A/N: Hello and Happy Memorial Day weekend to everyone in the US and another happy belated birthday to beejed. A new chapter of Reconnecting on the M-page for the 201 AU "Free to Be You and Me" should be coming soon as well as new offerings under our individual pen names. We appreciate your continuing interest in this AU and your support for all our efforts to keep Burn Notice going here on Fan Fiction.
This chapter also makes reference to Michael's time in Bosnia and Serbia as detailed in "Life with Larry."
In this installment, Fiona and Michael find themselves going from the proverbial frying pan to the fire. Nuff said… on with the story…
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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Forty Three
"Time ta meet our guest," she said, making no attempt to hide her ill feelings towards Petrovic.
"I can't… I can't go with you," he announced suddenly.
"Whot…?" She couldn't have heard him right…
At first, all Fiona could do was stare at him in disbelief. Whot tha hell is he playin' at?
"That's Alexsander Petrovic… I can't explain right now, but I can't go with you," he answeredin Italian, keeping to his cover and that's when it hit the former paramilitary what was going on.
He knew the bastard!
Michael had already acknowledged that they'd been in Serbia at roughly the same time. Hadn't he admitted that he'd been undercover as a gunrunner? Knowing even what little she did about his life as a spy, it meant he could have been working with that monster in the past for who knew how long.
"I'll back you up from the plane," he offered.
"Donnae bother…" The furious Irishwoman couldn't keep the venom out of her voice even as she was already putting her arrogant international arms merchant persona back in place. Damn them all fer doin' this ta me! But she had a job to do if they were going to live through this situation to argue about it later.
"We will discuss your inability to follow orders when this is over, Signore Gallo," she declared for the benefit of her audience as she turned to deal with her guest.
"Keep him out of my sight!" was her final instructions to the pilot and co-pilot as Fiona exited the aircraft. If the problem was that Alek would recognize Michael, then hopefully she had just given him the opening he needed to convince Henri and Pascal to take him into the cockpit.
One of the few women to ever become an active member of the Provisional IRA used the discipline that made her a world class sniper and the inner fire that enabled her to smile in the face of the enemy to school her features into an expression of complete confidence with a side of barely disguised disdain.
The cocky redhead stopped a few meters from the approaching men, assuming a deceptively casual stance, jutting one hip forward to emphasize the weapon secured in the front of her waistband. The Serb came forward with two of his associates following on either side of him, wearing uniforms similar to his own and sporting Zastava M70As on their gun belts. His other henchmen remained with the SUVs.
Her temper rose as Aleksander Petrovic openly ogled her from slicked back hair to leather boots, his gaze then shifting between the hammer of the PPK that was pressed into her navel and her exposed cleavage.
"Eyes up here, little man," Fiona commanded in Serbian, as six of her own guards moved to form a loose semi-circle behind her from the larger group that was watching over the vehicles of Armand's customer.
Petrovic broke into a salacious smile, not at all insulted. "Hard to do when there is so much to see."
"I think there's something else you came to see."
"Perhaps, but I like the view here," he countered, the smile turning into a challenging leer.
The whine of hydraulics cut through the silence of the pre-dawn, also breaking the tension that was building between the commanders of the two groups. Swallowing down the urge to utter the words that would bring about the death of Aleksander Petrovic and every one of his men, the irritated Irishwoman returned the gun runner's look with a saucy smile of her own and toss of her head towards the plane.
"Then admire the view while my men load your cargo."
As the monster she detested came to stand by her side, Fiona fervently hoped that the crews were still as quick and efficient as the last time she'd done a delivery here and this nightmare would end soon.
"We should drink," the Serbian declared as the security detail moved aside to allow the heavy luggage carts to be wheeled towards the jet where eight men dressed in coveralls and wearing the large plastic ear protection that doubled as headsets were standing near the underside of the aircraft.
"I plan to," Fiona informed him truthfully, omitting the actual time frame for that activity.
"We should drink to our reunion and another successful deal," Petrovic said.
Her laughter was bitter, but she covered it well as the fiery redhead made a long gesture with her arm towards the plane. "Yes, a drink with you, Alek, would be a most appropriate end to this day."
"And a new one is already on its way…" The Slavic gun runner walked a little too close as they strolled towards the Falcon while Fiona prayed that the ex-spy inside had been smart enough to have hidden himself in the cockpit already.
She sensed Marcel and Hugo fall in behind her, separating her from the others in Petrovic's party while ahead she could see the co-pilot standing off to the side near the galley area. As she ascended the stairway, Fiona heard the pilot Henri instructing someone, presumably Michael who was wisely silent, in performing of the preflight checks on the Dassault.
"Pascal, rakija for our guests," she requested as she continued moving, heading all the way to the back of the jet where the two men she'd scolded earlier were standing at attention. The redhead could now hear the cargo being unloaded through the bottom of the modified fuselage in the next compartment.
"Watch them all very carefully," she told the duo quietly in their mother tongue. "You know what to do."
"Kruškovača," Petrovic remarked after sampling the glass he'd been handed, clearly pleased to find his favorite brand of the Serbian national drink onboard. "You remembered."
"How could I forget?" she answered, expertly covering the level of her internal irony as she turned to face the Serb and the other two in his entourage who were walking towards her position in the rear.
Fiona took the drink from the co-pilot, enraged inside and furious at everyone who'd had a hand in putting her in this position, herself included, and calmly raised it towards the man she would have cheerfully eviscerated with a rusty blade. With a nod of her head, she took a small sip, detesting the burning alcohol on her tongue, and surreptitiously let the liquid slide back into the tumbler.
She flung the curtain aside with a dramatic flair, knowing that it was killing Petrovic that he could not simple lay hands on her and do what he liked to her, as he was used to having his own way with women. Precisely why Armand wanted me ta do this delivery, she thought sourly. Too bloody distracted droolin' over me ta misbehave. Nor was it the first time she had used that tactic working for Armand.
The redhead bent down, flipping the latches before pushing the couch out of the way to reveal a sampling of the weapons which were being taken from the cargo area of the aircraft. Standing up, she took the manifest lying by a nearby case containing one of the violin replicas made from high explosives.
