A/N: Happy #Burner Day to all you fabulous Burners out there and thank you for your incredible patience while we battled hurricanes and horrendous health to get this chapter out. Rather than apologize for taking so long, here is an mega-long chapter to wrap up our favorite couple's adventures with their ex's!
The final chapter of our current Reconnecting 201 storyline will be updating soon as well as the reappearance of an old favorite of some, not so much for others, as we work to update "Life with Larry."
As always, reviews much appreciated and PM's and requests always welcome. Please enjoy!
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BE BRAVE LITTLE ANGEL
Chapter Forty Seven
The numbness and the darkness were broken by faint sounds, right before the distant pain was no longer quite so remote. He recognized the sensation of disorientation. Unfortunately, he'd been knocked out cold, for however briefly or not, more than a few times in his life and he knew there was usually a short window of confusion before he was able to make sense of his location in time and space.
Angry voices in Russian made him wonder momentarily how much trouble he was in and where Larry was. Then Samantha's voice broke through and he remembered in a rush that Mr Sizemore was dead and he wasn't laying in the rumble of a St Petersburg oil refinery waiting for someone to evac him.
The sound of a vaguely familiar Frenchman confounded him right before discomfort became downright pain from his arm as other hands laid hold of him and then dizziness and nausea overcame him as he changed positions relative to horizontal and the former spy blacked out again. When he started to come to again, he had with no real sense of how much time had passed since his last flirtation with awareness.
A fleeting feeling of panic started to solidify at his vulnerability when he heard and felt the one presence he'd been seeking even in his semi-conscious state: Fiona's voice, arguing with someone while her hands tenderly cupped his cheek before those same fingers were suddenly probing the extremely sore and probably swollen spot on the back of his head. Then those familiar digits disappeared altogether.
Forcing his leaden eyes open, Michael Westen was temporarily blinded by an overhead light. Turning his head and wishing he hadn't, the prone man caught the sight of the back of his lover through narrowed slits. She was debating with another man who was dressed in hospital scrubs and they had someone bloody lying on the bed between them in the adjoining room. He thought he vaguely recognized the injured man as the same one who had pointed his rifle at the mother of his child.
Then the memory returned in a flash: On the guesthouse terrace, a deadly weapon aimed at the love of his life as she turned towards him, drawing her own gun... The removal of the threat, gunfire, shots sending bits of concrete flying, the sudden white-hot burn of a bullet grazing him followed by blackness...
Frowning, he tried to listen to the heated conversation taking place in the other room. His French was sketchy at the moment, but he was pretty sure the man his lover was speaking to in such a commanding tone was the doctor in charge of what appeared to be a private infirmary or field hospital.
It certainly smelled like one…
"I will call you if I need your help" were the only words he understood as the petite former paramilitary turned around holding an aluminum tray in her hands.
He must have closed of his eyes for a second or two because when next he saw her, Fiona was in the room with him, the clatter of metal against metal alerting him to her presence. Just seeing that she was safe and close by made him feel better. She must have placed that tray on a table out of his line of vision.
His eyelids slid shut again. Michael heard the snap of latex gloves being pulled on and then felt the ice-cold blade of a pair of surgical scissors slide along his bicep before intense pain shot through his arm. He yelped in spite of himself when suddenly the Irishwoman, after cutting away the gauze wrap, pulled the make-shift bandage from his arm in one swift move, his blood dried on the cloth coming away along with some skin on the gore soaked dressing.
Ignoring the feeble protests coming from her patient, the redhead squeezed the injured muscle, wiping it with an antiseptic wash that not only cleaned away any infection but also set the wound to burning.
"Shhhh, hush," she whispered lowly before twisting his arm slightly as she turned to address the man working on the more incapacitated man. "I was right. The bullet only grazed him," she addressed the doctor in French. "You need to concentrate on your patient while I deal with this one. That's a nasty wound yours has and you are going to need to do some digging to get all the lead out of that shoulder."
Having given her orders, the ex-international arms merchant turned all her attention back on her distressed lover. Reaching over to the table and the surgical tray resting on top, she opened a fresh dressing and pressed the cloth over the angry looking wound.
It was only then that the redhead noticed her lover was staring at her with a more alertness than she'd seen displayed before and at the sight of those deep blue albeit pain-filled eyes gazing back at her, Fiona internally sighed with relief. Michael Westen might be the love of her life and the father of her child, but Michael McBride/Signore Gallo was an employee and a part-time lover in that order and she couldn't betray the depth of her feeling for him in front of Armand's men.
"Finally decided to return to the land of the living?" she quipped in Italian. "You've been sleeping on the job long enough. We're going to have to pick up the pace if we're going to make Stockholm on time. Hold this now while I get everything ready."
Without waiting for an answer, the not quite so slender woman took a hold of her patient's left wrist, tugging it towards his grazed limb until the ex-operative caught the hint and held the new gauze in place.
Now that she was certain Michael wasn't as seriously injured as she first feared when she had witnessed him launch himself at the Russian who had set his gun sights on her, Fiona's fury began to make its way back to the forefront. Over the last twenty-four hours, she had been forced to face betrayal by both the family she loved dearly and the love of her life. Her mother, aunt and at least two of her brothers had conspired to send her back to the one man she had never wanted to see again and now the one person she had put all her trust in had also let her down, twice in fact.
While the woman he loved prepared what she needed to close the still oozing gap in his bicep, Michael was taking his own inventory, first noticing he'd lost his shirt and his gun somewhere along the way before turning his attention from his throbbing injury to the pain radiating from the back of his skull.
"Whot happened?" he croaked, resorting to his McBride accent to emphasize that he couldn't quite work out what she'd actually said to him in Italia while gingerly probing his head and finding a large knot.
In one smooth move, the Irishwoman reached over with her foot to push the door between the two rooms closed quietly before swinging around to face him.
"Ya got shot, jus' a bit o' a graze, which Am gonna stitch up fer ya. But ya banged yar head taa, which I tried telling tham wa' nothin' cuz yer such a thickheaded dolt... And as it seems thot tha man ya grabbed managed to get a few holes put in ham taa, I told Armand's doctor ta concentrate his efforts on ham."
She leaned in close to his ear on the pretext of examining his head again. Knowing what she knew about her ex-lover, it was safer to assume they were being watched than not. "Besides giving me a chance ta practice me sewing skills on yar worthless hide, I needed a good excuse for us have a little chat."
As she straightened and pulled away, he tried to reach for her arm but missed, his hand clumsily swiping through the empty air. "Am fine, better than fine, so I am," he protested half-heartedly, remembering now the anguish in her voice as the searing pulse had shot through his arm. Touching the other injury once more, he fought against the continual waves of queasiness and vertigo that kept washing over him.
