A/N: A big thank you to Jedi Skysinger for BETAing, I know I gave you so much extra work with this chapter. Thank you Amanda Hawthorn and DaisyDay for reading through sections of this chapter for me you were both a big help.

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WHO WE ONCE WERE

Slieveanorra

Dublin, October 1998

"How could I have been so damned stupid? Cooking lessons! Fiona Glenanne taking cooking lessons.

She must have been planning the job for weeks without telling me a damn thing! Robbing a goddamn armored truck, she's gonna ruin everything!"

The thoughts shot through Michael's mind as rapidly as the wheels spun on the Sierra Cosworth he was driving at highly illegal speeds towards the Northern Ireland border.

Four hours ago, he had been walking up the steep concrete steps to the one bedroom Dublin flat he shared with the little auburn-haired hell raiser. At the time, he had been racked with guilt for walking out on her three days earlier with barely a word of explanation.

"I've gotta assignment. I'll be gone for a few days," had been the limit of what he could tell her. Only she hadn't seen it that way.

She had followed him around the flat as he'd packed a change of clothes and various pieces weaponry he'd thought he might need into a canvas bag, trying to provoke him into telling her more. He had known she feared he was going to disappear, or more likely do something to betray her compatriots. All the old distrusts had risen back to the surface with spiteful and hurtful comments flying back and forth between them.

"You knew it would happen one day," he had tried to explain as he'd taken a hard blow in between his shoulder blades. "I'm surprised they've left me alone for this long."

"I thought - " She'd calmed down as rapidly as her temper had flared. "I thought ya might be fergettin about yar government job. We've gotta good thing here - I thought ya war happy."

He'd smiled softly at her. "I am happy, Fi. But my 'government work,' as you put it, is who I am an' I'm not going to change. I told you that ages ago."

And that had been all it took for the calm to disappear. Under normal circumstances, that was one of the many things he loved about Fiona Glenanne. She was as dangerous and unstable as the explosives she handled. She could go from sweet to crazy with barely a pause in between. If he wasn't about to go on a mission, this would have been when the fun would have really started; however, he had been waiting weeks to be given something worthwhile to do and he didn't have long to get in place.

"Yar not leaving here until ya tell me whatcha up to!" She'd stood in the door way, her arms folded across her chest, blocking his exit from the bedroom. Her eyes had sparkled with excitement and, as he rose up on to his feet, her mouth had twitched in anticipation of the upcoming battle.

But instead of a sparring match leading to a morning filled with wild passion, he had moved with cool purpose, taking her punches, kicks and the sharp nips of her teeth when he had taken a hold of her around the waist. But instead of smothering her in kisses, he had thrown her down on the bed, picked up his bag and headed for the door.

"This has nothing to do with you. I'll be back in a few days." His words had come out stilted as he fought to keep a tight rein on his own emotions.

He'd been outside, having just slammed the front door closed, when he ducked instinctively as something heavy hit the other side of the thick wooden door. Walking away, he had done his best to block out her angry screeches which followed him along the balcony.

Michael put a stop to his reminiscing as he neared the border. Luckily there were no checkpoints set up and he sailed through without having to stop. The only way to tell he had crossed from Southern Ireland into the North were the road signs, which changed from the bi-lingual ones in the South to the solely English ones in the North.

Soon his foot was pressing the accelerator pedal to the floor again and he was zipping passed all the other traffic. The Sierra's speedometer was easily creeping up passed one hundred miles an hour and still moving around the dial. At one hundred and forty, he was flashing the headlights to force other cars out of his path.

What the hell was she playing at? An armed robbery in broad daylight on a busy road! If the police didn't kill her there was a strong possibility that when he caught up to her, he would kill her himself.

The assignment was supposed to have been a simple one. He had told Fiona he would be gone for a few days, but in reality he had expected it to last no more than twenty four hours. It was supposed to have been an easy extraction.

Toby Hanrahan was an arms smuggler based out of Waterford who had been turned into a MI6 asset after he had been caught out at sea with a boat load of Semtex. Instead of getting a long prison sentence, he had chosen to become an informer for the intelligence services and, over the last five years, had helped to build up a case which lead to over fifty arrests in Britain and Ireland.

Then Hanrahan's MI6 handler had received word that the IRA hierarchy was becoming suspicious of the smuggler. So, the order had been given to extract the family. Toby had been picked up at his home, but unfortunately at the time his wife and children had been away visiting friends in Dublin.

So that had been his job: to meet Mrs Hanrahan on Halfpenny Bridge and escort her and the children to a safe house in Belfast where her husband was waiting for her to join him.