"Everything is in order," she informed him, handing the document to the Serbian gun runner.
"For what I am paying, it should be," he muttered as he skimmed through the paperwork before handing it off to one of his subordinates. Then his gaze skimmed over the assembled weaponry on display before returning to rake over her body once again.
"You should count yourself lucky," Fiona declared. "Such misunderstandings usually prove fatal."
Marcel had told her they'd had an incident during one of their previous deliveries where a couple of Petrovic's men had tried to start loading the merchandise before the payment had been received. The tense standoff had almost ended in a full blown fire fight. She wasn't sure why Armand was still dealing with the man, but Mr Andreani always had his reasons for the things he did.
"Then it's good we're all friends here now, isn't it?" Petrovic handed her his empty tumbler, allowing his fingers to brush over hers and linger. "Another drink to celebrate our friendship?"
"Pack up your samples before I change my mind about that," the redhead remarked.
She walked back up the aisle, feeling their eyes upon her as if they were actually touching her and handed Petrovic's empty glass to the co-pilot. "Another drink for our friend…" she told Pascal.
The Irishwoman looked back over her shoulder, observing the customer's two henchmen removing the samples that Michael had prepared as part of his repacking efforts, a fleeting thought about quizzing her lover later about his association with Petrovic running through her brain before she turned away again.
"Watch them carefully," were her instructions to Marcel and Hugo before she slipped into the bathroom.
Fiona poured three quarters of her drink into the toilet and watched as the liquid swirled away.
"Tis no good cryin' over spilt milk, me darlin' girl," her father's voice floated up from the past. "Things happen ya have nae control of all tha time. Tis how ya deal with tha change o' circmstance thot is tha measure o' yar character..."
She had been seven years old and angry that three-year-old Claire had torn and drawn over several pages of her favorite book. Then in her rage she had taken a pot of Sean's model paint from his latest Airfix kit and used it to draw a moustache, beard and fresh eyebrows on her younger sister's favorite doll...
The Irishwoman smiled in spite of herself at the memory. She had always been the one most likely to overreact at any slight. Claire's heartbreaking wails had brought the whole family running and it had taken both of their parents to separate the warring siblings as Sean had yelled about her stealing his things and Patrick had tried to lecture then all. It had been chaos…
She suddenly sniffed… Staring at the small sample of spirits left in the glass in her hand, she had every right to be utterly enraged with her family for this. But in that moment, she missed them all.
She missed squabbling, all the good-natured fighting, she missed her father's homespun philosophy and his soothing presence, a bastion of calm in the constant turmoil that was her childhood.
The redhead gently dabbed at the corners of her eyes, careful not to disturb her make-up. No good crying over spilt milk, she thought of those words as she added water to the near empty glass of liquor.
Raising the drink, Fiona examined her handiwork. It would probably taste disgusting, but she wouldn't have to endanger her unborn child while pretending to share a drink with a vile beast that deserved a painful death. Yes, twas a nice sentiment. She narrowed her eyes as all the wrongs done to her came back to the surface. But it wasn't in her nature to forgive and forget. Straightening up, she prepared to step out of the sanctuary of the cramped bathroom. It wasnae in yar nature either, was it nar, daddy?
()()()()()()()
Being a successful covert operative requires a lot of things: a facility with languages, an aptitude with weapons of all kind, the ability to adapt quickly to any given situation, a tolerance for exotic foods and alcohol… But one of the most important aspects of tradecraft is multi-tasking, the capability to appear completely absorbed in the task at hand while surreptitiously doing something else simultaneously.
So, while Henri, the pilot of the Dassault Falcon, was presumably instructing Signore Gallo on the basics of operating said aircraft, the former American ace operative was listening intently to the conversations taking place on the other side of the cockpit door and trying to make sure he wasn't spotted through the front windows by any of the other Serbian militia men outside.
Fortunately for Mr Westen, he had already learned how to fly years ago, so he was able to give the right responses and a few deliberate mistakes he recalled from his own informal flight training with his cousin Shane back in his military days. Michael had undertaken the task of completing his formal aviation licensing while he was recovering from his injuries after the incident in Chechnya, which had initially terminated his partnership with Larry Sizemore and began his time as Lucy Chen's training officer.
It was incredibly frustrating being trapped in the front of the jet while his fiancée was forced to deal with a butcher; however, since he'd already concluded that his participation in this in any way would be fatal to everyone, he was forced to deal with it and do his best impression of an eager student for Henri.
And he was grateful that the pilot had taken the hint with minimal additional persuasion on his part to help the hapless Signore Gallo escape the inestimable wrath of Miss Fiona Glenanne, whose reputation with Armand Andreani's organization continued to proceed her long after her departure from said role.
As the maddening minutes ticked away and the ex-spy concentrated on learning to pilot this particular plane, eventually he heard the Serbian speaking again on the other side of the door and he flinched at the vulgar things Aleksander Petrovic was saying, though clearly Alek had to have been out of earshot of the fiery redhead while the Slavic gun runner was detailing what he would do with her were they alone.
Or not…
"You overestimate your charms, Alek… perhaps you should try spending more time with women you haven't bound and gagged before inviting them into your bedroom."
While he internally cheered on his beloved and her bravado, he waited in tense anticipation to see what their adversary's reaction was, relieved to hear the bastard laugh and wanting to still have an excuse to kill him at the same time. Henri looked on in thinly veiled sympathy before continuing the lessons.
The banter went on, but grew steadily quieter and after what seemed like an eternity later, Pascal poked his head into the cockpit to advise them that Fiona was off the plane along with their unpleasant guests.
With the light outside the jet now equalized with the low illumination inside the aircraft, Michael risked a glance out the front windows. He could see the retreating backs of the Serbians as they headed for their SUVs and the large cargo van pulling out of the low concrete bunker where it had been sitting while presumably being loaded down with the weapons they had come to collect.
Turning away to study the instrument panel again, the former agent continued to listen intently although he was unable to hear much outside the insulated space. He was relieved when the co-pilot informed them that it was time to depart and that Michael should basically get his posterior out of Pascal's seat.