"I'll be tha judge o' thot," she contradicted in a clipped tone, partially as part of her cover, as she assumed they were being monitored, and partially to cover her own emotional turmoil. "In case yer wondering tis mostly tha man ya jumped whose blood ya war covered in, but that donnae mean I won't be checkin' on ya more diligently once wa're on tha plane outta hare."
"Plane…?" He wondered if she had spoken to his former fiancée while he had been knocked out.
Although that sounded improbable, it also filled him with a great deal of trepidation. With everything that had happened, would Samantha remember what they had agreed to? There were still a lot of thorny questions that could have been asked while he was unconscious that could get him shot… again.
Nothing sells innocence like an injury. People naturally sympathize with someone who's bleeding. If you're in a situation where you really need the benefit of the doubt, it's worth the flesh wound.
"Did ya think we'd be walkin' ta Stockholm, Signore Gallo?" she questioned, pushing him flat. "Keep still nar or I may end up sewing ya ta tha sheet yer lying on."
Clenching his jaw as the petite redhead removed the dressing from his arm again, he hissed as he felt the sting of another application of an antiseptic wash.
"So, yar wife tol' Armand thot tha pair o' ya worked together quite closely back in Russia befer we met. Is thot true then?"
"Ma dulcinée, I would like you to meet Mr McBride's former business partner… or was it asset? Though from what she's told me, I would have gathered that she might actually have been his wife as well."
"We dinnae get married," he answered in spite of himself, the maddening fog in his mind making it difficult to think straight as he realized a moment too late that he'd just been played.
Like Aikido masters, interrogators know that breaking their adversary isn't just about leverage. It's about knowing how and when to apply it. The moment your opponent feels most confident is also the moment he's most susceptible to a game changing reversal.
"Thot's right. She said ya never actually got around ta tha ceremony part." Fiona held the needle high as she threaded it. "I guess ya war jus' leadin' har on tha whole time then, eh?"
"I donnae think nar is tha right time ta talk about this," he denied the accusation while trying to figure out how to divert her from questioning him, having no idea what transpired while he was insentient.
"Tis tha perfect time, Signore Gallo," his nurse contradicted as she jabbed the needle through his skin roughly and started to sew. "So, ya war using har tha same way ya tried ta use me when we first met?"
"It wa' nae like thot—" he protested, grunting as the irascible redhead pulled the first stitch too tightly.
"No? Ya dinnae lie ta har abou' who an' whot ya war when ya met har?"
"She wa' a contact assigned ta me by – by me employer. We war—" Even with his jaw tightly clenched, the dark-haired man couldn't completely stifle the moan that slipped between his lips as she worked.
"When exactly did ya propose ta har?"
Michael hedged, caught off guard again by the query and still unsure precisely what the Russian master thief had said to either Fiona or the French arms dealer. In this case, the truth seemed safer than a lie.
"She proposed ta me actually. At tha time, I dinnae know—"
"Ya wa' engaged ta har tha entire time we war together, war ya nae?" the fiery Irishwoman accused, pausing in her sewing to stare him in the eye. "Ya'd made yarself at home in me bed and tha whole while ya had agreed ta marry another woman?"
"Thot's nae exactly how it wa' – "
"Ware ya engaged ta thot woman when we met or nae?" she cut him off. "Tis a simple question."
"Tis true we war engaged befer I met ya," he confessed, his jaw locking when as she pulled the next stitches even tighter. "But I thought she wa' dead," Michael added hastily as she pierced his skin with the needle again. "Fiona, ya have ta believe me, today is tha first time I've seen har in nigh on two years."
He tried to shift his position but she pushed him flat again. "Until today, I swear I never thought I would see Samantha Keyes alive again... I donnae know whot game this Armand is playing, but if he has told ya anything different –"
"An' ya dinnae think thot it wa' worth mentionin' at some point thot ya hadda dead fiancée in yar past?"
"I dinnae want ta talk abou' it." He tried to reach for her hand, but she pulled the stitch through instead.
When someone's in a killing mood it doesn't help appealing to their sympathy. You're better off taking their rage and re-directing it at someone else.
"Keep still or I really will stab ya... So, ya thought she wa' dead all this time an' nar thar's nothin' between tha pair o' ya?" She sounded doubtful. "Ar' ya sure she's nae hare ta make trouble fer us?"
"Samantha has moved on. She has a new man in har life, a very rich powerful man at thot, pretty much like yar own ex, who took care o' har when she needed ham, so she said. She wa' hare ta do a deal wit' Armand fer har man, like ya used ta fer ham when he sent ya out ta deal wit' men like Alek Petrovic."
"Donnae ya dare mention thot animal ta me!" For a moment, he thought he had pushed too hard in an effort to redirect the fury he could see bubbling under his hormonal lover's fragile shell. "An' quit tryin' ta change tha subject, Signore Gallo... So, thot wa' it then? Once ya'd caught up on tha fact thot she warn't dead an' she'd moved on wit' har life, tha pair of ya jus' discussed tha weather an' tha food?"
The Irishwoman clearly didn't believe his story and emphasized her point with the point of the needle.
"Aye, twas a shock ta see har, but she really wa' hare ta do a deal fer her man," he replied with a wince as she stabbed him again. "So, I asked har how she felt about giving us a ride ta Stockholm, so we could discuss a bit o' business she's doing fer Charlie that would be perfect fit fer Shay… Seemed like a good way ta make up a bit fer all tha unplesantries. We war coming ta find ya when this happened."
Michael nodded towards where her talented fingers were almost finished closing up the bloody graze.
"Whot d'ya talk ta yar ex about whilst ya wa' gone?" he asked. "Cuz thot welcoming party he had waiting fer us on tha stairs had me thinking he'd be happy ta see someone put a bullet between me eyes."
Fiona paused, thinking about what he had said, but remaining annoyed at his attempt to redirect the conversation. "Am still undecided on yar fate, Signore Gallo, though ya may have a point about Armand."
"I think you should know that your... ah... associate is not who he claims..."
"Either way, I don't think you want to be involved in this. I suspect he is using you for your connections the same way he apparently used her for hers."
Remembering the Frenchman's words, dripping poison into her ear under the pretext of being a concerned friend, and considering the fact that the international war merchant had ordered his men to hold the father of her child on the roof, Armand was most likely looking for either her, or him on her orders, to deal with Signore Gallo permanently.
As much as she hated to admit it, Michael was probably right. Getting away should be the first priority.
"Well, I'll give yar girlfriend this, she knows how ta lay on tha righteous fury o' imperious royalty. Her majesty certainly gave Armand an earful."