"You're perfect for the job. If anybody spots her in your company, you're Michael McBride and you're taking her to the North as a hostage to force her husband to surrender himself to the IRA," Richard Chambers, his new temporary British handler, had told him.

So after leaving Fiona, he had taken a roundabout route to the meeting place, all the while making sure he wasn't being followed. He had waited with growing concern for over an hour before deciding to risk a visit to the family's lodgings, a guest house on the outskirts of the City.

He had snuck inside and gone up to the room Mrs Hanrahan had been sharing with her children. Knocking quietly on the door, he had waited with a gun in his hand.

"Missus Hanrahan?" He'd gotten no reply to his quiet call. Trying the handle, he'd become even more worried for the family's safety when he realized it was unlocked.

Pushing the door wide open, he had stared across the room. On the far wall, written in what looked like blood, had been one word; Brathadóir. Informer, he had translated the accusation into English.

Stepping into the room, he'd closed the door behind him before moving further inside. He'd found Mrs. Hanrahan's mutilated body lying on the floor beneath the word written in her blood. In the bedroom he'd found three little bodies on the bed, each killed with a shot to the head.

He had stood frozen to the spot as a terrible flashback of an incident several years earlier played out in his head. A memory he had successfully managed to keep buried until now: Chechnya. Shaking his head, he'd pushed the thought back into the deep recesses of his brain. I wasn't there, I did nothing.

Just like all those years ago, there had been nothing he could do for the dead. So he'd slipped away looking for the nearest phone box. Dialing 999, he had requested the Garda and then gave them the address of the guest house before hanging up the phone and rushing away.

Once clear of the crime scene, he'd used his cell phone to put a call through to Chambers. He'd expected to be told to return to his home and await further assignments. Instead he had been ordered to get to Belfast as fast as he could for a full debriefing at a safe house, which operated as a head quarters for the British covert operations.

It had taken him the rest of the day to make the journey, as he had to keep checking he wasn't being followed. After a night's sleep, he'd spent the next day tied to a desk in front of his own handler and one of the team in charge of Toby Hanrahan describing everything he had seen. It had taken a full thirty six hours before he was released to return to Dublin.

The whole time he'd traveled towards the South, his mind had dwelt on what he had seen in the little guest house and what his relationship with Fiona might eventually cost her. As he had neared the border, he'd seriously thought about turning around and accepting Dan Siebels' offer to get him out of Ireland.

The last time he had spoken to his CIA handler, the man had broached the subject of Fiona Glenanne.

"You're crazy, Michael, and not in a good way. How do you see a relationship with that bomb making, bank robbing little terrorist working out? You're getting attached and you know how dangerous that can be. Look, I've got a nice little assignment on my desk and all it would take is one phone call to Dickie Chambers to get you released back to the CIA. I could have you set up working out of the US embassy in Germany within a week."

Dan had continued to lay it on thick, pointing out he would be back in his designer suits, playing his favorite roll of international man of mystery amongst the rich and powerful of Western Europe, and living in a four star hotel with room service instead of a rundown one bed apartment in a neglected neighborhood. It had been so tempting, but in the end he couldn't do it. He had to get back to that feisty little Irish woman waiting to punch his lights out back in Dublin.

They would work it out, he'd told himself. They were both being careful. He could protect her.

What he had witnessed in the guest-house was still playing on his mind when he'd finally made the slow trudge up the steep concrete steps that led to his sixth floor one bedroom flat.

With some trepidation, he'd slipped his key into the lock and other thoughts had begun to take over. Would she be mad? Or would she be gone? And if she was in there waiting for him, how much pain was going to be involved until she forgave him.

He'd taken a deep breath and unlocked the door. "Fi?" he had called out softly.

He'd let out a huge sigh of relief when he had seen the old couch was still in front of the electric fireplace and a pair of her favorite boots laying on the floor under the nearby coffee table. He remembered how happy he had felt when he'd realized she hadn't left him.

He'd called out again, as it was still in the back of his mind that she was lulling him into a false sense of security before launching an attack. Dropping his bag onto the couch, he'd moved to the bedroom. Cautiously pushing open the door, he had found the room was empty. The bed had been made and, when he opened his wardrobe door, he'd been pleased to see all his clothes were where he'd left them.

Back in the living room, he'd dropped down on to the couch with a huge sigh of relief, thinking she must have been out running an errand. Resting his head back, he had closed his eyes, knowing that as soon as she walked through the door the fireworks would start.

As the tension of the last few days left his body, his hands had slidden off his lap and somehow, while he dozed off, one had fallen between the cushion and the arm of the couch, closing onto a piece of paper.