As the dark-haired man exited the cockpit, he heard his beloved's boots ascending the air-stairs and he quickly stood to the one side in the galley with his head down, as befitted someone who had failed their assignment, so far as the security detail knew that was. Fiona swept by him without a sidelong glance and announced in French that she wanted to leave immediately.
The petite firecracker went directly into the rear and strapped herself into one of the four seats around the table. The pair of guards in the rear of the plane had already taken the seats in the back on the other side of where Fiona was seated. With Marcel and Hugo closing the door and then taking the two other seats in the front, Michael was left with no place to retreat. He headed towards the table in the tail.
Knowing that no matter what he did he was going to be in trouble with the irascible redhead, the ex-spy opted to keep his cover, taking the seat opposite his fiancée but declining to look her directly in the eye.
But when he did venture a sidelong glance at her, he found that Fiona's eyes were tightly closed and her jaw clenched, her mouth drawn together in a hard, thin line. The sight of the one-time terrorist reining in her infamous temper with that much effort certainly gave him pause and Michael was suddenly grateful for the momentary reprieve that was sure to end once the jet was in the air.
The American didn't have long to wait either. As soon as the pong sounded that indicated they were at a cruising altitude, those unforgiving orbs snapped open and there was a kaleidoscope of emotions blazing there. While hurt and betrayal were prominent, unbridled anger was definitely on the top of that list.
"A word with you, Signore Gallo… now!"
Michael not quite scrambled out of his seat, stepping aside so the infuriated Irishwoman could pass by.
Following her into the back, he pulled the curtain closed behind them and walked carefully to where Fiona stood at the very end of that space, her back to him. As soon as he was within reach, she rounded on him; however, Michael was expecting the blow and caught her wrist before she could deliver the slap.
"How long?" Fiona demanded, hissing low in italia. "How long were you working with that animal?"
That line of questioning was not what he had been expecting. "A few months..."
"And when were you going to let me in on that little detail from your past, Signore Gallo? Did you know what he was, what he does with those weapons? You said you were there, how could you not know? What kind of deranged game were you playing at, working with that sick son of a bitch for months?"
"If you actually want an answer, you're going to have speak slower or ask in English," he advised quietly.
"If I recall, I get more straight answers in Italian than English," the furious redhead countered hotly, jerking her hand free of his grasp, but switching tongues nonetheless. "How could ya, ya bastid? Ya—"
Michael was more confused than ever. "You sold him weapons, too," he pointed out quite reasonably, interrupting her building tirade. "You said so yourself."
"Nae more once I knew whot kind o' monsters they war an' who I wa' dealin' with," she retorted. "Thot wa' tha end o' it fer me. I quit then. I left tha life behind, him, all o' it. But ya, ya kept supplyin' Alek—"
"I was working undercover to find out where his boss was getting American arms to cut off their supply!"
The ex-spy stopped and took a deep breath, surprised that he had said so much about a past mission.
Obviously, the stress was getting to both of them. He took a chance and took hold of his beloved by the shoulders, hoping it wasn't a huge tactical mistake that he was about to pay for in bruised flesh or worse.
"Fi, I'm sorry you had to go through that again. I know it was hard for—"
"Ya donnae know tha half o' it," she snarled, smacking his hands away and then pushing him back.
He could hardly blame her for being upset with having to relive any portion of her life that involved selling guns to scum like Aleksander Petrovic. He was having trouble containing his own emotions from having seen the man again. What he'd done in Bosnia and Serbia had been a journey into darkness…
"Fine then, since you're always the one telling me you can take care of yourself, anyway, I'll just—"
He'd planned on making a strategic retreat to give her time and space to cool off. In retrospect, Michael would realize that if he'd anticipated the first strike, he really should have been prepared for the fist that came flying at his face. But he hadn't. The hit snapped his head hard to the side and had him seeing red.
"Get out!" she commanded in italia. "I don't want to see you again until it's time to land."
"As you wish," he responded in a flat tone before turning on his heel and walking away from Fiona.
()()()()()
Back at the former English hunting lodge that now served as his temporary home and headquarters on the Emerald Isle, Sir Richard Chambers leaned over his oak desk, bracing himself by the flat of his hands on the table top as he stared through bleary eyes at the documents laid out before him.
It takes a while to learn how to read intelligence files. They start as stacks of unrelated documents, but stick with it long enough and a pattern can emerge. Of course, not all intelligence is reliable. Which means when you're done checking the file, you have to check the source.
Under normal circumstances any stack of unrelated documents would have only ended up in his office after they had gone through multiple checks by several roomfuls of analysts back at GCHQ and passed the scrutiny of his own aides under the control of his personal secretary, Caroline Carruthers.
It had been a very long time since the head of operations had taken charge of such a large quantity of raw untested intelligence and had to sort through it all by himself.
As a spy, you get used to the idea that you sometimes have to accept the help of your enemies. It's not an easy thing to do, but unfortunately the best information is often in the hands of the worse people. And if they are willing to share...
Ever since he had first gone through the folder handed to him by the infamous Liam Glenanne, Chambers had seen the possibilities in those photographs and the data compiled by the Irishman. That along with all which had been gathered by Caroline, the spymaster had before him the beginnings of a dossier which would sell the story that all the present woes affecting the Northern Peace Process could be laid at one of the participants' doors.
One particular participant… Sir Richard barred his teeth in a wolfish smile and straightened up, that smile quickly turning into a grimace as his back muscles complained about the length of time he had been on his feet. A quick glance to the clock hanging on his study wall over the fireplace told him he had been up all night and that his driver would be waiting outside in less than an hour.
Covert intelligence at the most basic level is a type of weapon. Like any weapon, it can be used for good or evil, to make war or peace or to serve justice or power. It comes down to one thing: what you decide to do with it.
What he had decided to do with what he had been handed was to take the opportunity to clear several irritating obstacles from his path. The apologist, John McDonald, the Labour Prime Minister's conduit into the PIRA membership had been a thorn in his side ever since the jumped up Communist leaning oik had arrived in Belfast. The man had the ear to the Secretary of State for Northern Ireland and a foot in amongst the terrorist groups, but this time though McDonald wouldn't be the one setting the agenda.
