubt, but it seemed odd that the man had been able to supply her with such perfectly fitted garments... well, they would have fit perfectly if she wasn't pregnant... and extremely expensive garments at that on such allegedly short notice. The petite and slender redhead had often complained about having trouble finding things that fit properly.

The sounds of the guards talking on the other side of the curtain distracted Michael momentarily from his thoughts. It was difficult to make out what they were saying as they were speaking quietly, but the former American agent was never above a little eavesdropping when the situation called for it.

"There'll be plenty of men at the drop-off. This guy, he's nothing but trouble. We had to take out two of his guys on the last delivery… didn't wait until the all clear to start unloading… thought we were going to have to take them all out… I was part of UNPROFOR in Sarajevo in '92… those bastards are animals…"

Their conversation cut off quickly and then he heard the reason why. Fiona's voice carried throughout the interior of the aircraft. She was heading his way, so he backed up, returning towards his task.

"Are you done, Signore Gallo?" his girlfriend called, but did not move aside the material separating them.

"Nearly, Signorina Glenanne," he answered quickly.

He listened to her addressing the two immediately in front of him, giving them their instructions as to what to expect for the delivery and what she expected of them before her footsteps retreated.

Michael listened intently, but didn't hear the nearest duo speak again, no doubt due to his beloved standing in the front of the plane conversing with the other security team and the flight crew. The ex-spy increased his pace, wanting to trade intelligence with his partner as soon as possible.

With his work now done, it was time to complete the next part of his assignment. He'd verified the cargo, now it was time to assess the team accompanying them and see what Fiona had learned. After tossing on his dress shirt without buttoning it, he considered taking the vest and tie and then left them.

Pushing aside the fabric between him and the rest of the plane, Michael saw the pair in the front were watching him as carefully as he assumed the two behind were. The guard on the left lifted his chin and then nodded over his shoulder. Apparently, the Irishwoman had gone returned to the restroom and he wondered if she'd been able to discover a gun and if so, had she found a place to hide it on her person?

The American did his best to come up with an air of put-upon indignation as he stared at the bathroom door and rolled his eyes. He mouthed the Italian word for women with hopefully the right of air of bemused exasperation and rummaged in the kitchenette area, hoping to find a bottled water and let Fiona know it was time to reconvene. The bodyguards were well armed, visibly carrying PAMAS G1 9 mm pistols and 11" WING tactical knives in addition to the SA80A2 assault rifles he'd already seen.

They would be difficult to overcome, though the close quarters could work to his advantage.

It took all his training for his shock not to show on his face when Fiona flung the restroom door open while he was sipping on his Evian. Her dark-haired lover almost didn't know where to look first.

Her short-cropped hair had been slicked down flat presumably with mousse and secured with two large diamond and platinum clips on either side of her temple. Her throat was adored with a woven wire choker of the same metal with a single tear drop shaped stone suspended in the center. More platinum and fiery white diamonds adorned her wrists and fingers, the overall designs similar to her necklace with a more Celtic flair, costing a small fortune. But what really caught his attention was her makeup.

She had expertly recreated the fuller face he recognized from her Interpol photographs during the period prior to the extreme weight loss she'd undergone following her sister's murder with nothing more than cover, rouge and lip liner, her cheek bones subtle and her mouth fuller though subtly colored…

However, there was nothing subtle about her eyes. Dark thick full lashes top and bottom framed her blue green orbs, made all the more intense by heavy eye makeup that echoed her natural color scheme and he was grateful he had a bottle of water in his mouth at that moment because he might have gaped otherwise, which would not have been in character at all. She was running a critical eye over him too.

"If everything is in order, get cleaned up. Then you can help me with my boots. Bring me another water."

Fiona didn't wait for an answer. She took the bottle from his grasp and then slipped past her beloved and straight to the back of the plane, moving with a purpose but without hurry. The gun runner stared down both of the guards in the back before giving them a saucy toss of her head and sashaying into the rear.

Michael shook his head and then ducked inside, stripping off his shirts in preparation to clean up in the small stainless steel sink as well. While he washed up, he thought about what he'd seen so far. He knew Fiona had a love of high end clothing and expensive jewelry but didn't indulge it often that he knew of.