Opening his eyes, he'd pulled out the scrap of paper thinking it was going to be an old shopping list or maybe a new recipe. Fiona had been spending quite a bit of time with her cousin, Ryan O'Keefe's wife Maura, practicing their cooking skills; at least that was what she had told him. Instead of an innocent list of cooking instructions, he'd found himself staring at a diagram for what looked an awful lot like the plans for an armored truck heist.

He remembered how his heart rate had increased and his hands had trembled as his rage had begun to build. Slowly, he'd crumpled the piece of paper in his hand.

What the hell was she thinking? She was doing this just to pay him back. She knew how much her criminal activities could affect his job. One slip and, if his name came out, it would mean exposure for both of them.

He'd opened the scrunched up piece of paper, hoping to find some clue about where and when the heist was taking place. The only road identified was the A26.

He'd stared at the map in frustration. All he knew about the A26 was it was in Northern Ireland. He had glanced over at the calendar on the wall. It was the 28th, close to the end of the month. It had come to him in a rush: she was planning on hitting a payroll truck.

Letting out a curse, he'd snatched up his bag and had run from the flat heading for one of the many garages Fiona's bank robbing crew kept around the City.

Jimmying the lock of the nearest one to the flat, he'd rolled up the door and gone to the first car he came to which was going to have the speed he needed to catch up to her. He'd silently prayed he could reach her before she'd done something stupid.

If she got caught, he'd blinked away that thought and another worse one had immediately come to mind: What if she got killed?" He'd shaken his head, hoping to rid his mind of those thoughts.

He'd found a ten year old Sierra Cosworth gassed up and ready to go. Jumping into the car, he'd gunned the engine and spun the tires as he'd reversed out onto the road. He'd needed to find out exactly where they were going to hit the truck and he would kill a certain little Irishman if he didn't get the answers he wanted.

Ryan O'Keefe was Fiona's cousin, but he was also a fence for several big time criminals in the City. He would not have been surprised if the man was bank rolling the robbery.

He'd reached the O'Keefe's home and had screeched up onto the driveway. Within seconds, he'd been hammering on the door, only stepping back when the door opened and Ryan O'Keefe had stood before him, his pale blue eyes icy cold.

"Whatcha ya doin har, McBride?" the smaller man had asked angrily.

"Whar's Fiona?" He'd barely trusted himself to speak.

It hadn't helped when O'Keefe had smirked back at him. "If ya lost yar girlfriend, maybe ya should stop sniffing 'round tha whores in Dublin."

Michael had stared in disbelief at the smaller older man. "I -" What the hell had she told her family?

"It's no good, Mikey boy. Ya war seen standing on Ha'penny Bridge, eyeing up every lass tha past yar way." He'd given a short laugh. "Ya gotta learn ta keep it in yar pants, boy, if ya want ta date me cousin." O'Keefe had taken a menacing step forward and he'd backed up a step, holding his hand palm out towards the smaller man.

"I never," he had denied it all, while wondering who had seen him and why had he missed the tail. Maybe Dan had been right. Getting attached was effecting his ability to do the job.

"Never thought ya'd get caught, is tha about right, McBride?" O'Keefe had taken another step forward, his hands in fists.

"I wa' about ter say I wa' waitin' fer an auld friend who rang ter say he could fix me up wif a bit o' work."

O'Keefe had paused and slowly his fists had uncurled. "Tha's not what she tol us."

"Do ya tell Maura everythin' ya about, Ryan?" he'd shot back.

O'Keefe had sighed, "She's doin' a job, a RUC payroll travelin' from Ballymena up ta Ballycastle." He'd glanced at his wrist watch. "It's going down inna coupla hours."

"Where?" he'd demanded, trying to contain the urge to knock the Irishman on his ass. A Royal Ulster Constabulary payroll, they were all insane? If she was arrested, the police would tear through the flat. His fingerprints were all over the place and once his identity became public knowledge... He'd stopped himself from going there. He wouldn't let it go that far.

"A few miles outside Ballymena on tha A26, thar's a right hand turn with good cover thar fer goin' ter force - " He hadn't listened to the rest of O'Keefe's words. He had been already running back to the car.

"Yer'll never catch har, McBride, and if ya do, she's out fer yar blood, boy," O'Keefe had shouted.

Michael had to slam on the brakes, as suddenly the traffic up ahead came to a stop. The Sierra tires squealed in protest at the rough handling and Michael let out a stream of expletives. He was too late. Above the queuing traffic, a police helicopter could be seen circling and in the distance he could hear the wail of police sirens and several short bursts of gunfire.

