Disclaimer: I forgot to put a disclaimer at the beginning of this series of stories, so here it is. I own no part of Burn Notice, even though I wished I did :) This story is written for fun.
A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews for the first two chapters. This next one continues through the S3 Episode Long Way Back & into the beginning of of the following episode, A Dark Road.
This time it is Fiona Glenanne whose memories of past actions are brought to the fore as, along with her brother Sean, our favorite couple take on Thomas O'Neill.
Because Jedi Skysinger and myself have created such a detailed back story for the Burn Notice characters, which we use in most of our stories and those posted as Jedi's Pal, I thought I would post another reminder that this particular story is completely separate to all my other stories.
THE IRISH ASSIGNMENT
Part Three
ooOoo
The First Time Fiona Thought She'd Gotten Michael killed
2009
Sean Glenanne swallowed down the last mouthful of the Cuban sandwich his sister had ordered for him for lunch and pushed back his chair at the small table in the kitchen of the luxurious safe house supplied by his sister's and McBride's American friend, Sam Axe.
"It felt a bit like the old days," he remarked, breaking the comfortable silence. "Making that bomb... It reminded me o' when we used ta work together in Belfast-" He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied his sister's unhappy visage. "Are ya sure ya want ta be comin' home with me, Fi? I mean, our mam is lookin' forward ta yar return, she was airing out yar room an' talking about hanging new curtains when I left but -"
"But the rest of them haven't forgiven me for how I left," she finished off his sentence.
Stopping the bombing of a preparatory school had been the right thing to do. Every one of them had agreed with her that Thomas O'Neill was a lunatic who needed to be stopped and if she had killed him, she would have had received their complete support.
But she hadn't killed him.
The bloodthirsty hooligan had stood before her in the old warehouse he had been using as his primary base of operations, grinning broadly and full of his own self-importance while boldly boasting of what he had just done, expecting her approval and admiration for the act of terror he was about to bring about.
"I can see the headlines, all them little rich kiddies blown ta pieces... I'll be a fecking hero... I'll go down in history fer this and ya'll be right at me side, girl. I swear together we'll show the world there'll be no peace until Ireland is free."
Instead of feeling adulation for the new man in her life, her blood had run cold with horror as he had continued to crow about the scene that would soon be played out and the infamy it would bring.
"I hadda real piece o' inspiration. I put two cans o' rat poison in with the ball bearings... It'll make sure they won't be able ta stop the bleedin' on any that survive the blast... Am I a fecking genius or what?"
The bomb was already in place, thirty minutes away from where they stood and the timer set to go off in less than twenty…
Had she not rushed out of her apartment to meet with him, she would have been better prepared. But he had been so insistent and sounded so excited on the phone she had left without taking the usual precaution of arming herself. Even now, years later, she kicked herself for the unusual oversight. How could she have gotten so involved with such a murderous bastard as to do that?
So, instead of reaching for the gun she usually had tucked into her waistband, she had grabbed the nearest weapon to hand, a stray brick off a pile of rubble next to where they stood, and knocked the lunatic Irishman out with a well-placed blow to the side of jaw, sending several of his teeth flying out of his mouth before running to the nearest payphone, making an anonymous call to the police and giving away her rogue lover's location.
If Thomas O'Neill could plan such a thing, he was not the man she'd thought him to be and he needed stopping. She hadn't had the time to do anything else…
It was that call which had made her a tout and a traitor to the cause and that was something not even her own family could forgive her for. It hadn't mattered that call to the police had been the only way to save innocent children and ensure O'Neill was held accountable. She had left Ireland barely two steps ahead of a large group of very angry men all out for her blood.
In hindsight now of course, she knew she hadn't been thinking very clearly at the time… Blinded by her infatuation with the dark haired Irishman… Seemed to be a habit she couldn't stop repeating.
"They might not like it, but they won't turn me away." She tried to smile, but it was hard in the face of all that was happening. "And I promised them I wouldn't out stay my welcome. I – I just need time, time to -"
In a moment of empathy, Sean reached across the table to squeeze his younger sibling's hand, his intense blue-green eyes staring into her matching orbs. They were so much alike, more like twins than brother and sister born four years apart.
"You're no more gonna forget McBride than he is you."
He sighed and got to his feet when she didn't answer him. "I'm gonna check we've got everything from upstairs. If McBride's grand plan works as he says it will, it'll all be over by nightfall and we'll be on our way home."
Pursing her lips, she watched as her brother left the table, his long legs carrying him out of the room and towards the long sweeping staircase.
Going home was the right thing to do. All that had happened over the last few months had thrown off her equilibrium and she wasn't going to get back to her old self if she remained on the same continent as her ex-boyfriend. Michael always had a way of luring her into helping him against her better judgment. She was a gun runner, a bank robber and on occasion when the mood took her she did good deeds for people who couldn't help themselves. What she wasn't was a slave to either a faceless government or even worse a slimy snake of a man who promised the world but at a price.