The US head of operations, David Fickas, had in his opinion never been up to the job of intelligence gathering, especially in a place like Northern Ireland. Oh, he had the political skills… but the privileged son of a US Senator was obviously incapable of keeping control of his department.
Westen, Tyler Grey and now this Riley woman, all rogue agents and all at one time or another had been under the authority of Tom Card, who on the record was listed as a training officer based at Langley but obviously had been much more.
Westen was on the run, guilty of attacking the two SAS operators sent to ensure he was removed from Ireland and various other crimes, enough to see him locked up for the rest of his life. Grey had been found dead in the company of a notorious terrorist and Fickas had no good explanation as to what the dead man had even been doing in the country.
And as for Olivia Riley… She was supposedly a hot shot counter intelligence agent who from all reports was on her way to the top. Yet he had evidence of her breaking into the home of a high-ranking member of the Provisional IRA without so much as a warrant or even notifying her command.
Then there were the hints that a unit in the CIA was running unsanctioned operations in a friendly country… all thanks to Liam Glenanne.
When it comes to intelligence gathering, you can't hold grudges. The person who threatened to blow up your wife yesterday could be your savior today.
Yes, thanks to Liam Glenanne, on whom he would still happily sign a kill order if one was to land on his desk, he had everything he needed to bring a bit of order back to one small part of his universe, although in another part the damned Irishman had caused nothing but chaos.
Dahlia had been furious with him of course, though he could hardly hold that against the old girl. After all, getting a knock on the door in the middle of the night from a SAS bomb disposal team and being ordered out of one's home with only time to gather up the necessities for a night in a hotel was enough to unsettle anyone. Sir Richard frowned when he thought about the onslaught his credit card was going to be taking later on in the day.
Maybe he should contact Claridge's and arrange for flowers to be delivered to the little woman's room along with her breakfast? The frown turned to a pained expression. The fact she had chosen the most expensive suite available in the foremost hotel in London for the night spoke volumes about her state of mind. Along with the flowers, perhaps he should get tickets for a show or bite the bullet and take some time off work for that cruise she kept talking about?
Yes, he could quite happily sign a kill order on the whole blasted Glenanne family right now.
Forcing his mind back onto the job at hand, the spymaster picked up each document in turn and placed them into a hard cardboard folder in the order he wished to present them to the Secretary of State. He would show that Michael Westen was only one man, a very skilled but insubordinate agent with a history of taking risks. Westen had indeed turned native, his reasons unknown, possibly for the love of his Irish asset or maybe because of what he knew was happening inside CIA and had used her family contacts to escape, most likely both.
He would then go on to prove that two other agents, Grey and Riley, had unsanctioned contact with members of the Real IRA and the Continuity IRA. Grey was deceased, but Riley was still out there, breaking into high ranking Provo's homes and possibly enticing CIRA members to steal consignments of stolen Stinger missiles. Frank Duggan was under arrest and waiting in a cell to be interrogated.
Picking up the now bulging document folder, Sir Richard placed it into his leather briefcase and closed the lid. He would reluctantly admit his own department had not performed as well as it should, but he would offer in his own defense that the Americans had failed to give him all the facts and there was evidence that they had been running their own black ops behind his back.
Chambers could see exactly how it would play out… He would add with a hint of dismay that maybe if the minister's own aides had come to him first with their rather dubiously obtained information instead of attempting to use it to discredit his department, things might not have gone as bad as they had.
With a bit of luck, he would be able to convince the Secretary of State to send McDonald back to Whitehall or at least put him under the control of his own department.
With one final look around his study, the Englishman left the room, off to take a refreshing shower and change into some clean clothes. Yes, he could see it all now, today was going to be a very good day...
For him.
()()()()()()
One time zone earlier, after his fiancée had unceremoniously ordered him from her presence, it hadn't taken much for Signore Gallo to paste a look of chagrin with a heavy undertone of extreme discomfort on his face as he exited the rear area of the plane, securing the curtain behind him to separate them completely, to the somewhat muffled sounds of Fiona kicking the furniture and cursing in Italian.
Debating his options quickly, Michael chose to sit down at the table with his back to the remainder of the compartment, facing the beige cloth barrier between himself and his beloved and ignoring for the moment the security detail who were currently gathered in the galley area getting themselves drinks.
As he listened to the guards discussing what had happened while Fiona had been forced entertain her much despised customer, learning that Aleksander Petrovic was still as much of a pig as he had been when Michael had been forced to work with him in Serbia had not been too much of a surprise. While it was hard to make out exactly what they were saying given the distance between them and his lack of expertise in French, the former covert operative understood well enough to get the gist of the situation.
Her reaction to the revelation of the length of time he'd worked Serbian gun runner was certainly understandable under the circumstances. His own time in the man's presence had been some of the darkest days of his young life. He'd once thought his father to be one of the worst the world had to offer until he'd been forced to live amongst the brutal butchers, who were raping the Bosnian countryside both literally and figuratively, while waiting for their CIA-assigned targets to finally come onto their radar.
It had been his first deep cover mission with Larry Sizemore leading the way as the senior field agent. He had been so confident, so full of himself. With his partner, he captured a Russian general, taken down major arms smuggling routes in several countries and eliminated a turncoat Algerian agent. On his own, he'd managed to rescue a couple of stranded Navy SEALs and take out a Stasi agent.
But none of that had adequately prepared him for what awaited him in the wilds of Bosnia and Serbia. He shook his head, looking back on it now he wondered how he had kept sane during that crazy time.
They had spent months infiltrating the Serbian bandit gangs, slowly maneuvering their way from the groups of scavengers working close to the cities, up to the larger paramilitary gangs which roamed the countryside until they came to the attention of the notorious Captain Orlovi and his White Dragons, a battalion made up of the very worse of humanity. Orlovi, Larry had informed him, was the man with the power and the standing to get them close to their ultimate target, Mitar Savic, an elusive gunrunner who had somehow managed to obtain cargo loads of American arms covertly meant for the struggling indigenous army attempting to defend themselves from their Serbian aggressors.
Eventually, after many months of living amongst fiends of every persuasion, the word came that Savic was sending his second in command to the city of Višegrad, where the various militia had gathered to sit out the cruel Balkan winter weather, including the unit he and Larry had ensconced themselves within.