He slammed his fist on the steering wheel, trying to think of a way to gain Fiona's freedom if she wasn't already dead, killed in the gun fight that was taking place somewhere ahead of him. His fingers brushed over his MI6 identification sewn into the lining of his jacket. Maybe he could bluff his way through the police lines and flash his ID badge, claiming Fiona as his prisoner.

If it worked they wouldn't have long before they were found out and then they would be chased down by both the British and American intelligence agencies. Not to mention he would have exposed Fiona as an MI6 asset, which would mean they would be running from the IRA and the whole Glenanne clan as well.

His mind flashed back to the guest-house and Mrs Hanrahan's blood-soaked body and, later in the MI6 Belfast headquarters, the grief-stricken features of her totally devastated husband. No, he couldn't put Fiona through that. If he was going to save her, it had to be done in such a way the name Westen or McBride never came up.

He opened his canvas bag, pulling out a pump action shotgun and a fully automatic machine pistol. After checking both weapons were loaded and ready to use, he placed them on the passenger seat.

Taking another glance out of the window at the circling helicopter, he wrapped his woolen scarf around his face, covering his nose and mouth. With most of his features hidden, he maneuvered the car until he could get a clear run at crossing the grass covered central median.

He paused and took a deep breath. If he went ahead with this plan, he would be stepping way over the line. It was nothing less than an unsanctioned attack on a friendly nation's police force and for what? An asset everybody in the agency wanted him to cut loose. He was surprised when he realized he no longer cared what his agency bosses wanted, at least in the matter of Fiona Glenanne.

With the decision made to go ahead, he cut off all thoughts about right and wrong. He had a single purpose. The only thing that mattered now was the end result and to hell with anything or anybody who got in his way.

The Sierra wheels spun and then ploughed through the damp grass. Luckily, the four wheel drive kept it moving forward in a straight line. As soon as the tires hit the road on the opposite carriageway, he put his foot down hard on the accelerator. He hadn't felt this focused for years.

As the car rocketed along the empty stretch of road, he wound down the window and then picked up the machine pistol. The first order of business was to make the British Army Westland Gazelle helicopter back off. It was unarmed, but while it was up there they stood little chance of getting away. It would be able to follow their escape route at a safe distance and report back to the ground forces.

He guessed if he managed to ground the Gazelle, it would take at least twenty minutes for one of the armed Lynx choppers to reach the scene. It was twenty minutes they could use to get away from the immediate area. Looking upwards at the helicopter closing in on the only car on an empty carriageway, he lifted the machine pistol and opened fire.

He caught them by surprise. Before they could back off, several of his shots hit the under carriage of the chopper. He did his best to miss the parts of the Gazelle that would cause it to explode, but it was difficult while he was driving at close to seventy miles an hour and hanging out of his car window. More of his bullets pinged off the bodywork and then a black plume of smoke appeared and the craft began a slow lazy descent over a nearby field.

Quickly bringing the gun back into the car, Michael worked to eject the spent clip and replace it with a fresh one while continuing to drive at high speed towards where he could see the officers of the RUC trying to maneuver their cars to block his path.

Bullets were now pinging off the Sierra and he felt the engine stutter and the water gauge suddenly lit up, informing him the radiator had been hit. Ignoring the smoke streaming out from under the hood and the warning lights flashing away on the dashboard, he concentrated solely on keeping the car moving. Picking up the machine pistol again, he began to return fire.

Ahead of him bullets zinged passed the police and tore into their vehicles, causing the officers to scatter. They were being hit from two sides now as the armed robbers, who minutes earlier had been on the verge of surrendering, were now back in the fight. Under the barrage of bullets, the officers had no choice but to withdraw and await re-enforcements.

By the time Michael crashed into the wrecked police cars blocking the road, Fiona and her gang were preparing to take advantage of the diversion and make a break for freedom. The gang's driver had managed to get one of their cars started and they were all piling inside when Fiona caught a glimpse of the crazy man behind the wheel of the car attacking the police.

With a wave of her hand, she ordered her crew to leave her behind. As they took off along the grass verge, she opened fire on the police using up the last of her bullets to reach the battered Sierra and Michael.

As soon as Fiona dropped into the passenger seat, Michael spun the wheel and headed towards a side road. Meanwhile, Fiona pulled the black balaclava from her head and then delved into Michael's bag looking for a fresh clip for her hand gun. With the gun reloaded, she turned to him, her face alight with a mixture of emotions.

"Ya bastid," she snarled "What tha bloody hell d'ya think yar doin'?" She punched him hard on his arm.