"She's nae me girlfriend, or fiancée, or anything else ta me, nae anymore," he refuted as his beloved did the final closure on the stitches and slapped the gauze pad on with a little too much force.
The former PIRA operative wasn't happy about travelling with Michael's ex and even less pleased with being made beholden Ms Keyes, who exuded class, wealth and privilege as if born to it. Besides she had never been particularly good with high-end women in the mix, who tended to think very well of themselves, especially not mysterious ones with unknown connections to the father of her child…
On the other hand, this did present a perfect tactical opening…
"Fine, if ya say so... If she's still willing, we'll leave with her an' talk trade... I still have me own questions ta ask and trapped on a plane with no whar ta go means neither one o' ya can run away while I get me answers."
Having finished treating the wound by holding a fresh dressing in place and wrapping it with a long gauze bandage, Fiona aided her patient as he slowly swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat up. "Wash tha rest o' tha blood off yarself whilst I go find ya a clean shirt ta wear. Thar's a sink in tha corner. I'll take another look at thot bump on yar head just ta make sure thot's all tis when I get back."
"Fi…" Michael started as he closed his hand on her arm in an effort to get her to look him in the eye. "Thank ya. I – I know we need ta talk about this…"
"Aye, we do," the redhead agreed as she met his gaze. But the sound of a polished French voice coming from the other room was taking her attention away from him. She swallowed hard and ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. "We'll be makin' time enough fer our talk later, but first I have someone else ta speak ta... Go get cleaned up."
He thought about following her into the other room. But even the act of sitting up, let alone standing up and then chasing after the petite redhead, made his head swim. The former agent ran his palm lightly over the back of his skull, cursing softly as his touch encountered the tender portions.
The last thing he wanted right now was for Fiona to see him either fall down or throw up. Either action was bound to bring about an immediate diagnosis of concussion and further delay their departure.
"Armand, could you spare me a moment…? In private." The door to the adjoining space swung shut between them as the mother of his child requested a solitary word with her former lover in a clipped upper-class English accent.
"Of course, chère, anything you desire, you know that…" came the voice from the other room.
Michael grimaced at the endearment and with a supreme effort got slowly to his feet. As much as his heart urged him to forget getting cleaned up and go out there before Armand could do any more damage to his relationship with his beloved, his instincts reminded him of an important lesson he had first heard in a lecture by Tom Card, but had only recently learned the true meaning of after meeting the fiery Irishwoman who had stolen his heart.
When you work with someone long enough, you learn to trust them. When things go bad, that trust is the difference between life and death… He had to trust that regardless of how angry Fiona was with him right now, she still loved him.
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"Your man is lucky. I was able to remove all the shrapnel from the wound, though I would suggest that once you are home that he has that shoulder x-rayed to ensure there are no small pieces I missed. Otherwise he should be fine."
Henri Kassal was an excellent surgeon, but he did enjoy making sure everyone in whatever room he was in was fully aware of that fact. As soon as his employer and the tall regal looking brunette had entered his domain, the medical genius had set about impressing the lady, explaining what he had done to treat her injured guard in his heavily accented English.
"I thought he was only hit by one bullet?"
"We use frangible rounds at home," Armand explained to his guest. "In close quarters, frangible rounds ensure that the bullets stay in the target rather than risk going through and damaging whatever is behind them... Some of the artwork and antiquities in my collections are irreplaceable." He smiled as Abishuly Nazarbayev's emissary tried to look as if she knew what he was talking about.
Her lack of knowledge on the design and uses of different ammunition was another sign that his new trading partner hadn't sent an expert in firearms to negotiate. This could be very profitable long-term if Kazakhstani black marketeer continued to use his paramour, although the French war merchant seriously doubted the man would do that. Her presence here had clearly been motivated by her need to resolve whatever unfinished business she'd had with Mr McBride, or Signore Gallo as he was calling himself now.
"I see –" Samantha's words were cut off by the opening of the adjoining door and the sight of the petite redhead striding swiftly into the room.
For a moment, there was silence as the pale faced younger woman's sharp gaze swept over the people assembled there before her blue-green eyes settled on her former lover.
"Armand, could you spare me a moment…? In private." Her clipped tone and decidedly frosty expression was enough to stop either the doctor or Michael's apparently now former fiancée from commenting on her appearance; however, not the man she had spoken to.
"Of course, chère, anything you desire, you know that… Mademoiselle Keyes, I will leave you with the doctor, please excuse me."
He had been concerned that Gallo, or McBride or whoever the man really was, had been able by his words, and his actions on the terrace, to assuage her anger at his obvious betrayal. While he had to concede the dark-haired man had some rudimentary skills and clearly a long-term objective in mind, the Frenchman had reservations about the entanglements Fiona might be getting herself into with that man.
But it now seemed he had nothing to be worried about after all. Smiling confidently, the international merchant of death followed in the footsteps of his petite ex, though soon to be reinstated, partner. Because Monsieur Andreani knew that when the usually fiery tempered Irishwoman became this icy cold, it was a sure sign she was in a killing mood.
"Ma dulcinée…" He caught up to her side and as soon as he placed one hand lightly on her shoulder, Fiona came to a stop and then turned to face him. "I want to apologize, again, for what happened... Obviously, her men overreacted to your sudden appearance; however, I have spoken with her partner and Mr. Nazarbayev has accepted that the whole incident was nothing but a misunderstanding."
"Very inconvenient to trade negotiations if someone had gotten themselves killed no doubt."
Whatever business dealings Fiona's current companion had been able to leverage out of his mutual past with the tall brunette must have been impressive indeed for her to overlook the man's prior behavior and the near death of one of her security team. Armand had been rather convinced that both the women in his company would have been vying for the pleasure of putting that man to a slow and painful death.
"Although rumors of her death were as the saying goes greatly exaggerated, it appears that your friend and Ms Keyes relationship has indeed ended, quite some time ago in fact. Still, it is strange that her interest in you and Michael McBride was the singular thing that brought about our new partnership..." the international arms dealer mused, smiling broadly as his fingertips brushed over the arm of her jacket. "All water under the bridge now, I suppose."
The man might have been able to talk his way out of his difficulties with his former flame, but the Frenchmen was certain that no matter how large the profit, Fiona would not be persuaded to overlook the insult long-term. Her Irish heritage practically guaranteed his treachery would not be long tolerated.
"I'm sure it is..." She looked into his eyes, her blue-green orbs which were usually so expressive were closed off and her continued use of that upper-class English accent meant she was beyond furious. "My bags that were left on the jet back in Marseilles… I need them taken over to your guest's plane. Seems as though we'll all be talking trade until she drops us off in Stockholm on her way home."