It had been on the night of Aleksander Petrovic's arrival that Miljan Andric had succeeded in bringing himself to the attention of the gunrunner. Rather than watch a trio of prisoners being burnt alive for the entertainment of the guest of honor, he killed them all in a display of precision shooting in front of the assembled baying mob, an act which had gotten him and Larry an invitation to the top table and a chance to meet Petrovic.
Later that same night, they'd been summoned to a private meeting in Orlovi's quarters on the top floor of a captured hotel, who'd informed them that there would be a contest of sorts to determine which of the available sharpshooters might be allowed to demonstrate the effectiveness of Savic's stolen weaponry and give their commander the opportunity to strike a better deal with the arms merchant.
Posing as his Uncle Lazar, Larry had suggested to the captain that perhaps his nephew might see to it that the competition for that position was quietly eliminated prior to the commencement of said contest. It had taken four nights to eliminate five rivals in ways that could not be linked back to him.
Michael remembered how much he'd enjoyed being able to unleash some of the burning hatred he felt towards the animals he was living amongst and then he felt another surge of sympathy for Fiona's fury.
When the messenger who'd come to take him to a meeting with Petrovic waited precisely until after Larry had left to have dinner with Captain Orlovi before bringing him the summons, he endlessly speculated on the meaning of that while the soldier had led him out of the occupied town to a nearby encampment.
"Miljan, come in... I will be with you soon."
Steeling himself for what he might find once he stepped inside the large canvas tent, Michael pulled back the flap and had entered.
Inside the tent was dark, the floor covered by old mats most likely looted from the nearest houses. A large lamp hung down from top and there were several smaller lanterns set up in the corners. He stopped in the entrance for a full minute letting his eyes adjust to the dimly lit space.
"You're letting all the heat out. Shut the damn door, boy," the older man snapped out the order.
It was as he stepped further inside he realized Alek Petrovic was still in bed and he wasn't alone.
"Ah – you want me to come back later?" The skinny gunrunner was laying upon a bed made up of animal skins with a naked woman on either side of him.
"Haha, no, Miljan, I called you out here, didn't I? Why would I want you to come back later?"
As he finished speaking, he dragged the head of one woman back by her hair, giving her a bruising kiss which left her with a bloody lip and then turned to the other, delivering a stinging blow to the side of her head when she attempted to resist.
"Get out of here!" He kicked the one who had fought back out of the bed, sending her naked onto her hands and knees on the floor. He watched passively as she attempted to get slowly to her feet.
"Wait!" Petrovic ordered then, making both women freeze in place, their emaciated bodies trembling and Michael was sure it wasn't all from the cold. "Miljan, you want them? One or the other or maybe both... Take them back to your rooms as a present for your Uncle Lazar, hah?"
Concealing his true feelings, the spy had given both women a look of disdain. They were both covered almost head to foot in bruises. He would have dearly loved to have said he would take them.
If he could, he would have given them clothes and money and sent them off to find what remained of their own people, but he knew that it was just a pipe dream. If they didn't die from the cold, the wild animals living in the forest surrounding the city would get them. Or if they were incredibly unlucky, they would be recaptured and he would be on the firing line.
"No, I–"
"Oh yes, ha-ha," Petrovic laughed as he threw back the skins and rose up, pushing the other woman out of the makeshift bed. He pulled on his pants and reached for a heavy woolen jumper. "They are all cockroaches, yes? That is what you say, yes?" He turned to the girls. "Go, cockroaches, before Miljan shoots you dead like the rest."
The two women huddled together for a split second and then on trembling legs scurried out into the cold winter night to whatever fate awaited them.
He was forced to wait until Alek finished dressing and then he joined him to squat in the middle of the tent when one of the gunrunner's men brought in two steaming mugs of herbal tea.
"I want to talk to you about the contest to become the sharpshooter I use to display Mitar's wares. I have been speaking with your uncle and Captain Orlovi. Nice to see a young man with such dedication... Five men in four nights I hear. You could do great things with the right people. No need to be under your uncle's wing forever, yes? I like Lazar, but you are a young man with maybe a great future ahead, no wasting your talent razzing villages with Orlovi for the rest of your life, eh? When Mitar gets here, if you are as good as everyone says you are, I think I will poach you from the White Dragons."
He shook off the nauseous waves of repugnance and disgust that washed over him from his brief trip down the darkened corridors of his remembrances of that very black time in his life, empathy for what Fiona must have endured rushing in to take its place, as her previous words came back to him.
"Nae more once I knew whot kind o' monsters they war an' who I wa' dealin' with. Thot wa' tha end o' it fer me. I quit then. I left tha life behind, him, all o' it. But ya, ya kept supplyin' Alek—"
Whoever she had been as an international arms merchant, Fiona had left that life, had apparently left behind considerable wealth and power because she still had a moral compass at her center that was uniquely her own... and very different from his. Michael knew they had a long talk ahead of them once they'd gotten somewhere safe and secure. But he needed to get his mind back on the situation at hand if they were going to have a chance have that incredibly difficult conversation.
"I wa' a different person back then, I wa'… I wa' someone I donnae want ta be again."
Curiosity about who she had been was more than just personal as his previous concerns returned to the forefront. Would Armand Andreani recognize him as a rival merchant of death, Oleg Makarkin of Kiev, or worse yet, did he know who he really was?
Even if the powerful weapons dealer just thought he was the latest addition to Fiona's entourage, clearly Signore Gallo was in in need of as much information as possible about his potential new boss.
When two of the mercenaries returned to the rear of the aircraft to take the seats behind him once again, Michael recalled the intel about the guards he'd already been given by his beloved beforehand.
"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."
Marcel had known her in that life four years ago and would have the best information on the apparent vast criminal organization and its head since Michael had to assume that he would most likely not be talking to Fiona for the duration of the flight back to Marseilles. The security detail would also know what had taken place in her absence, so the next order of business would be to gather intel from them.
Choosing a cover I.D. on-the-fly is always a challenge. When there's no time to think, it's best to go with something simple that keeps your options open. But facts are the hallmark of a good false identity. It's harder to create history than it is to alter it. Plus, the more truth to your lie, the easier it is to remember.