"Savin' your butt," he snapped back, losing his Irish accent as his own temper flared. "Why'd ya tell O'Keefe I cheated on you?"

"Ya war seen, ya idjit," she answered. "Bloody clever fer a spy getting spotted by Susie from the floor below us? Her husband went ter prison las' year fer killin' tha' bouncer at Pat's place."

Michael shook his head, not even looking at her, as he concentrated on the narrow winding roads. They went over a humpback bridge, flying up into the air before landing hard back on the road. The engine noises were now nearly deafening as part of the exhaust was left behind in the road.

"Jayzuz! Watch wha' yar doin! Anyway, Susie came back an told me she saw ya leaning agin tha bridge, staring at every female tha' past ya by. Wha' did ya want me ter do - blow yar cover?" Sarcasm dripped from her tongue.

"So you thought it was a good idea to get yourself involved in a high risk robbery? Are ya trying ter get us bot' killed?"

"Oh, don't ya go thar, Michael Westen. I wa' robbing banks and amored trucks a long time befer ya came along. We war doin' jus' fine widoutcha."

"Fine! Ya call tha' doin' fine?" He broke off and glared at her over the top of the scarf, which still hid his features. "Cover your face. We have company."

Fiona huffed, glared and then pulled the balaclava back over her head before looking behind at the police motorcycle closing in on them, followed by at least one police car in the distance.

"War never goin' ter lose them in this," she commented, before leaning out of the window to open fire and hopefully dissuade the officer from getting any closer. "Ya've wrecked one of me favorite cars. D'ya know how much it cost me?" She began ricocheting rounds off the ground, causing the motorbike to swerve and eventually crash.

Michael made a quick turn onto an even narrower road, this one had grass growing along the center. "If I remember correctly, you stole it on your last business trip to Manchester. It cost you the price of a ticket on the Holyhead to Belfast ferry crossing. I've got tha twenty quid in me pocket if it means tha' much ter ya."

Fiona looked up from where she was concentrating on reloading her handgun. "I didn't ask ya ter be me white knight, Michael, and to be honest, yar not very good at it. Pretty soon, they're gonna regroup and surround us and ya've got us driving down a farm track."

"Take the wheel," he growled.

"Wha'? Michael, wha' are ya doing?" she gasped as he slid behind her onto the back seat, leaving her to keep the car moving in a straight line. "Michael?" she demanded when he didn't answer her.

She risked a glance and saw he had hold of a brick of Semtex.

"Wha' are ya gonna do wiv tha?"

He looked up, grinning behind the scarf that was still in place. "Watch."

He had noticed the explosive when he had gotten back into the car at O'Keefe's and he knew in any vehicle belonging to Fiona Glenanne, if there was explosives, he would also find detonators if he looked hard enough. With the brick of Semtex wired up, he wound down the window and leaned out as far as he could. With his head out of the window, it was possible to see the two cars closing in on them.

Throwing the block out of the car, he watched it land and bounce several times through the black smoke coming from the broken exhaust. When he thought they were clear, he pressed the switch and ducked back inside the car.

! BOOM !

The noise was deafening and large lumps of stone from the walls bordering the road rained down over the Sierra.

Fiona turned and, even through the thick woolen mask, he could make out her beaming smile. "Beautiful, simply beautiful, Michael... I almost forgive ya fer breakin' me car."

"I'm glad you approve. See those trees up ahead? That's where we're goin'."

"Wha'?" she asked in a cool flat tone.

"We get in there and we'll be safe. They won't risk following us in. It's getting dark and we've already shown that we're willing to shoot down helicopters and blow up roads to get away. They'll set up guard posts and patrols around the perimeter and leave it to the army to flush us out."

Suddenly, the decision was taken out of their hands as the car coughed, spluttered and, with a loud bang and grinding shriek, died with thick white smoke billowing out from under the hood as the car finally died.

Michael was instantly out of the car and opening the front door to grab the bag. "C'mon Fi, I'm right about this. I know what I'm talking about."

"How? How d'ya know they won' jus' come in after us?"

He paused, just for a second, before pulling off his scarf and pushing one end into the gas tank. "Please, Fi, stop askin' questions and jus' do what I say. I've done this sorta thing before." He patted down his pockets. "You gotta light?"

"Fine, I'll stop askin' questions - fer now." She leaned back into the car and pressed down on the cigarette lighter. Standing upright after a couple of seconds, she stepped over and used the lighter to set Michael's scarf alight. "But after a night in tha woods, yar payin' fer me next manicure."

They set off towards the forest at a steady run, ducking down when the Sierra exploded and removed all evidence of who had been inside, before setting off again at a faster pace. If the noise of the explosion hadn't given away their position, the great cloud of black smoke rising up into the air was going to be attracting attention from miles around.