With an angry huff, the petite Irishwoman got to her feet. She wasn't going to think about Tom Strickler… Michael had made his choice and she had made hers; in twenty-four hours, she would be on a boat out in the Atlantic and spies and all their problems would no longer be any of hers.
Fiona was clearing the table when she heard the click of the front door opening and Sean's voice echo down from the upper floor, giving away the identity of their guest.
"McBride, I'll be right there."
"That's fine, Sean."
The redhead glanced up as the man on her mind walked towards her, his arms full carrying two large cardboard boxes which he placed on the edge of the table.
"That's the last of what you packed." He spoke with McBride's soft brogue for Sean's benefit. Resting his arms on top of the boxes, he gazed back her, a half smile on his lips in way of a greeting.
It was the last of her belongings from the loft, the last of the stuff she had left at his place: changes of clothes, shoes, pieces of jewellery, the odd piece of C4... Part of her heart.
Unable to look at him, she turned away, carrying the dirty dishes over to the counter top. "It seems a shame to leave so much behind. I was just getting comfortable... I know you're trained to walk away from everything in thirty minutes or less-"
"But tis not easy fer everyone," he finished her sentence for her and their eyes met and without conscious thought, they moved towards each other, both drawn to the French doors which led out onto a wide terrace and a swimming pool beyond.
"I can't believe in a few days I'll be waking up back home."
"And you'll be you again, Fi." She could see it in his eyes that he wanted to say more, but knew he wouldn't. It was a pointless argument; she knew that now. He had made it clear he wasn't capable of change, so it was up to her to leave or keep having her heart broken.
"I wonder what it'll be like?"
"You'll have your friends there and your family."
"They don't know me anymore."
"You're still the same person."
"No, I'm not. Who I am now has so much to do with what I've done here… with you."
"Fi…" He breathed out her name and she felt her resolve slip a little bit.
All he had to do was tell her this thing he had with Strickler was over and she would stay. But he wouldn't or rather couldn't do that; the scared call of duty was too strong, too deeply embedded in the soul of the spy.
"It's okay, Michael, we're so not good at this."
"Alright, everything taken care of?" Sean's voice broke the spell and they moved apart just as her older brother came into the room, brushing by the spy in an effort to see what had held the couple's attention outside the French doors.
"Yeah, let's go..." Michael was already on his way out, when he stopped and turned. "Sean, ya have ta stop parking yar stolen car on the side street. Tis too exposed."
"What? I left it in a parking lot this morning." Her brother spun around, his quick temper rising at the accusation and the petite redhead with a huff of frustration prepared to get between the two men, as Michael stiffened and took a step toward Sean.
"That's not yar Toyota, a block away parked behind some trees?"
The shattering of one of the glass panes on the French doors and the sight of a canister of tear gas rolling across the room between them had all three reaching for their guns, their eyes searching out the enemy as the cloud of gas rose up and swirled about them. But they were too late.
The loud bang of a shotgun drew Fiona's eyes across the room to where Michael had been standing. Her mind was barely able to comprehend the sight in front of her as her lover's back arched and he fell forward crashing to the ground, his body limp and unresponsive.
Then, before she could react, her brother was cut down too, his body riddled with bullets from automatic weapons which left him pinned in the corner of the room, blood covering his shirt front and splattered on the walls.
In a blind rage, she brought up her own weapon, determined to take revenge or die trying, but her H & K was snatched out of her hands as strong arms wrapped about her waist, pinning her limbs to her side and lifting her feet from the ground.
"Get tha girl, get tha girl outta here now, Leonard!" O'Neill's hated voice sounded as if from a distance as she was carried, kicking, biting and fighting with every ounce of strength away from the house.
"Feck it, girl, quit it!" her captor growled in her ear, his arms tightening their grip in an effort to force the air from her lungs.
"I'll shut har up," another of the men answered and at that moment her world went black… And in the cold darkness a memory from her past rushed to the surface.
()()()()()()()
Belfast 1998
It was her fault; her boyfriend was dead.
"Sean!" she was shrieking into the phone, her whole body trembling with the shock of what she had witnessed minutes earlier. An ambush, Michael cut down by a shotgun blast and then a short rapid drive deep into republican territory to escape the pursing loyalist death squad.
"H-help me. I fecked up. There was three o' them. I – I didn't -" She couldn't get the words out as sobs were torn from her throat as shock set in.
"Fi, Fiona!" Sean's concerned voice came through the handset. "Where are you? What's happened?"
"Just get here!"
"Fiona!" he shouted into the phone. "For fucks sake, girl, you're scaring me! I can't come if ya don't tell me where are ya."