He kept his eyes fixed on the carpet as he navigated his way to the front of the jet. But like the good spy he had been, the former American agent also kept the two men sitting on either side of the aisle in the back in his peripheral vision. The expression on the guard's face who'd manhandled him earlier on their flight to Trieste briefly inspired a flashback to middle school, a memory of the smirk of a childhood adversary who'd previously been in the doghouse with the principle who had finally succeeded in getting him into trouble as well. That hadn't ended well once he'd gotten home either.
Continuing with his gaze downcast, Michael had still been able to observe Marcel's sympathy and Hugo's pleasure at his discomfort before he turned his focus onto finding some bottled water, giving himself something to do while the dark-haired man contemplated his next move as well as alleviating his thirst.
No matter how good your cover identity is, you've got to sell it and that's not always easy. Sometimes you have to decide just how committed you are to pretending you are who you say you are.
He decided that a strategic retreat to the restroom was in order and spent several minutes searching the confined space to see if there was anything of use that he had missed in his early perusal of this part of the plane. So far, no one had seen fit to relieve him of the French-made version of the Beretta tucked in the back of his waistband and for that he'd been grateful despite the fact he was totally outgunned.
With the locked door firmly separating him from the occupants of the airplane on the other side of the high quality faux wood panel, Mr Westen didn't hesitate to put his ear to said door in an effort to hear the conversation with greater clarity. Between the barrier and the speed with which the duo at the front were speaking French, it was problematic to accurately ascertain what was actually being said. But as best as he could discern, it seemed to have been a debate as to whether they would prefer to watch Mademoiselle Glenanne's paramour de jour to go down in flames or take the time to set him straight.
However, Marcel had been the older and the wiser of the two mercenaries, apparently opting to use the opportunity to pump Michael for information on what his employer's former girlfriend had been up to whilst she'd been gone from the organization the last four year in exchange for explaining the realities of his new life to Signore Gallo before the man got himself killed once they'd returned to their home base.
With that opening in hand, the dark-haired ex-operative made it seem as though he'd finished his time in the toilet and emerged from the bathroom to immediately connect with Marcel's brown eyes.
"A word of advice, if you want to live through the next few days. Parlez-vous français?"
"Scusa no," Michael lied in his alleged native tongue. "Parli italiano?" he continued in hopes that the answer was no, which seemed to be the case as the mercenary shook his head. "English, perhaps?"
Marcel, it turned out, did in fact have a decent command of English and it was obvious from his sour look that Hugo had none. However, one of the pair of guards who had been sitting in the back of the plane, the one from the sound of his voice had been in UNPROFOR in Sarajevo in '92 and not the one who had gotten in trouble with Fiona earlier, spoke some English as well.
That soldier of fortune, whose name turned out to be Pierre, then traded places with Hugo, who at that point went to the rear of the jet to play cards at the table with the remaining member of the security detail whose name the former American ace operative had yet to learn, although Michael mentally named him Randy after his frequent foe from a time past in a Miami middle school.
A good cover identity keeps the target feeling in control and the safest thing is to let the target take the lead. You talk too much, drink too much just to let him think he's got the edge. But you've got more information than he does and you want to keep that edge.
And so began the task of trying to give his new best friends sufficient answers to satisfy their curiosity enough to gather his own intel while not inadvertently contradicting something she'd told them earlier.
"I was on a job in Milan when I met her. Signorina Glenanne, she liked ah, my work... A lot. We, er, worked well together. When she was preparing to travel back to Ireland, she asked me to come with her. My boss wasn't but happy, but– " He shrugged his shoulders and smirked. "He wasn't so bothered to as anger Fi – Miss Glenanne once he realized who she was and how attached we had become."
"And because you think she likes you, you think you can get away with refusing an order?" Marcel asked. With a gesture, he sent Pierre off to procure something stronger than water or coffee.
"It was nothing... A just little misunderstanding, really, but I – my old boss, he had problems with a bunch of Serbians, a deal that went wrong. I was there when they had their, um, falling out. Signore Petrovic would have remembered me and I didn't want to make things any worse for her." He lowered his gaze and did his best to look crestfallen. "I didn't know who we were meeting until I saw him standing there."
Marcel nodded, no doubt remembering his reaction to seeing Alek through his borrowed binoculars.
"Well, you had better hope she's forgiven you by the time we get back to base, because if not..." The older man raised his hand and motioned as if he had a gun to Signore Gallo's head and pulled the trigger. "You understand? You're not in Ireland any more or working for the Glenannes. This is Ligue 1 now."
At that moment, Pierre returned with a bottle of Élixir Végétal de la Grande-Chartreuse and three glasses. Sitting down, the mercenary opened the bottle and poured a measure of the very expensive liqueur into each tumbler, making sure Signore Gallo got the largest portion.
"So, tell me, what exactly do you do for Fiona Glennane?"
With such an attentive audience, all of Tom Card's advice about watering down drinks or spilling them became completely useless. He mentally calculated the last time he'd eaten and it was too long ago…
A cover I.D. that involves drinking comes with a price but the tactical advantages make the hangover worth it… assuming you live long enough to suffer from the hangover…
With that thought in mind, the former American covert operative took the only avenue open to him and, after gulping down a mouthful of the strong herbal flavored drink, he placed the glass down carefully and leered at his eager audience. "Like I said, we worked very well together..."
And so their conservation had continued… With a multitude of innuendos, Michael boasted of his prowess between the sheets along with his unique skills behind the wheel of hi-performance cars and ability to get into buildings others could not, all of which had caused the infamous Fiona Glenanne to bring him into her inner circle, selecting him for her private enterprises in her Irish homeland.
And soon enough, they had emptied the bottle set on the table between them.
"And even after eighteen months in her company, you still haven't learned when to keep your mouth shut and follow orders." Marcel shook his head in wonder at the younger man's stupidity. "If Petrovic had recognized you and the deal had gone bad, we would have ended them all..."
"We nearly had to shoot them all on another delivery," Pierre chimed in. "They were lucky it was only the two who decided not to follow orders. We sent their bodies home with the guns as a warning."