The former government agent thought over what he'd read in her files again about her career as a weapons dealer. The resources she was apparently accustomed to commanding said she was used to working at a level much higher than she had with her brother and even higher than he had in Kiev. He knew Fiona could be flashy, frequently frustrating his desire to keep things operationally low key, but…

Something about the level of command and arrogance she displayed… something about the dollar value of the bling that was casually adorning a woman who was on her way to an arms deal with a potentially unstable customer… something about having the supplier on a deal providing a cover of that detail…

Putting his shirts back on, Michael ran his damp hands through his short black hair. Looking in the mirror, he inspected the results. He didn't look much like the prior legends he'd used in this area. As long as he didn't encounter anyone he'd deal with personally for an extended period of time, it should be difficult to recognize him and he'd certainly had gone out of his way not to make friends…

The American did a quick search of the cubicle and found a French-made version of a Beretta 92 hidden behind the sink under the vanity, but without his vest to cover it he had no way to hide the weapon. He would have to make a return trip to the restroom as well. He wondered what else she might have found.

"I've done this run before. I can see why he wanted her to come back to deal with this asshole."

As the ex-spy exited, he caught more commentary from the two men standing just inside the seating area. His expertise was in Russian and the Slavic languages, Serbian, Bulgarian, Polish etc.… and Middle Eastern dialects, Persian, Pashtu, Urdu, Arabic, not so much continental Europe. But he had a good command of German, oddly Italian for this mission and luckily picked up some French in Tangiers…

"I guess she is back working with him again… who knows if she's back together with him again. Either way, don't cross her if you want to last long on this job or in this life…"

Michael made sure not to react to what he'd heard. Better not to let them know he'd understood them.

The dark-haired man turned to the galley and procured the requested water bottle then turned back, nodding towards them. He thought about striking up a conversation, but recalling what Fiona had said about the one guard looking familiar and knowing she had talked with them, the former American operative decided against it as they needed to coordinate their cover story first.

He heard them remark that he was too well muscled and lacked the air of a servant to be just her valet before his stride took him out of earshot of the conversation. They'd given him plenty to think about.

"L'acqua, madame," he said, extending the bottle and noticing that she dozed off sitting up at the same instant. Fiona's eyes snapped open, focusing quickly on her boyfriend, relief followed by annoyance.

He took a chance and sat down next to her within reach of those deadly fists. "You should sleep," he urged in low tones. "I can keep an eye on things until we land. I get the feeling you're going to need it."

The weary Irishwoman took a quick swig from the bottle, being careful not to smear her lipstick.

"Whot makes ya say thot?"

"Your security seems to think Armand brought you in to do this delivery because the client's an asshole." She looked startled for a second. "Their words, not mine…" he clarified. "So, is he trouble?"

"Ya have nae idea," she whispered.

"That's why I asked," he countered not unkindly.

Fiona let out a heavy sigh. "I dinnae care fer ham fram tha day I met tha man. He wa' desperate, so Armand said. His suppliers had cut ham off an' he wa' willin' ta pay triple. We war on a trip ta Venice an' we made a side stop in Trieste. I donnae trust desperate men, so thot wa' our most secure location."

Michael thought about what she had said. It was possible then that whomever this customer was, it could have been somebody from the Balkans that he and Larry had cut off from their supply of arms.

"But Armand continues to do business with him…?"

"Aye, as I told ya, Armand does things fer his own reasons sometimes… It wa' nae until tha last time I—"

She swallowed thickly and he was unsure which topic to push: the man she obviously detested that they were about to deliver enough RPGs to finish a small war or the man she had apparently been living with.

"And Armand-?" the ex-agent prompted.

"Whot about Armand?" and her defensiveness was almost enough of an answer.

"Did you two part on good terms or should I be worried?"

The redhead bit her lip and dropped her gaze to her lap. "Ya hear ham. He's always happy ta see me."

"I'm guessing… that… that you aren't… uh… happy to be seeing him again."

"I cannae believe me family did this. As ya might have noticed, his favors always come wit' strings."