"W-w-we're…" She could no longer speak, as across from where she stood, her lover's blood soaked body began to writhe as Michael McBride momentarily came too and began to thrash about on the bed before he suddenly went lax again. "It's too late…" she whispered.
"FIONA!"
His panicked voice came through the headset, but she couldn't answer as she sunk to the floor, her mind going blank. With her heart breaking, she was barely aware of the large calloused hands taking the phone away.
"She's alright, Mr Glenanne, it's Rory, Rory Sheenan - from the Red Bull Pub - the one just off the Falls. Ya need to get over here right now... Yar sister? She's fine, sir, tis her fella... She came ta me door bangin' on it like the hounds o' hell were on her tail covered in blood. Her man has been shot. Looks he took a blast to the head an' body. He's alive but -"
()()()()()()()()
Miami 2009
"Hey, hey, sweetheart, keep still or ya'll feel more than the back o' me hand next time."
Fiona woke up as her captors were trying to force her into the back of a large SUV and even though not fully conscious, it wasn't in her nature to give up. Lashing out blindly with her feet and fists, she was determined to make it as hard as possible for O'Neill's team to keep hold of her.
With Michael dead or dying and her brother cut down, she had nothing left to live for; her only wish now was to take out as many of the men holding as she could before they had a chance to put her on the auction block.
Pushing and pulling, it wasn't long before brute strength won out and they finally forced her into the vehicle. But even when facing insurmountable odds, the former paramilitary refused to give up and managed to head butt the man nearest her, feeling a satisfying thud when her forehead connected with the bridge of his nose. The sight of blood pouring down his chin was a welcome bonus, urging her on to greater violence. She opened her mouth wide and attempted to bite down on his bristle covered cheek.
"Fucking bitch! Grab her!"
Hands far stronger than her own dragged her arms behind her back, seconds before a fist swung around and landed a stunning blow to the side of her head. As she slumped back, all she could think of was that none of this mattered because Michael was dead and it was something she had done that had caused it to happen… Just like she had before…
()()()()()()()()
Belfast 1998
It had started two weeks earlier in the same way so many killings occurred. A retaliation for one death leading to more and more bloodshed until there was nobody left alive who could remember the cause of the original grievance or what had started it all.
The sun was just beginning to rise on what had promised to be a bright sunny day. Police Constable Eric Danbury had kissed his wife and three children goodbye and made his way outside to his car waiting on the driveway. After giving the vehicle a cursory check over, he had unlocked the door and slid down onto the seat. As he turned the ignition key and eased his foot off the brake pedal, his last thought had been about the family holiday they had coming up the following week.
It was said the explosion was heard over two miles away, that the windows of the police officer's home shattered sending glass across the rooms and, as black acrid smoke rose up into the clear blue sky, the screams of Mrs Jennifer Danbury rang out loudly throughout the neighborhood.
A massive media frenzy followed, raising fears that the peace being promised by the talks taking place in Stormont Castle and in London's Whitehall was about to be destroyed by those who still wished to live by the gun. Headlines spoke of a return to the streets running with blood and the politicians demanded that the police seek out the culprits and bring about swift justice.
Constable Danbury's colleagues set about bringing in all the usual suspects with a vigour driven by the need for justice or vengeance for their fallen comrade. No one was safe from the wrath of the Police Service of Northern Ireland backed up by undercover agents of the British government.
Luckily by the time her own front door was smashed down, Fiona had had the sense to remove every single piece of Semtex, C4 and artillery she usually kept hidden in her home.
She had been pleased how her new lover had calmly handled the situation and done nothing to make matters worse as heavily armed men wearing full tactical gear thrust rifle barrels in their faces while others rampaged through her home leaving chaos in their wake.
The tiny Irishwoman also bitterly recalled how at the time she had naively wondered how the PSNI had so quickly found the location of her latest safe house.
For the next few days, everyone in the local community was on edge. Doors were opened with caution, vehicles were kept under lock and key and double checked before approaching too close and then checked again before turning the key to start the engine.A reprisal was bound to occur. Sooner rather than later, somebody would die and the death toll would rise and friends of the next victim would clamour for revenge and another death would be planned and on and on it would go.
On the day of Eric Danbury's funeral, there were news reporters and cameras on every street all desperately searching for a story and in the process stirring up the already heighten feelings of anger and fear in hope of creating the very incident they would later condemn to all their readers.
And even though the Real IRA had already publicly claimed responsibility for the young officer's murder, there had been no arrests and because of that, everyone within the republican communities were holding their breaths waiting for some kind of retaliation to take place. It was a day when anyone with an ounce of sense stayed off the street and away from any uncovered windows.
She and Michael had chosen to spend the day curled up on the couch watching videos and getting to know each other a little better.
God, in those days they couldn't keep their hands off each other...