"Yes, she mentioned something about it... Her way of apologizing for the confusion over hers and your new friend's former status... I have to ask though… Do you think it wise to take her offer? Wouldn't you rather take the Gulfstream with our people at your back? Jean-Luc is busy, but I can spare him for you."
"Thank you, no... I'm grateful for your help in getting out of Ireland and for your hospitality, but I wouldn't want to interfere with any more of your plans."
Armand shrugged. "My plans are by nature fluid. I can always arrange things to meet our needs, even your unexpected arrival turned out to be fortuitous."
"All I need is for those bags to be on her plane before we leave."
She made to move away, but he couldn't bring himself to let her go that easily. Shooting out an arm, her former lover blocked her path and leaned in closer, breathing in the scent of lavender in her freshly washed hair. He had missed her more than he had ever missed anyone before and the vivacious redhead had been just as hard to convince the first time he'd tried to assign her a personal security team.
"I dislike the idea of you traveling without a proper security detail, given the nature of this partnership arrangement." He smiled and moved in even closer. "I got the impression from my conversations with Shay that the family have their own concerns about your companion..."
"Whot happens between me and Michael is neither ya or me family's concern, Armand," she answered sharply. For the first time since leaving the infirmary her fiery nature resurfaced, her sudden display of emotion and the resurgence of her native accent both clear indicators that her anger at her lover's betrayal was very deep indeed. The Frenchman's smile spread wider across his features.
It was as he had thought…. The man had not fooled her with promises of wealth and contrition. Fiona like himself was not ruled by merely a profit motive, but by the social currency which brought the wealth he accumulated. Her pride would not allow her to admit her mistake openly; however, the woman he had known would not be satisfied without taking her revenge not only personally, but privately as well.
"Of course, as you wish. After all, you have an appointment to keep. You can tell me all about it when you return... Until then, ma aime..." He took her face between his palms and caressed her lips with his before locking their mouths together in a passionate and long overdue kiss.
At the end of the kiss, Armand stepped back abruptly and, after taking one last look at the woman leaning back against the wall, the pallor of her skin highlighting her pink flushed cheeks and her partially opened kiss bruised lips, he turned away.
With the taste of his paramour's lips still lingering on his mouth, the international arms merchant strode off without a word towards the stairs which would take him to the office in his private suite on the upper floors of the west wing of his favorite chateau. He could still feel the fluttering of her heart against his chest and knew if he lifted his hands to his face that he'd be able to smell her sweet scent abiding on his fingers.
She would be back in his home and in his bed as soon as she got rid of the disappointing boyfriend, most likely somewhere between the Swedish capitol and returning to him. Monsieur Andreani smiled, his dark eyes glinting in the dimly lit hallway. Maybe she would have Seamus dump the faux-Irishman's body out in the cold depths of the North Sea or would she send him out to collect a car which she had already rigged to explode? Whatever his belle Fiona decided would be fine. After all, their relationship had begun with a death, so it was only fitting that it would begin again after another.
Reaching the staircase, he did finally glance back along the empty corridor. He had forgotten how quietly she could move, even on marble, when she desired. Pursing his lips, Armand continued on his way to his office. He had to check on the delivery of the Stinger Missiles Seamus had been so kind as to provide.
Arranging the death of a tenacious British customs officer who had managed to bring together enough intelligence to bring down one of the Provisional IRA's major gunrunners had been the fee the French arms merchant had been only too glad to pay to ensure space for his merchandise on Seamus Glenanne's freighter that made regular trips across the Atlantic. It had also brought him an introduction to the PIRA council which in turn through the Unions controlled access to the ports on both sides of the border. But the greatest prize that the death of CO David Warden and the destruction of every file he had in his possession on the Glenannes had been an evening in the company of one Fiona Glenanne.
Climbing the stairs, the dark-haired man forgot for the moment the business he had yet to complete and instead thought about the changes he had seen in La Belle Fiona since that first date where he had politely turned down her proposal to show him the best places to eat and drink Dublin had to offer and had instead countered with his favorite French establishment located in the heart of the Irish capital city.
The following evening, he had whisked her away on his private plane, for the purposes of comparing their meal at La Mère Zou to dining outside one of the finest cafe restaurants on the Champs Elysees.
He remembered well the anger of her siblings when they returned to Dublin in the early hours of the morning, but Armand also remembered how she had set about defending him, taking much of the blame for absconding to France upon herself. He had wanted to laugh as the petite spitfire who had comported herself as lady while sipping champagne and dining on fine food had turned into a raging fishwife at the first word of complaint from her brothers. It was this contradiction in terms that had drawn him to her in the first place, so much passion for life just waiting for a chance to break free.
By the end of that first week he had spent his days organizing the trade agreement with Seamus and his nights jet setting all over Europe with the man's little sister. By the end of the first fortnight, he had showered her with gifts and attention and Fiona had been eager to accompany him on an excursion, keen to use her skills with languages and weapons to assist him in his endeavors. The family hadn't been happy but they'd blessed the partnership.
And on that first trip he had trained her for the life she was about to step into and she had taken to it with her usual gusto for all things new and challenging. Armand smiled again as he opened the door to his inner sanctum at the villa, remembering her wild passion once freed following a firefight in Chechnya with a particularly thorny client. He had expected that the tomboy with the russet colored hair would be as passionate in bed as she was out of it and he hadn't been proven wrong. Within a few short months of her moving in, she had come to fully embrace his hedonistic lifestyle in every aspect.
And Monsieur Andreani was so very much looking forward to welcoming La Belle Fiona to his lifestyle again.
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Sir Richard Chambers looked across to where his opposite number in the CIA stood in the corner of the room, leaning against the window sill still reading through one of the many copies of the file the MI6 man had taken into his meeting with the Northern Ireland Secretary mere hours ago.
The Englishman smiled. If that meeting had gone well, this one had gone even better. David Fickas had been full of arrogance at their dinner the night before, but the illusion of his having a spine had started to vanish as soon as the American had reached the third page of the carefully crafted dossier.
"I still can't believe Tom did any of this. He was training officer with limited time in the field and you want me to believe he was running black ops off the books over here? Besides, what was his end game in all this supposed to be? Why would he want to disrupt the Accords? This is all just conjecture on your part anyway. I mean, you haven't named a single source."
"I'm not obligated to share that intelligence with you and apparently your Agency hasn't been all that forthcoming with me. Besides, it doesn't matter what you believe, Fickas. What it really it comes down to, old man, is what credible defense you can come up with for what has occurred. You of all people should know that. Where there's this much smoke, one usually finds a fire or two."