It disturbed him to see her like this. On the whole, Fiona was fearless, sometimes to her own detriment and occasionally his. However, the prospect of dealing with her apparent ex seemed to be crushing her soul. As a soldier and as a spy, he was well acquainted with what men could do to women as well as the reverse. But on an intimate relationship level, he was in uncharted territory and unsure how to proceed.

"What kind of strings?" Michael pressed when she didn't continue, reaching out to take her hand.

"Thar's no tellin' 'til he asks… Hopefully this delivery will be tha end o' it, but I wonnae hold me-"

At the sound of someone approaching their position, the former paramilitary shook herself and stood up, pulling away from his grasp.

"Nous serons à Trieste en moins d'une heure…" and Michael didn't recognize the voice, which made him assume it was part of the command crew, probably the co-pilot, delivering the requested message to let them know when they would be landing soon.

"Merci beaucoup," she answered, confirming his suspicions, as she was likely to be politer to them than the security detail. The mantle of international arms trader settled over her again as she sat back down on the couch, putting physical distance as well as proverbial walls between them. If the situation weren't so serious, Michael might have appreciated the irony of her turning his techniques against him.

"We'll be in Trieste in less than an hour. Help me with these boots," she instructed in italia, thrusting said footwear towards him. The laces were a complicated affair and the dark-haired man was fairly certain she would have to undo the tight leather slacks in order to get them on by herself.

"Was there anything in the bathroom besides the 9 mm?" he whispered as he turned to the task of helping her into the black leather footwear, appreciating the fact that they were thickly soled with a large heel that would allow his girlfriend sufficient support should she need to run or attack. He took a moment to mentally marvel how she could walk, never mind run or fight, in most of the shoes she wore.

"Nae more in thar, though thar's a Walther in tha cockpit wit' me name on it." She put a stocking foot out to reach behind him and brush her toes over the back of his trousers. "Ya'll need ta put yar vest back on ta hide it properly. In fact, ya need ta put yar tie back on taa."

He deliberately made a face and there was a sparkle in her eyes, although it didn't reach her mouth. For all the many times he'd worn a suit over the years, they almost never included a vest and certainly no tie.

"Thar's a reason all tha flight crew an' the bodyguards each have thar own uniforms. Tis so they know who nae ta shoot in a firefight," Fiona continued. "I set thot system up years ago as a precaution… Tis nae like doing business wit' Shay an' knowin' who yer dealin' wit' most o' yar life. Tis nae much time when things go bad ta decide who's who as yer clearin' outta a hangar tha hard way."

"Fair enough," he replied, appreciating on the one hand the tactical sense it made, but slightly disturbed by the utter ruthlessness it spoke of and some of that must have shown. "And who am I to you now?"

The question seemed to take her aback. "Besides tha father o' our babby?" she hissed, clearly angry.

Michael blinked, surprised by the quick turn of her temper. "Our cover ID's," he clarified. "Who is Signore Gallo to Signorina Glenanne and who are they to Mr. Armand Andreani? I assume you told them some kind of story to cement our covers." He considered asking about the note again and decided now would probably be the pinnacle of bad timing as she was already edgy and obviously highly erasable.

The fiery redhead huffed out an irritated breath as he finished lacing up one of the boots. "Too tight?"

"A little," Fiona admitted. She bit her lip again, a gesture he was beginning to believe that she'd actually picked up from him, and sighed, her troubled blue green orbs misting over and threatening to ruin her thick mascara. "I wa' a different person back then, I wa'… I wa' someone I donnae want ta be again."

The former American agent finished loosening the laces and retied the top. From his position kneeling on the floor, he looked into her downcast face, reaching out again to tilt her chin until she met his eyes.

He didn't say anything, mostly because he wasn't sure what to say. Fiona would see through any trite platitudes or false comfort and it would only make things worse. But he was reasonably assured that he knew how she felt, if not exactly because he couldn't imagine that the petite paramilitary for all the violence in her life could have done things as monstrous as he had in the company of Larry Sizemore, and that empathy and understanding must have shown in his expression because she sort of smiled.

It wasn't much of a smile, but it was better than nothing and she let out another long heavy breath.