Fiona followed Michael across the open gorse-covered ground, grinning insanely even though her breaths were coming in short sharp bursts, all the time her eyes were scanning the area in front and to the sides, her body tingling with the anticipation of a fresh gun battle.

This is wha' I live for. Adrenaline pumping through me veins, me heart beating so hard 'n fast it feels like it's gonna burst outta me chest. Every one of me senses is on high alert an' ready fer action. Thar's nutting else like it, nutting in tha world. Life an' death so close ta-gether tha' one misstep and I'll be dead an' gone.

But I know tha ain't gonna happen. If I wa' ter die today, I swear by all tha's holy, Michael McBride would face down tha devil himsel' ter bring me back. Wha' other man would take on tha whole of County Antrim's Police force an' tha British army fer a girl? Even if tha girl in question dinnae need tha help.

They kept running until they were surrounded by the densely packed conifers that covered the sides of the Slieveanorra Mountain. The scent of pine from the discarded needles on the forest floor mingling with the heady aroma of gunpowder and smoke was all adding to Fiona's feeling of reckless abandon. As she ran, Fiona's thoughts centered on how it had come to this.

The plan to rob the armored truck had begun perfectly. Using three cars, they had boxed the truck in and forced it into a gap in the wide verge at the center of the road. Shooting out the tires had gotten it to stop and then it had just been a case of attaching the shaped charge to the back doors.

Unfortunately, nobody could have known that a police helicopter out on patrol monitoring the traffic flow would be flying overhead and witness the truck being forced off the roadway. Nor that an RUC patrol car making its way towards Ballymena would get the alert when it was a mere three miles from the scene of the incident.

So what had started off as a simple smash and grab, as Fiona liked to call it, had ended up with them fast reaching the stage of having to decide to either surrender or go down in a blaze of glory. She had wanted to continue fighting. She remembered urging the others on.

"C'mon, wha's up wiv ya bunch o' babbies? We jus' need ter clear a path ter one o' tha cars." She had urged them to keep up the fight. The thought of thirty years in a cold prison cell had scared her more than the thought of being shot to death in the middle of the road.

She remembered accepting that she was going to die a bloody mess, no open gasket for Mrs. Glenanne's only girl, and then the dark blue Sierra Cosworth she had stolen six months earlier on a day trip to Manchester had appeared with smoke streaming out from under the bonnet and …...

"I think we should be safe now. They're not going to follow us in here. They'll wait for the army to arrive."

Michael's words pulled her out of her musings and she looked across to where he stood with his back to her, staring out from between the trees onto the road far below. She wondered how much he could actually see as the autumn sun had gone down and what little light there was making everything appear grey and dull.

She moved to his side, still breathing heavily, her eyes drawn to the horizon and a distance flashing light. "I see yar friends 'ave come back ter play." She pointed to where her sharp eyes had picked out a helicopter hovering on the skyline.

"Aye," he replied. "But ya notice, it's keeping its distance so it's not gonna bother us."

She stood silently at his side, trying contain the urge to be on the move. Maybe fire off a coupla rounds and watch tha scum run fer cover. Maybe wing one or two jus' ter give 'em a reminder they arn't facin' amateurs. Her trigger finger itched and the gun in her hand felt heavy. It would be a helluva lot lighter wiv an empty clip. But then Michael spoke, distracting her from her thoughts of bloody mayhem.

"I'm guessing the rest of your crew must be keeping the other half o' County Antrim's finest busy. We should take advantage of their lack of numbers an' keep moving. If we're lucky, we can make it to the South side an' get ahead of the patrols."

He turned away and began to lead the way, only looking back when she failed to follow. "Fi? C'mon, remember what I said. I've done this sorta thing before."

Biting down on her lower lip, Fiona ceased contemplating the deaths of the members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary milling about below and turned to where Michael stood watching her with concern in his eyes.

"I'm fine, Michael," she snapped and then stepping lightly, she took the lead, taking them deeper into the forest.

An hour later and Fiona was bored. It was pitch black amongst the trees and getting colder by the minute. What made things worse was all the adrenaline from the chase was still coursing through her veins, making her feel jittery. She needed an outlet for all the stored up aggression.

"Wha's the plan, Michael? Because if it involves me trippin' o'er any more fallen branches, I swear t' god I jus' might have ter shoot ya fer bringing me up har."

"Okay." She could hear the laughter in his tone and restrained the urge to march over and hit him. "We'll stop fer a bit." He shrugged the bag off his back and dropped it down onto the forest floor. "In another couple of hours, we'll make our way back down an find us some tired guards ta put ter sleep."