The station chief's sour expression told Chambers that they both knew he was right, but that didn't stop the younger man from trying to turn things back on his host. "Be serious, Chambers. This is all—"
"Westen, Grey and this Riley woman were all trained by your Mr. Card, who out of the blue suddenly decides to set aside his duties in the States to jump on a plane because he's needed in Ireland? As if he were the only one in the whole of the CIA capable of bringing your rebellious agent to heel…?"
"Card was trying to avoid an international incident—"
"What Tom Card was allegedly trying to stop is precisely what we have on our hands right now, thanks to him. He set loose the prisoner we already had in custody to allegedly tie up loose ends and then that rogue agent attacks three of my men and runs off with the woman who's supposed to be his asset."
"But that doesn't mean Westen took off because he uncovered some unsanctioned CIA operation like you've implied here," the American protested. "You worked with Westen for god's sakes. You know he—"
"Why else would Westen go native? And why was Tyler Grey's body found with that of two members of the now nearly defunct Real IRA, an organization Westen had already succeeded in dismantling under my supervision? Further, your man Grey did not enter this country through official channels. Those are indisputable although not yet widely known facts, Fickas. How do you explain his presence here?"
"After that debacle with Gilroy getting an entire CIA tac team blown up and killed, I'm sure Card wanted his own tracker," the high-ranking CIA officer responded.
"If Tyler Grey was here as a tracker, then what was he doing meeting with those radicals in Clonmel? And you know as well as I do that Mason Gilroy was under Tom Card's direction. He met with the man hours before his untimely death. Her Majesty's government has already issued a revocation order on Gilroy."
"Obviously using their connections to get intel on where Westen might have gone," Fickas replied curtly.
The Englishman grinned at him. "One could have said that, except one of the men Grey was meeting with had also entered the country illegally only days before. How would he have intelligence on Westen when no one outside of this office, except Card and his PA, knew their man had abandoned his post?"
"It's all very convenient that everyone in this shadow play of yours is either dead or missing," the younger man complained.
Sir Richard's smile grew wider. "Not everyone," the older man countered. "Agent Olivia Riley, an up and coming hot shot in your counter intelligence division, also came into the country without bothering to check in with anyone. Within hours of arriving in Northern Ireland doing God only knows what, she travels south of the border and holds a meeting with a high ranking member of the Continuity IRA and then goes north and breaks into the home of Liam Glenanne, an equally high ranking member of the Provisional IRA, immediately after Tom Card meets an unfortunate end on the wrong side of the road."
The Senator's son dropped his gaze back to the surveillance photographs of the woman in question and said nothing. Clearly, she had done most of the things that the British were accusing her of and probably some of what was implied but as of yet unproven as well. Damn Card and his cadre of mavericks…
"If she had bothered to read MI5 and 6 protocols on these republican groups, she would have known better and thus the CIA has nearly broken the accords that have been holding the fragile peace together. So, unless you're here to tell me that your Agency has decided to throw the interests of their closest allies out the window for some sort of secret covert operation, I don't know what other conclusion there can be except that rogue elements in your own office were operating without your knowledge."
"Of course, I knew nothing about it," Fickas retorted. "I would never have approved anything like that."
"And naturally you knew nothing about the theft of several stinger missiles from a warehouse, a theft that according to the security guards' sworn statements was carried out by at least two American sounding men and Frank Duggan, the Continuity IRA leader that Riley was seen meeting with earlier."
The British intelligence officer could see his American counterpart now trying to figure out the best way to save his own hide, which was exactly where he wanted Station Chief David Fickas.
"I will see it that Agent Riley -"
"Our Northern Irish secretary, Ms Mowlam, right now is being forced to apologize to Sinn Fien for your agents' actions. To say the woman is angry would be a profound understatement. Do you have any idea of the concessions she is going to be forced to make? There are rumors that they are going to be demanding nothing less than amnesty for every crime committed over the last thirty years and the early release of all prisoners being held under the terrorism act."
Sir Richard paused to let the implications of that statement to set in before he continued.
"No, I made the mistake of allowing Tom Card to rein in Westen. I am not about to make the same mistake again. This time I am going to make absolutely sure your agent is delivered back to Langley."
"What are you talking about, Chambers?" the younger man demanded.
"Card's body will be going back for burial today accompanied by his former PA Mrs. Joyce and, before this morning is over, it will be my privilege to inform Agent Riley that she will join that little entourage for failing to observe the most fundamental of basic protocols and nearly endangering the peace process. Expelling her from the country on the QT is the least embarrassing thing I can do given her actions."
The Englishman took great pleasure in the look of shock that spread over the face of his opposite number. Causing Liam Glenanne to strap a bomb to the undercarriage of his wife's Bentley had been the last straw. Someone was going to pay for that and that somebody was on her way to his office right now.
"What?" His eyes shot towards the clock on the wall behind the other man's head. It was nearly noon.
"The only question you need to be asking yourself, Fickas, is whether you will be joining me in summarily disciplining yet another rogue CIA agent who has been operating beyond the pale behind your back or joining your little black ops team on that plane back to Washington to explain yourself to your superiors."
"You wouldn't da—"
"I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you, old chap. I have had a very difficult few days on account of you Americans meddling in things you have no bloody business involving yourselves in. I can hang that milestone around your neck as well as hers. Now, I hear footsteps in the hallway. What's it going to be?"
As if on cue, there was the muffled sound of Caroline Caruthers responding to someone in the outer hallway. A buzz on the intercom from the phone on Sir Richard's desk was followed by his PA's voice.
"Your guest has arrived."
"By all means, show her in." For the first time since the late Tom Card had set that damnable Michael Westen loose instead of hauling him out of the country in chains, the MI6 man could see the hope of his life returning to some semblance of normalcy… As normal as anything involving peace talks with a bunch of republican radicals in the process could be... He'd been bullied enough by politicians and criminals and be damned if a bunch of jumped up colonists were going to cause him any more trouble.
Especially not if he'd been handed the means to put a stop to it on a silver platter…
"Good, you're already here." Olivia Riley acknowledged her alleged superior on the Emerald Isle as she nodded towards David Fickas still standing by the window, the cardboard folder emblazoned with the seal of Her Majesty's intelligence service on the cover clutched in his hands. "Saves me a phone call…"
"Where else would I be?" the station chief asked, though it was clearly rhetorical given the poorly concealed snark in his tone and the eye roll as the CIA operative marched into the room. "This is—"
"Richard Chambers, head of intelligence services for MI6 in Northern Ireland, Michael Westen's UK handler before he went off the reservation and the last one to have our man in custody," the dark-haired woman with the intense brown eyes finished the sentence for the other man. "I'm Agent—"
"Olivia Riley, rising star of the US counterintelligence services," the British spymaster concluded. "Such a pleasure to finally meet you, Agent Riley, have a seat."