"I stuck ta tha truth mostly, which is ta say I repeated as much o' yar cover story fram Ireland as I thought thot would keep ya outta trouble. Yer a lad fram Kilkenny who wa' livin' in Milan workin' fer one o' tha families, I dinnae say which one, just a rival, an' I poached ya fram tham fer yer drivin' an' stealin' skills."

He started to fit her foot into the other boot as she continued the tale. "I dinnae say anythin' else other than I'd been workin' wit' ya fer tha last eighteen months an' decided ta bring ya along. They think Armand asked me in ta deal wit' Alek. They donnae know anythin' about ham gettin' us outta Ireland."

"Did you get any names?"

"Tha one thot knows me is Marcel an' his buddy up front is Hugo. I dinnae ask after tha two in the back. They need ta learn thar place, tha pair o' tham. Tha pilot is Henri and tha co-pilot is Pascal. Oh, I almost forgot… I tol' tha flight crew thot ya war learnin' ta be a pilot an' they should show ya tha ropes. Thot should give ya a good enough excuse to be messin' about thar if ya need ta."

Michael made a mental note and filed those facts away. "So, how much does Marcel know?"

"He wa' new ta tha organization right befer I left. He wa' in me security detail after… He replaced a man we'd lost in a fire fight in Bosnia. I dinnae have much contact wit' ham befer I went home ta me family."

"Is that why you left?" Michael asked quietly. "Because of your family?"

"Thot's whot I told ham anyway…"

He was quiet again as he finished lacing up her footwear, once more not knowing what to say, the need for intelligence not entirely driving his desire to know her past. He'd wanted to know more about the man she'd shot dead on the Coleraine's Farm once Liam had quite maliciously no doubt let him know that the corpse had been one of her ex-lovers. Prior to that, he'd had little interest in her former flames.

But since the moment he'd fallen on one knee and asked the woman who'd stolen his heart to be his wife, Michael found himself increasingly more interested in who Fiona had been as well as who she'd been with and not just for practical reason he could relative to his spy training. If she'd stopped doing gun deals for Armand Andreani four years ago, then it stood to reason their relationship had ended then.

"I guess she is back working with him again… who knows if she's back together with him again."

Marcel's overheard words from earlier echoed in his head, but before he had much opportunity to mull over his next line of questioning, the voice he had assumed belonged to the co-pilot Pascal announced that it was time for them to take their places as they were beginning their approach.

Fully dressed again, Michael made a quick stop in the restroom to retrieve the automatic hidden under the sink and tuck it into the waistband of his slacks, pressed tight into the small of his back under the vest before taking his seat and buckling in. Fiona's chosen dress code for the command crew made sense … a place to hide a gun without a jacket and a tie that had a number of uses besides looking suave.

The landing was not as swift nor as smooth as the one that had brought them into Aeroport Marseille Provence in the wee hours of the morning. The airport in France was located on the end of a large bay, the Étang de Berre, whereas the Trieste Airport Friuli Venezia Giulia was surrounded by mountains on one side and a long meandering river on the other, making for a more turbulent predawn touchdown.

They were not moving towards a large private hangar, but rather a series of low concrete outbuildings near a high barbed wire fence topped with razor wire at the outskirts of the airport with a guarded gate sat very close to the road. They would need to maintain the cover of night to keep their business sub rosa and the sun was just starting to discolor the darkness over the hilltops to the east. Now he understood the Asian lady's insistence that they arrive before dawn. How was this locale more secure?

Then the former American agent recalled he'd thought he spotted snipers on the roof of the building next door as they had descended towards the runway, but had been moving too fast to tell for certain.

"They'll come in off the SS14 and through the gate," Fiona explained in a whisper close to his ear, the jet taxiing towards the squat ugly buildings on the far western edge of the runway. "Armand owns the airport shuttle service over there and everyone on the fire station next door in on the payroll too."