"So war safe har?" Fiona asked, pushing her gun into her waistband and rubbing her hands together for warmth.

"As safe as we can be." His teeth flashed in the darkness as he smiled across at her. Bending down, he opened the bag and pulled out a woolen sweater. "Here, put this on." He handed her the article.

She took the sweater and stripped off the padded leather jacket she'd worn to help disguise her figure during the robbery. Just as she went to pull it over her head, she stopped and rubbed her fingers over the soft wool.

"Michael, is this tha cashmere jumper I gave ya fer yar birthday?" She kept her tone neutral, but inside she was fuming. Oh, this is the last straw.

He looked over at her from where he was leaning against a tree. "Huh? Yeah, I guess. I've not had chance ta wear it yet," he answered casually before returning to stare straight ahead.

I spent a rainy Saturday afternoon draggin' around tha market stalls on Cow Lane lookin' fer tha right gift. A designer cashmere jumper tha cost me nearly a hundred Punts and he uses it ter wrap around his guns!

She couldn't believe his ingratitude.

Two hours o' getting wet and havin' ter shove me way through packs o' tourists, an' all tha locals an' then another hour tryin' ter find tha right shade o' blue ta match his eyes... I'm gonna kill 'im.

Gritting her teeth, she took a step in his direction. "Are ya sure we're not abou' ter be surrounded by any o' them Orange bastids?" She did her best to hide her true intent.

"As sure as I can be," Michael replied, flashing a brief smile in her direction. She took another step towards him, followed quickly by another until she was in front of him. "Fi?" he asked warily.

She could tell he was finally catching on that he had slipped up, but it was too late for him to make amends. The punch caught him totally unawares, a neat uppercut which sent his head rocking back into the tree trunk with a solid and rather satisfying thud.

"Fuck!" he yelped, putting a hand to the back of his head.

She threw another punch, this one aimed at his gut, which he blocked easily. "Fi," he hissed angrily, "Qhat the hell?"

"Don'cha swear at me, Michael McBride." she scolded, using the palms of her hands to push him flat against the tree trunk. "And don' use tha expensive gifts I buy ya ter keep yar guns from bein' knocked about or scratched."

"Fi," he finally muttered. "I'm sor -"

But she wasn't interested in his apology, every nerve ending was stretched to its limit, her heart was pumping fast and furious. God, I dunno if I wan' ter kill 'im or …...

She cut his words off with a hard demanding kiss, her lips pressing tightly against his while her tongue ran enticingly along his teeth.

The release of all the built up tension caused by the day's activities was like a hot tide of pleasure that flooded her synapses. She was surrounded by danger, there were men less than a mile away who wanted her dead, but it didn't matter. She'd had the best day and now she was going to have the best night because God only knew if they were going to have a tomorrow.

Suddenly he was pushing her away, jerking his chin to break from the kiss. "We've got half of Antrim's police force camped less than a mile away," he hissed.

"An' ya said we wa' safe, tha' none o' those bastids would dare come looking fer us." Her eyes flashed, as she dropped a shoulder to break his hold and stepped in closer. This time instead of her resting her hand on his chest, she cupped the front of his jeans, pressing firmly into him. She gazed into his eyes with a smile that dared him to resist her advances as the fingers of her free hand walked their way up his jacket until they reached the zipper.

"We'll just 'ave ter be very quiet. D'ya think ya can manage tha', Michael?"

She watched the indecision on his face, the way he looked around, scanning the dark perimeter for an enemy incursion. While he was undecided, she took the matters into her own hands and finished unzipping his jacket, stepping in close to benefit from the heat coming off his body. She watched his throat as he swallowed and her gaze moved up to catch sight of his tongue flickering out to wet his lips.

She flexed her fingers around the growing bulge in the front of his jeans and her smile broadened as he hardened against the pressure.

"Fi, we - " his voice came out as a strangled whisper.

"Shhh." The hand which had opened his jacket moved upwards to ghost over his cheek and then up into his hair, her fingers curving to scrape across his scalp. "Ya need ter keep quiet. Remember all them bad men waiting ter arrest us," she taunted, before dragging his head down until their lips met in a hard rough kiss, no longer asking for entrance to his mouth but demanding it.

While one hand gripped the short hair on his head holding him fast in to the kiss, her other hand worked on unfastening his jeans and slipping inside his boxers.

He gasped as her cold hand brushed against his stomach, before moving on to his hip and then lower. Her slender fingers trailed over sensitive skin, walking the length of his manhood, rubbing gently over the tip, before curling around him in a light teasing grip.