"Believe me, Mr. Andreani wouldn't have cared about losing the trade if she'd ordered it done. He's never questioned her. Besides, he would have had that pig's money and the weapons back."
In any new job, there's always friction with your co-workers, especially if you're sleeping with one of the bosses. In some jobs, that could get you a dark look in the break room; in other jobs, that could get you a bullet in the back of the head. The key to survival is making yourself as useful as possible to everyone.
"I'll try to remember that," Michael replied, his words slurring a bit as the amount of alcohol he'd consumed began to take effect. He stood slowly and headed into the galley, offering with a gesture to provide un café noir to the pair. "Tell me more about Signore Andreani... What is he like to work for?"
"Does that mean she's back in? Or was this just a favor?" Marcel wanted to know. "It matters for you."
"All she told me was we were going to do a job for an old friend."
The two guards coughed almost simultaneously in an effort to choke back on the laughter that very nearly burst forth. Taking the tiny coffee mugs Michael offered, the duo continued to attempt to contain their merriment with varying levels of success while the source of the fun poured himself another cup.
"An old friend," Pierre almost snickered as he said it. "Is that what she called Monsieur Andreani?"
Relationships are about trust. People trust you when they have something on you. Like, say, information about your lover's ex-boyfriend who runs a vast criminal empire. It's all about making them feel secure.
"What about him and Mi Fiona? They were a couple, yes?" he continued, now tearing into a croissant to get something more into his stomach to absorb the alcohol while pretending to make himself at home.
"They still have newspapers in Ireland and Italy, don't they? You can read, yes? They were the couple."
"Should I be worried?" the former spy asked, now wondering if he should truly start to be concerned.
After a wary look back at the curtain behind which one of the subjects of their conversation was resting, both men leaned forward and gestured for Michael to sit down and do the same.
"They were a couple, but that does mean they were exclusive. Mr. Andreani, he likes women, likes them a lot. And your Fiona back there, not only didn't she mind, she had her own lovers too. He wasn't shy about using her to help bring in the next client or smooth over a problem either, but only if she wanted."
Michael nodded solemnly. "There are very few people that get her to do things she doesn't want to."
"You've seen her temper. The woman has a reputation as a crazy bitch and I can tell you it was well earned. So, you can forget any ideas you have about being special. In fact, you better hope she still has some use for you after we land... I've heard tales that she usually bites the heads off all her old lovers."
The older man chuckled at Pierre's declaration and then Marcel proceeded to share some of the things he'd seen, which Michael decided were towards the end of her relationship with Armand and her time as an international gun runner, of Fiona's daring, her arrogance, her audaciousness, her capriciousness, her skill with weapons and negotiation, a woman of voracious appetites and uncertain temperament.
"I've personally seen her take out men twice her size bare handed for saying the wrong thing to her and I've seen her be kind to the kitchen help. There's no telling with her," Marcel concluded.
"If she does decide to keep you around, you better hope Monsieur Andreani doesn't take a dislike to you. Because if he does, you'll probably end up as mulch for the flower beds. You understand?" the younger of the mercenaries advised. "Screw her all she likes, but no more screwing up."
"Mr. Andreani runs a tight business," Marcel clarified. "If she's staying around and you play your cards right, even after she spits you out you might keep your place in the organization… First class all the way and there isn't a single corner of this world where Armand doesn't have a finger in the pot."
"The best weapons and protection," the other man agreed. "He knows how to look after his people."
And it took a little doing on his part, as the high alcohol content liqueur started to really do a number on his cognitive abilities, but his years of tradecraft paid off. The ex-spy soon had the pair giving him quite of bit of detail of Armand Andreani's numerous illegal ventures and his Marseilles operation in particular.
"But he demands the best. I assume you know something of weapons as well as your other skills?" The senior of the mercenaries had moved from giving advice to performing a screening interview of sorts.
"We'll be landing in twenty minutes," Pascal announced, the co-pilot having emerged from the cockpit to interrupt the trio gathered near the front to advise them that their return to Marseilles was imminent.
"You get to tell her," Pierre declared, wasting no time in throwing Michael under the proverbial bus.
The former agent nodded to his drinking companions and then went into the restroom to relieve himself and gather her things, presuming she didn't want to parade in front of the security detail without her game face in place, before heading to the back of the jet while the other men strapped themselves in.
Michael paused a moment, listening intently, hoping that his beloved had not heard any of the coarse talk he'd used while reinforcing his cover. The effects of the high amount of hard liquor and strong coffee he'd imbibed, which were currently warring in his stomach, might make fending her off should her temper flare a much more difficult proposition. He thought he heard Pierre's mocking laughter then.
Pushing the curtain aside slowly and silently, the dark-haired man entered the space with unnecessary caution, as it was immediately apparent she was once again asleep. He took a moment to watch her, arm twisted at an uncomfortable angle under her equally awkward neck position as the Irishwoman had obviously attempted to support her head without unduly mussing her hair or smudging her makeup.
Seeing the rapid eye movements under her thickly colored and closed lids, her lover knew better than to startle her while attempting to awaken her. Before sitting on the sofa opposite and sufficiently out of reach he hoped, Michael placed the bag next to her other hand that was lying splayed protectively over her stomach, almost caressing the handle of the Walther that remained in the front of her waistband.
She'd removed the jacket and pulled the loose sleeve of the tunic out of the way in an effort to keep from staining either, which told him she'd intended to rest but not fall asleep. The fact that he'd gotten this close to her under these circumstances and not awakened her said as much as about her maternal condition as the fuller breasts and rounded belly that were visible through the sheer material of her top.
Fiona moaned then, a deeply mournful sound followed by a series of muttered denials of whatever reality she was experiencing in her dreams, or rather nightmares. Caring overcame common sense in a rush as he reached out to touch her shoulder, concerned for her but prepared to jump back if needed, uncertain of his reflexes given what he'd had to imbibe over the last three hours.
The American ex-agent went down on one knee, bringing his face level with hers, ready to duck down to the floor should the circumstances call for it and squeezed his fingers into her flesh more firmly.
"Fiona, wake up. You're dreaming."