…The site of a deal can tell you a lot about who you're doing business with. If it's private, they value control. If it's public, they want to get in and out anonymously. If they've somehow found a site that gives them both, you're dealing with somebody who really knows what they're doing…

Michael could just make out the shape of two black SUVs and a large cargo van sitting on the other side of the gate with their lights off. "They'll switch the cargo onto other trucks once they're in Sablici and take it on to Slovenia or Croatia from there. There's thirty well-armed men inside those buildings," she indicated with a jut of her chin towards the square bunkers they were approaching before the aircraft turned and cut off their view.

Most black-market transactions tend to go the same way. First payment is inspected, then the goods are brought to the table. This standard sequence is meant to ensure both parties against a blown deal.

"I'll verify the payment before we unload any of the cargo," Fiona informed him as soon as the plane had come to a stop perpendicular to the trio of structures. Rising from her seat, she walked to the cockpit, taking the sat phone and the Walther from the pilot. She tucked the automatic into the front of her waistband such that it was highly visible through the sheer tunic she wore. With the mobile in her grasp pressed to her ear, the Irishwoman waited while it connected to Armand's assistant back in Marseilles.

Peering out the plexiglass, Michael watched as the Mercedes Benz Sprinter 312D backed into the depot farthest from their position. The other pair of vehicles pulled up on either side of the large rollup door the heavy cargo van was disappearing into as more exceedingly well-armed men, wearing the same uniforms as the four security guards with him and carrying the same weapons, exited from the building to stand in a line approximately six feet from the two Mercedes G-Class wagons with the tinted windows.

The former operative stared as the passenger door of the SUV nearest their plane opened and a man of slender build stepped out, the large burn mark on his face standing out even in the dim lighting. There was something disturbingly familiar about his gait and overall bearing, his uniform, one generally favored by Serbian paramilitary forces and featured in his nightmares, adding to Michael's rising paranoia. As Armand's customer paused to light a cigarette, the flare of the lighter momentarily illuminated his face.

The dark-haired man turned towards the nearest merc and gestured for the binoculars that the Frenchman was using to observe their guests while Fiona was finishing up on the phone with Ping. But however annoyed Mercel might have been by the request, he gave them to Signore Gallo nonetheless.

"That meeting Captain Orlovi dragged me along to… it was to welcome a newcomer to the town... Aleksander Petrovic…"

Michael froze, refusing to believe the evidence his own eyes were presenting him. Aleksander Petrovic, number two to Mitar Savic, was alive. The reason he'd been sent to live amongst the detestable animals who called themselves the White Dragons was to discover how Savic had been stealing American arms secretly being supplied to the Bosnian defense forces, spending most of '92 to '93 undercover with Larry.

He'd spent months living around and working with Aleksander Petrovic while awaiting the arrival of his boss at Bajina Bašta and afterwards. There was no way in hell that man would not recognize him.

For anyone who works in covert ops, names have a special power. Knowing someone's real name, who they work for, you've got something on them. 'Out' a spy in the field, and you could get him killed.

The ex-Army sharp shooter watched with growing dread as Petrovic slowly walked towards the plane, having brief flashback of the chaos that had erupted after he had sent the man's employer to meet his maker. He wasn't sitting on an aircraft any more… he was in a tree covered by the darkness, covering the escape of Larry Sizemore and Sam Axe with their prize prisoner, General Drava, the SEAL killer…

He had shot Petrovic through the chest and in the leg, had made a point of targeting him first once he'd pressed the detonator to the suicide vest they had fitted his boss with after Michael had spent the night torturing Mitar Savic for the intel they needed. As other explosives he had planted in the days prior to the arrival of their newest high value target had rocked the camp, he had used the American-made M24 stolen back from the gun runners to take down as many of the paramilitaries as he could for cover fire.

How the hell had the bastard survived that? He had seen Petrovic go down through the sniper scope.

There are only a few places on the human body that can take a gunshot without severing a major artery or destroying a vital organ. Getting shot on the inside of the shoulder won't kill you quickly but almost any gunshot will kill you if you give it enough time.

While the Serbian slowly continued to move towards his position, the former spy got one of his answers, observing the pronounced limp he hadn't fully noticed before, being too distracted by the man's face.

A sharp elbow to his shoulder drew his attention away from his approaching dilemma and the hand held wordlessly in front of his face told him that Mercel wanted the borrowed equipment back, which Michael surrendered quickly and did his best to look sheepish instead of horrified by what he had seen.