"God, Michael ya spoil me, an' it isn't even me birthday." She was working on the buttons of his shirt, kissing every bit of skin she exposed.

"Fiona," he gulped and when she looked up, it was her turn to gasp as his mouth closed over hers and one arm snaked around her shoulders crushing her against his chest.

She felt the gun being pulled from her waistband and the sensation of cold hard metal replaced by a warm rough palm as Michael's hand slid into the space between her skin and jeans.

"Ah, ya beautiful girl," he groaned into her ear as his hand pushed lower, reaching the curve of her buttocks. "Yar gonna be tha death 'o me."

"Aye, mebbe I will, b' tonight I have other plans fer ya."

Carried away on a wave of passion, she dropped to her knees before him and reveled in the gasp that her actions elicited from him as her mouth closed over the tip of his engorged penis. She used her elbows, digging into his trembling thighs to keep him still as she proceeded to drive him wild.

The breeze blowing through the trees causing the branches high above their heads to whisper and creak could be hiding the approach of British soldiers or RUC officers. The occasional owl hooting in the distance or any of the other noises that brought the forest to life in the dead of night might be the signal for their enemies to attack. They were exposed and vulnerable, but it didn't stop her torturing the man towering over her.

The feel of the damp, uneven ground under her knees, the taste of him in her mouth, the pull on her scalp from the fingers fisting in her hair and the low grunting breaths as he fought so hard to stay silent, it was an exhilarating sensation and she wanted more.

She let go and with a soft sigh looked up to see he was on the edge of losing control. Her lips parted as she followed the rivlets of sweat that trailed down his chest. As she leaned forward, intending to kiss her way up over the ridges of his abs, a low rumbling growl was the only warning she got as Michael's fingers, freed from her hair, gripped her shoulders and pulled her on to her feet into a hard deep kiss, his mouth tight against hers, their teeth clashing until she surrendered to his demands.

She had no idea how she ended up laying on the forest floor with Michael's jacket between her and the cold ground instead of her jeans. She arched her back and a low moan escaped from her lips. She was on fire and Michael's hands, mouth and tongue were the only balm that could cool her fever. She momentarily panicked when his hand covered her mouth.

"Shhh, ma love, shhh," he whispered in her ear, his silky breath like a gossamer caress.

She bit down on his palm and instantly kissed it better. Her fingers raked along his back and clawed into his buttocks, causing him to gasp. Over the top of his hand, her eyes sparkled with mischief and then he was pushing into her with short gentle thrusts, each one taking him a little deeper. His hand remained over her mouth while he dropped his head down, burying it into the crook of her neck.

They moved together, slow deep thrusts, the pleasure intensified by the need for silence and the thought of being caught. It was a sweet delicious torture that could not be maintained for long. She could feel Michael's body quivering, his muscles tensing as he tried to keep control. She held him close, her own body shaking and pulsing as she was suddenly hit with wave after wave of orgasmic delight. She stared up over his shoulder through the trees to the clear night sky. His body was jerking and twitching out of control, coughing cries muffled in her hair as he finally released into her. Up in the sky, she watched a shooting star pass over head and a long deep sigh escaped her lips as his hand left her mouth and he collapsed against her.

"Jesus, Fi," Michael finally sighed as he regained control of his senses.

Rolling off her, he pulled up his boxers and jeans before laying back and pulling her over so her head rested on his shoulder. "I am sorry I messed up tha sweater. I dinnae know how important it wa' ter ya," he tried to apologized.

"And wha' about treating me like some damsel in distress. Are ya sorry fer that too?" Fiona asked as she wriggled back into her own jeans.

Michael shifted so her head fell onto his arm as he turned to face her. "No, 'am nae sorry fer rescuing yar butt from tha RUC." He put a finger to her lips to stop the angry retort he knew was coming. "But ter make up fer me short comin's, I'll let ya tek care o' tha first guard we come across."

Fiona thought about it as she got to her feet. With all the tension released, she was feeling generous. "Fine, I'll take down tha first, but I'll let ya help wiv tha rest."

Joining her, he'd retrieved her hand gun and handed it back to her. "Thank ya kindly, luv. Now can I lead tha way?"

"Only if ya promise not ter get us lost."

In the pitch black darkness of the night, Michael led the way off the mountain, keeping his word to let her take down the first of the thinly spread RUC officers trying to cover the whole of the forest perimeter.

Stealing a police car, they drove it only as far as the nearest village before going in search of a more anonymous vehicle. By the morning, they were back in the safety of their small flat, curled up together under an old duvet entwined in each others arms.