"I'll stand if you don't mind. I've got a lot of ground to get covered."
"Yes, you certainly have requested command of a large number of our resources. Good show trying to be thorough in your research, though you did rather manage to miss a few details. It's Sir," he corrected.
"Oh, excuse me... All right if I call you Sir Richard…?"
"Of course, Agent Riley… Anything else I can get you before we begin?"
"No, I've had plenty of coffee while I've been waiting to see you," she assured him. "Now that we've exchanged all the pleasantries, can we get down to business?
"You should have tried the biscuits. They're quite good," Chambers remarked and Fickas rolled his eyes again behind the woman's back.
"No, thank you, though it's been awhile since I've had a… what do you Englishmen call it… A fag…?"
"Yes, you might want to do that. I understand it's a fifteen-hour flight… long time to go without relief…"
"Flight…?" Riley echoed as she lit the cigarette that she'd pulled from her jacket pocket. "I hoped the delay in my meeting with you had to do with getting the rest of the documents I requested assembled."
"Not quite…" The head of MI6 in Northern Ireland smiled in spite of himself. This was going to be grand. Rather like sending that irritant Lt. Meyers off to Afghanistan the other day. "The delay, as you put it, was to ensure that all your flight arrangements were made officially this time. We wouldn't want you sneaking out the same way you came in… oh, and don't worry, I've already had the men you left with your private jet escorted onto the same flight. I'm afraid Her Majesty's government will be confiscating your illicit transportation to pay for some of the clean-up from the helicopter crash over in Waterford."
"I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you right. You wanna run that by me again," the woman commanded, her tight pony tail bobbing in time with her words. "Did I just hear you say you were planning on taking CIA property? You just gonna stand there and let him get away with that…?" She turned her rising ire on Fickas, looking over her shoulder at the station chief and jabbing her smoke in his direction.
"No, I'm going to call Langley and tell them that a Bombardier Learjet 45 in exchange for what it's cost to clean up that mess in Waterford is a damned bargain and I'm going to remind them that's what happens when your agents come into a friendly country without bothering to check in with the local authorities."
"Because if you had bothered to check in instead getting into whatever nefarious business you were up to on behalf of the now-deceased Tom Card," Chambers continued, drawing her attention back to him. "Then you would have known that making unsanctioned contact with republican splinter groups was in violation of your government's mandate. But you weren't here on their say-so, was she, Mr Fickas?"
"I am here to find out who murdered Tom Card and bring in Michael Westen," she said. "That mission—"
"You might have been here to do that; however, what you are going to do is get on a plane back to the United States and not return to any territory controlled by Her Majesty's government," Sir Richard informed her bluntly. "You can choose to go quietly with the two gentlemen coming to escort you out or you can go in handcuffs if you prefer. But those are your only choices in the matter. Good day, Agent Riley."
The infuriated woman rounded on the man standing behind her, "Fickas, you authorized me to—"
"You can tell them all about it back in Virginia, Agent Riley," the American station chief advised. "And I hope you've got a good explanation for why you were meeting with sectarian groups, breaking in high ranking PIRA member's houses on your own initiative and nearly derailing the peace process."
The two heavily muscled men who had brought the CIA agent from Mrs Joyce's former office came through the doorway at that moment. Riley looked from Fickas back to Chambers, rage burning in her dark brown eyes. She opened her mouth to speak but the MI6 man cut her off before she could do so.
"Please give my regards to Mr Card's widow," Sir Richard instructed, trying not to smile as she was marched out of the room, followed by the frowning David Fickas still clutching the dossier he'd provided.
Yes, it was going to be a good day indeed.
()()()()()
Moving towards the corner of the room on uncooperative legs, the American ex-operative leaned heavily on the stainless-steel sink, running the water over his hands and then scrubbing them over his face. Reaching for a nearby towel after he finished scouring the residual dried blood from his fingers and features, Michael overestimated his equilibrium and sat down heavily in a fortuitously nearby chair. Taking advantage of his position with his head between his knees, the former agent checked to see if the ceramic blades were still in his boots, which happily they were.
Since he still had his belt too, he assumed the lack of his firearm was part of losing his shirt. Feeling some stickiness still on his upper shoulder as he right himself, Michael wondered just how much of the other man's plasma had soaked into his now missing garment. After dabbing away the film, the dark-haired man stood up to hang the cloth over the edge of the sink before gripping its edges tightly for balance.
I do not need this right now…
He'd dodged a metaphorical bullet with Fiona being unexpectedly introduced to his former fiancée by his quick-witted lie; however, he had somehow managed to get hit by a literal one in trying to keep his beloved from being shot in the middle of a tense standoff that could have ended far worse than it had. Even now standing safely in the make shift infirmary in the aftermath of that potentially catastrophic gun battle, Michael shook off the lingering fear of what had could have happened on more levels than one.
"Promise me that you will tell her the truth about us, and about yourself, when you find somewhere safe to live…" Thinking about Samantha's plea that he come clean with the woman he actually intended to marry had him thinking about not only about the urgency of the upcoming plane ride, and the potential for personal disaster that escape held, but the need to figure where that somewhere safe was and soon.
He needed to find out what had happened while he was out and he needed to find out what was going on now…. He needed to find Fiona and get them on their way out of here… The litany of his requirements spurred the dark-haired man to turn and start for the door, even though she had told him to wait here.
What he really needed was for the damned floor to stay level and stop shifting around…
With a frustrated growl, he changed directions and sat on the edge of the bed. He'd had worse injuries; however, now that the pain in his arm was settling to tolerable levels, the hurt in his head was commanding more of his attention.
But he knew if he just kept moving the vertigo would eventually just go, so Michael pushed off and began to walk again with a slow measured stride. He was so close to the door that Fiona almost hit him with it when she rushed through holding a black shirt, a dark jacket and French-made Beretta knock-off.
Utterly relieved to see his woman and his weapon reappear, the former spy nonetheless gave a little startled exclamation as the piece of textured wood suddenly came swinging at his face. Putting a hand to his bare chest, the petite former paramilitary backed her lover away from the portal and kicked the door shut with her boot, blocking off the other room.
"Take this…" she said, shifting the clothing laid across her forearm and proffering the automatic.
"Thank you," he returned gratefully, taking the handgun from her and then awkwardly attempting to stuff it into the back of his waistband until she deftly took the faux-Beretta from him.
"Turn around," the fiery redhead instructed as she corrected the placement and then pulled open the shirt for him to slip into, which was a black long sleeve poly-cotton blend worn by the Frenchman's security team. "Yer closer ta Rene's size than Jean-Luc's but tis still going ta be a little large."