"He wa' desperate, so Armand said. His suppliers had cut ham off an' he wa' willin' ta pay triple."

Fiona recalled words deepened his rapid growing fear. Petrovic had been their customer because he and Larry had taken over Savic's routes and shut down his supply line. Did his beloved's assumedly ex-lover know him under his cover as Oleg Makarkin as well? Was sending her to this delivery deliberate? Did Armand Andreani know who he really was instead of the latest addition to Fiona's entourage?

If the French war merchant didn't suspect him before, he certainly would once he showed his face to the Serbian arms dealer, who at the very least would want to know why Miljan Andic was there and where he and his uncle had been hiding since their last meeting when their camp, their trucks and all their stolen arms had gone up in a fiery conflagration moments before their guest of honor had been taken.

"Payment is confirmed," she announced en français and then called another number, presumably instructing the ground crew within the concrete bunker immediately in front of the jet to come and unload the cargo from the hold of the modified Dassault, removing the deadly weapons as if they were so much luggage off a commercial liner. Fiona then told the two in the rear to stand guard in the back.

Sending Mercel and Hugo out the front to the aircraft ahead of her, the one-time terrorist turned towards her boyfriend, coming to his position by the window and handing him the satellite phone.

"Time ta meet our guest," she said in a low tone that made it clear what she thought of Petrovic.

"I can't… I can't go with you," he answered in a tight whisper, although it was absolutely killing him inside to send his pregnant fiancée out there alone to meet with a man he knew was a monster.

"Nae harm will come ta Fiona from this bunch. They wonnae harm a hair on har head…"

He had to hope that Claire Glenanne's words were true and that all the mercenaries were actually under her control and all the Serbian paramilitaries were just here to do business and nothing more. Fiona knew the man, had dealt with him successfully in the past and as long as Aleksander Petrovic thought it was business as usual with Armand Andreani's representative, there shouldn't be any trouble.

"Whot?" she hissed, the fiery redhead gazing at him dumbfounded before her glare turned murderous.

The minute he entered the picture, it would cause questions at the least and massive problems at the most if he was recognized and ID'd as a traitor. He didn't know if Alek had figured out that he and Lazar were responsible for kidnapping Drava and destroying everything, but he had to assume the worst.

"That's Alexsander Petrovic… I can't explain right now, but I can't go with you," he answered in italia, still keeping his voice down while looking over her shoulder at the commander crew standing at the door of the cockpit pretending to be disinterested in their heated albeit quiet conversation.

The look of hurt and betrayal in those blue green eyes before being replaced by fury had been a knife straight through his heart. What was more frightening still was the stone-cold stare he'd used a many time, the M Dub G D as his fellow Rangers had called his death glare, that was on Fiona's face right now.

"I'll back you up from the plane," he promised, although he knew it was a lame offer in light of the monumental firepower she was walking into the midst of armed only with a Walther PPK/S.

"Donnae bother," she spat before turning on her heel and storming away from him. "We will discuss your inability to follow orders when this is over, Signore Gallo," Fiona declared in a loud voice as she headed for the exit. "Keep him out of my sight!" she told Henri and Pascal as she went out the door.

The pilot and the co-pilot shifted uncomfortably as they took turns looking at him with poorly disguised pity and watching the Irishwoman march down the air-stairs. Michael slipped alongside them, standing at an angle that would him allow to observe the meet without being seen.

The former paramilitary, her back stiff and her head held high, marched towards the customer, a man she clearly detested, and assumed a casual pose that still emphasized her control over the situation. Six guards detached from the ensemble surrounding the three structures and moved to form a loose semi-circle behind his beloved. She chatted for a few moments with the Serbian and Michael felt himself start to relax just the slightest. They could do this. All that was needed was to stay calm until this was over.

Until Fiona Glenanne made a sweeping gesture towards the plane and barked a nasty laugh, then started to lead Aleksander Petrovic, the man that could potentially identify him as a spy and get himself and possibly everyone else killed in a hail of hot lead, straight towards to the aircraft which he was hiding in.