She moaned again and then it resolved itself into his name.
"Michael… no, no, no…"
"Fi, you're dreaming… Wake up now. You're alright."
"No… nae… tis nae alright… no…"
"Come on, sweetheart, open yar eyes nar... Tis alright."
Her eyes snapped open at the soft sounds of Michael McBride's Irish lilt, but redhead seemed to look right through him rather than at him.
"Tis alright, me darlin' girl, yer fine," her lover whispered. "Come back ta me nar."
"Michael…" she slurred, her confusion still apparent. "Yer back…" She sounded surprised at that.
"I only left because you told me to," he answered softly, unclear if that was what she was referring to.
"I dinnae…" The redhead blinked away the building moisture in her unfocused orbs. "Tha babby…"
"Our baby is fine, you're fine." he told her, sincerely hoping both statements were actually true. "You need to get up now. We're going to be landing soon. Do you understand?"
He felt fear for her burn through the secondary haze the alcohol had left behind as he pulled her into a sitting position. With a shake of her head, Fiona seemed to finally come back to herself. "Whar—"
"We're landing now. We're back in Marseilles, presumably coming back to the same hangar. You said the co-pilot there might help us if he didn't have to stick his neck out too far, remember?"
She swallowed thickly and made a face. "Yes…" she responded mechanically. "Give me a minute."
Michael released the redhead and stepped back, almost willing to take a blow now because this distant and disoriented version of his beloved was seriously disturbing.
Rotating her neck and wincing at the noises it made, Fiona finally looked up at him and he knew she was fully present. "Go… get ready fer tha landing. I'll be thar in a minute." She suddenly seemed to notice the makeup kit he'd brought her that was sitting next to her hip. "I need ta fix me face first."
"Are you—"
"Just go," she requested, sounding tired and defeated instead of angry. But knowing how quickly that could change, the former American operative decided to do as she'd requested.
The dark-haired man took his seat at the table, facing the open cabin and leaving the rear facing seat open for his lover. In his absence, Hugo had returned to the front of the aircraft and taken his place by Marcel while Pierre had returned to the hindmost portion of the plane, the very top of his brown hair just visible over the loungers that backed up to the pair of seats opposite the faux wooden top.
The man he thought of as Randy gave Michael what would have best been described as the stink eye, were he actually the middle school menace the French mercenary had been mentally named after, and continued to shuffle the deck of cards he'd been using throughout the flight with the other member of the security detail that didn't speak English. Need to keep an eye on him and Hugo now, he thought.
Pascal opened the cockpit door again, but Fiona emerged from the behind the curtain before her fiancée needed to do anything else about the matter. Her movements were slow and deliberate, as if she'd been spending the last three hours drinking and then trying to dry out with copious amounts of coffee too.
She had mostly fixed her makeup and her hair had been flattened into place once again with another generous application of mousse. But those blue green orbs surrounded by so much mascara were glassy and damp. The redhead seemed to be studying him as if they had been recently reunited after a long absence, or worse yet, as if she hadn't known him at all.
Michael wanted to say or do something, but knew he didn't dare based on Pierre and Randy's proximity. He offered a hopeful and apologetic smile in keeping with his cover, but she kept her expression neutral.
Once on the ground, they taxied quickly towards Armand's private hangar. Although the visibility was much better in the morning light than it had been during their initial arrival at 2 AM, their position within the Falcon made observing said building more difficult than it had been in the Gulfstream they'd arrived in from Ireland. Once again, they pulled inside; however, the other jet was not there this time.
As the ex-spy expertly surveyed the interior once they descended the air-stairs into the large enclosed space, his heart sank as his hopes of obtaining the aid of a friendly co-pilot evaporated. Nor was his observation of the rest of their surroundings reassuring. The clock on the wall informed him it was nearly ten am local time and the hangar was filled with a mixture of armed guards and workmen, some of whom as best as he could tell were also carrying, albeit concealed, weapons.
When planning an escape patience is key. Someone without training might jump at the first chance to strike but that is exactly the wrong time because that's when your enemy's the most alert. In fact, the best time to make your move is after you've let plenty of other opportunities go by. The other advantage of patience is it gives you a chance to find out if the situation has changed.
Marcel had taken the lead with Fiona following and Hugo behind her while Randy and Pierre had fallen in on either side of him. Michael hadn't missed the subtle but sure way that the trio had surrounded him and slowly separated him from his fiancée and her former bodyguard and a part of him began to wonder in earnest if this weren't some part of Liam Glenanne's master plan to eliminate him quietly.
The Irishwoman hadn't seemed to notice as she continued to listen to whatever Marcel was telling her, the noise within the hangar making it almost impossible to hear what they were saying and his lip reading of French wasn't all that great. There were several light planes in pieces being worked on within the cavernous place, the whirr of air tools adding a high-pitched element to all the surrounding sounds.
Had he the time and the tools, Michael was certain he could have at least one of the aircraft running. But it seemed unlikely that he would have either. Based on his conversations with the security detail aboard the Dassault, his best option at this point was to play along with his cover of being the hired help.
There's a reason fugitives are so paranoid. When you're on run, even the smallest change in your environment can put you on high alert. But, then again, sometimes being paranoid pays off.
Sunshine came pouring in a door way that opened off to his left and four men dressed in uniforms that matched those of the mercenaries that currently had him surrounded marched in with a determined purpose. Marcel fell back from Fiona's side to stand in front of him while Hugo shifted to his right and Randy stood behind him now. As the quartet of heavily armed men formed a loose circle around the redhead, Michael started to take a step forward, but soon found himself blocked by the older bodyguard.
"She'll call you when she wants you, if she wants you at all," he advised in a low tone. "Don't be stupid."
His four companions from the plane now forced him to move back away, as Hugo's hand closed on his forearm and Pierre took a step closer to his side. The man facing his fiancée threw his hands up high.
"Fiona Glenanne, where the hell have you been hiding all this time? Did you think I wouldn't find you?"
And just as he had been powerless to save those women forced into the frigid night from Petrovic's bed, the former covert operative felt an equally cold chill shoot down his spine as he realized that he was also powerless to help his beloved at this moment… and just as she might be unable to save him.