The former spy shook out his arms and pushed the sleeves back once he had the garment on. Then he gingerly slid his wounded limb through one arm of the light weight tactical jacket that she held out for him before shrugging the rest of the way into the slightly oversized apparel.
"D'ya get our ride outta town arranged then?" he asked, checking the fit of the coat.
"They'll be takin' one o' tha cargo vans an' turnin' it inta an ambulance fer ya and yar girlfriend's guard."
"She's nae—" Michael sighed and quit protesting, noticing for the first time the odd tension in her face. Now what the hell has gone wrong? he questioned internally, but out loud said,"An' whar will ya be?"
"I'll be ridin' in tha front. Donnae worry. I'll nae be lettin' ya outta me sight."
Michael appreciated not only his beloved getting him the clothing but also the fact that it appeared Fiona had decided for the moment to focus on getting out of her ex-lover's house as quickly as possible. But as an Army Ranger, he'd felt in his bones when a battle was brewing. It had served him well as a spy too and the American operative knew he'd have to navigate that free fire zone once they were airborne.
But first they needed to get out from under the tenuous hospitality of Fiona's former paramour.
So, when the woman he loved put her hands on both sides of his scruffy jaw and kissed him hard, the dark-haired man was happy but completely confused and then when she released him and her tightly packed fist impacted his good arm, her sharp knuckles digging into the meaty part of his shoulder deep enough to hurt, he was even more perplexed and in more pain than before.
"Donnae be thinking thot yer off tha hook wit' me… We'll be havin' a conversation about yar future, Signore Gallo, when we get done in Stockholm. Let's go," the petite one-time paramilitary commanded.
Fiona turned on her boot heel and flung the door open, striding purposefully into the next room where the surgeon, the patient, his mistress and her security team awaited. Michael tried to keep up but ended up stumbling in to her when she stopped abruptly to address Jean Luc and his nephew Rene.
"Ar' ya alright?" she whispered tightly as she put an arm around his waist, steadying him as he wrapped his long limb around the irascible redhead's shoulder for a moment.
"Am fine," he answered, though it was clear from the concern in her eyes that she didn't believe him.
"Perhaps I should examine him," Dr Kassal announced, moving from the bedside of Samantha's wounded guard towards Fiona's injured lover.
"Am fine," Michael repeated, straightening up and putting his hand out to balance himself as well as stave off the approach of Armand's surgeon. That's the last thing I need is him announcing I can't travel. "Ya just stopped a wee bit sooner than I wa' expectin' ya ta, thot's all."
"Rene," the former arms merchant addressed the man who had once been second in command of her personal security team in his native language. "See to it that Signore Gallo gets to the transport."
The man in question looked from his former protectee to his uncle, who nodded his assent. Jean Luc then turned towards the tall brunette, currently doing her best to remain inconspicuous while still trying to look like she still had command of the situation. "Mademoiselle Keyes, if you will instruct your men to bring their indisposed comrade with them, we can prepare to depart as you requested."
The Irishwoman breathed another internal sigh of relief as Michael's ex-lover gave the appropriate orders in Russian and not quite soon enough, they were moving into the hallway, two of Jean-Luc's team followed by the four men each carrying a corner of the board being used as a make-shift gurney and then Samantha and her other bodyguard with the father of her child and Rene directly in front of her.
"The doctor will go along with his patients in the Sprinter. I've put Armand's guest and the rest of her security contingent in SUVs unless you think she'd prefer a limo?"
"No, the M-Class should be fine," she dismissed his concerns using his mother tongue, more interested in keeping an eye out for Jean Luc's employer than the comfort of Michael's ex as they navigated the wide hallway that led to main staircase to the lobby, the luxurious décor that she'd once been so accustomed to seeing that she'd become oblivious to it now seemed to mock her past choices as she walked by.
"I offered to take them ahead by chopper but she was quite insistent that the group caravan together."
Fiona shrugged, staring at the leggy brunette's back before shifting her gaze temporarily to the former spy, concern for his unusually unsteady gait flicking across her face before she quickly schooled her features into a neutral mask. "It's probably for the best since we are all traveling together, so it seems," she answered. "I assume my bags from the Gulfstream are in the Sprinter?"
"Everything is ready, as you requested. I assume you're not going reconsider my offer?"
"It's really not necessary. What I'm doing for Shay requires a two-man team and discretion. Signore Gallo will do just fine and if not, then he won't get the chance to disappoint me again," Fiona declared.
"Assuming you actually get to Stockholm as planned. You really want to go onboard with no additional security?" her former bodyguard pressed, nodding towards the large delegation which had arrived with the Kazakhstani emissary and was now all gathered in the ornate lobby of the main house, the half dozen other guards having joined their six companions who had made their way awkwardly down the stairs holding their injured associate prone on the board between them.
"If I can't handle her," she began, pulling her leather coat to one side to reveal not only her PPK, but some of the knives and explosives she was carrying. "Then I deserve to—"
"It's not her I'm concerned about," Renard cut her off. "Your bravado is getting ahead of your brains again, just like walking into that standoff under-armed. You're a good shot, but you're not going to take out a dozen armed men with a Walther unless you've added invulnerable to your resume recently."
Fiona knew what he was doing and she clamped down on the retort bubbling up on her lips. Her mentor, and the former head of her security team had indeed been that for her, had often goaded her, using her temper against her to guide her into wiser choices on both a practical and personal level.
"I'll be fine. Irishwomen are indestructible. You should know that by now," she quipped, refusing to take the bait as the entourage they had been following now stood aside waiting for their hosts to proceed.
"You better be," Jean Luc declared with a mock scowl before a slight grin accompanied the twinkle in his eyes. "Armand made it very clear he's expecting you back and it's on my head if you're not in one piece."
And while the tall bald man had meant it as a joke, teasing her as he often had, it was all the shaken redhead could do not to let him see how much her words affected him. Quickly scanning the large room, Ms Glenanne was more than relieved to see that her ex-lover was still nowhere in sight, not that she had actually expected to see him. Mssr Andreani had already said his farewells in the corridor earlier.
"You can tell me all about it when you return... Until then, ma aime..."
When Armand had drawn closer to her in the hallway, she had expected a goodbye similar to her initial greeting, so she wasn't entirely surprised that he had laid hands on her. After all, she had done nothing to indicate to him that they were not still on good terms. Frankly, she done far more than that by walking off arm and arm with him for a drink in a fit of something somewhere between pique and rage.
Even as he had been telegraphing his intention to kiss her, Fiona had been anticipating a quick brush of his lips over her cheekbones and reminded herself that she needed to endure it in order to expedite their leaving his compound quickly and without incident. However, although she probably should not have been surprised, Fiona found herself almost frozen with shock when Armand's mouth met hers.
The crash of conflicting emotions and reactions held her in her place, stunned, betrayed, furious mixing with fear until disgust with herself and the man she had once fancied herself in love with had her pulling back. Even now, standing to the side watching the crack French security team interact with their Russian counterparts as they filed outside into the courtyard and loaded the wounded one of their number into the modified cargo van before starting to fill into the black M-class SUVs, the Irishwoman could still feel the nauseating disorientation that those intense feelings had left in their wake.
She had been running ops for her family since she was a teenager, but she had felt more like one than an international gun runner and former paramilitary in that moment and she hated herself for it. Fiona decided she must have looked dazed as he drew back and recalling his soft chuckle when he turned away made her blood boil all over again. As he walked off, never once looking back, his ex-lover couldn't head in the opposite direction fast enough and nearly ran over Renard as that man was arriving to oversee the transfer of their injured guests to their awaiting vehicles. With the apparel from Rene's locker and the gun they'd taken from him on the rooftop in hand, she couldn't wait to find Michael again.
Another rush of contrary feelings had overcome the redhead at the sight of the shirtless father of their child and it was all Fiona could do to not throw herself into his arms and bury her face in his bare chest. But she was a Glenanne, dammit, and pregnancy hormones, lack of proper rest and food be damned too and yet she couldn't keep from kissing him, the need to erase the taste of the Frenchman being the most important thing on her mind at that moment until righteous indignation took its place and she hit him.
The former PIRA operative locked eyes with the dark-haired man in question across the driveway before he was helped into the Mercedes Sprinter by the man whose clothing he was wearing. Then the not so slender woman blew out a frustrated breath as she observed Michael's former lover getting a hand up into the large black vehicle and walked towards her ride. Just hold it together 'til wa're on tha plane…
Outside in the sunshine of the pleasant spring day in the south of France, Ms Glenanne took a moment to survey the scene around her, but still felt the urgency of a quick departure. Jean Luc's team were loading into another armored version of the Mercedes SUV at the head of the column with the three vehicles containing the delegation from Kazakhstan sandwiched between them and the remaining contingent of Armand's security, Rene Renard behind the wheel of the final heavy vehicle in the caravan.
Fiona peered into the back of the Sprinter and satisfied herself that things were as they should be. The guard who'd been shot was strapped prone to a seat next to Dr Kassal and one each of Armand's and Samantha's security were sitting on either side of Michael, who was refusing to lie down until she gave him the evil eye. She was no medical expert, but she was pretty sure her lover needed to rest before he got on an aircraft with a head injury. Plus, she was planning to grill him to within an inch of his life, so…
Adjusting her head band, Fiona looked towards the driver's door and then let her hands fall to her sides with an irritated huff when she saw the older bald man settling behind the wheel. Muttering, the fiery Irishwoman moved around to the passenger side and climbed into the seat, letting out the breath she didn't know she was holding until the cargo van moved forward towards the airport in Marseilles.
()()()()()()
Jean Luc Renard paused behind the wheel of the Sprinter 312D for a moment after they pulled into the private hangar in the Marseille Provence Airport. A supremely unsentimental man as befitted his role as head of security for the international criminal empire, the older man couldn't help but linger a moment in the company of the young Irishwoman. Like his employer, he'd missed her vibrant presence in their lives; however, unlike Monsieur Andreani, the Basque native knew she wasn't coming back.
It wasn't the evasive way she'd managed to never quite answer his questions when he inquired about her returning and needing extra security. It wasn't how she'd talked about her time in Ireland after she'd left Marseilles to return home to her family. It wasn't even the dismissive manner she'd used to attempt to disguise her true feelings for the mysterious man who'd arrived in her wake, be he Gallo or McBride as they had chatted during the thirty minute drive.
It was the look in those blue green eyes, but not the look of fury he'd seen on her face as she'd raced towards the guesthouse, nor was it the sickened expression on her features as they had picked up the inert form of her black-haired companion and carried him to back to the villa's in-house infirmary.
Rather, it was the raw terror he saw in those wide-open orbs… something he'd never seen in all the years he'd known her. Fiona Gleanne was bold, reckless, fearless in situations that would have caused lesser men to faint. But as weapons discharged and blood exploded and then splattered everywhere, the horrors she had seen in other parts of the world did not affect her the way seeing her man shot in front of her had done. She could hide her feelings under most circumstances, but not then and then he knew.
"I have to go," she'd told him four years ago when she'd returned to her family and her homeland and it had been true then… apparently it was equally true in this time, although where she was going was a mystery. The only thing that Renard knew for certain was that this was the final farewell from her.
As the hoard of Russian bodyguards disembarked and swarmed around the Airbus A319CJ, interacting with the armed security which had been left in charge of overseeing the large aircraft taking up a generous portion of the enormous hangar, the ex-ETA member joined the redhead at the front of the van.
Andreani's secluded hangar was as always a flurry of activities under one vast all-encompassing roof, the sounds of the air tools and the smell of jet fuel unique to this facility was hardly conducive to the older man's attempt to keep from becoming nostalgic. He could never come to this place without being reminded of the young woman he'd been asked to oversee all those years ago.
She was staring at the leggy brunette, who was getting helped down from the SUV, and then turned towards him, a wistful half smile gracing her features as she said his name softly. "Jean Luc…"
"You're not going to get all weepy, are you? Ireland's made you soft, red."
Fiona punched him in the shoulder instead of answering him. "There's more where that came from," she added.
"And I'd prefer you be around to do that instead of dead if you don't mind."
"The only thing dead around here is that horse you keep beating," Fiona advised, passing the duo who were carrying away the more gravely injured of the van's two passengers while she headed toward the rear of the vehicle. Jean Luc hurried to come alongside her, determined to make her see some sense.
"Do you see that jet? You haven't been out of the business that long. You know that's government money sitting there. You're really going to try to do this without your own hardware and personnel?"
She stopped to watch Dr. Kassal help her travelling companion out of the Sprinter and Renard observed her looking at Michael, who acknowledged the Basque native's intense gaze with one of his own.
"I'll be fine," the redhead assured the former head of her security team, smiling at him with misty eyes and he nodded slightly. Fiona leaned in, kissing the tall bald man on both cheeks. "Au revoir, Jean Luc."
"Adieu, Fiona…Bon voyage…"
And she stared at him for a moment, acknowledging the significance in the difference of their farewells before she walked away, her partner in crime de jour trailing in her wake. Renard continued to watch until the pair boarded the short-body private version of a commercial jet, the woman who'd once been his responsibility to protect personally and the dark-haired man who'd apparently stolen her heart.
And he sincerely hoped that she would be fine as he knew without a doubt he'd never see her again.