"That's the third war film we've watched today... How about something a bit lighter?" McBride complained from his position stretched out, bare-chested, along the length of her couch as "The Longest Day" finally came to an end.
"I have Rambo, or would ya prefer -"
"I prefer ya, right here an' now." His voice, low and husky in her ear, sent a shiver down her spine and blood rushing to her cheeks as he twisted around to lean off the edge of the couch, slipping his hands under her T shirt to cup her bare breasts and distracting her from the task of removing Rambo from the video sleeve.
"You're insatiable."
Discarding her latest movie choice, Fiona had turned around to smile up at him before using her hip to unbalance her dark haired lover and topple him off the couch and onto the floor.
"It's one o' the things I like about ya…" She sat astride him now, her fingernails scraping across his nipples and making him squirm beneath her.
"These are one… or should it be two o' the things I like about ya." His head slipped underneath her top, his mouth closing about her right breast, his teeth tugging on her nipple, sending a wave of pleasure mixed with pain throughout her body.
They were in process of wrestling her top over her head when the phone began to ring.
"Leave it," he mumbled into her neck when the insistent noise failed to stop after a minute.
"It, it c-could be important," she replied half-heartedly, because right then McBride's hand was cupping her most intimate part while his teeth nibbled on a very sensitive spot behind her ear.
"Ya said it would be quiet today, everyone would be inside. Ya said -"
But the ringing didn't stopped and in the end with a groan of frustration she disentangled herself from her lover's arms and got up to answer it.
The call had indeed been important. It had been the wife of one of her team of bank robbers, a fine man with a loving family and in no way involved in her other paramilitary activities.
"I answered the door without thinking and three men knocked me down and they took Daryl!" the hysterical wife of her partner in larceny informed her. "What am I gonna do, Ms. Glenanne? I – I can't call the police... They said they'd kill him if I called anyone. What do they -"
"I'm on my way over," Fiona answered quickly.
She had known exactly what they wanted... A career criminal was a far easier target than a trained paramilitary who was expecting an attack. Even as she had taken the call, she had already suspected that most likely Daryl was already dead, but he was one of her men. She had to try to save him.
"I have ta go." She spun around, her eyes searching the room for her missing bra while her fingers hauled up her jeans.
"I'll come with ya," her new lover offered.
"Ya don't have ta. Tis only a coupla streets over."
"I'm coming." Michael declared, reaching between the two cushions on the couch and holding up the missing piece of lingerie. "Ya may need me."
"Fine," the fiery redhead huffed, snatching the lacy garment from out of his out stretched hand. "But ya need to listen an' do what I say, are we clear?"
"You're the expert."
Once they were both fully clothed, she let him drive while she spent the time on the short ride checking her revolver and making sure her lover understood the danger she was taking him into.
"I want ya to stay in the car, keep the engine runnin' an' yar eyes open."
"I should come in with ya. It could be a trap."
"No, I know what I'm doin', wait here, Michael." She gave him an indulgent smile. "I'm a big girl. I can look after myself," had been her final word on the matter as she had left the vehicle and taken the few short steps which would lead her to her friend's front door.
Why did the men in her life always think she needed babysitting?
But as soon as she had entered the house she had known Michael was right; it was a trap. Two men, their faces hidden under balaclavas, had been standing in the middle of the room with sawn off shot guns in their gloved hands, one aimed at her friend's children, the other one aimed straight at the doorway she hand been standing in.
No way she would have been willing to risk opening fire with children in the same room so she had whipped around and fled, slamming the front door behind her, hoping it would delay the masked men just long enough for her to reach her waiting ride.
"Mi -!" Her shout of warning died on her lips at the sight she beheld.
A third gunman was aiming the smoking barrel of a sawn down shotgun at the door of her car.
"NO!" she screamed as she opened fire, cutting the attacker down, but not before he fired the second barrel into the door panel her lover was using for cover.
"Michael! Michael!" Fiona rushed to the vehicle, throwing open the bullet torn door to reveal her boyfriend's limp and bloody body covered in tiny shards of glass from the broken windscreen. He was slumped over, one arm dangling into the passenger footwell, his hand still gripping the handle of the Glock pistol she had ordered him to start carrying.
There had been no time to check him over or to dress the wounds, as the men from the house had already been pouring out onto the street. But they had either been bad shots or the sight of their comrade bleeding to death on the street had affected their aim and she hadn't been killed.
"Shove over, McBride!" It had been hard work to maneuver her lover's deadweight to make enough room for her to fit behind the wheel but somehow she had managed it. Unable to reach the gear lever properly, or even steer safely because of how Michael lay, she had done the best she could to get them away.
She knew from all her years robbing banks and her other illegal activities that the longer you have to run, the more likely you are to be caught. That there is generally only a small window of time after you begin to run before the ones doing the chasing call for back up and get organized. She had known she needed to find some place safe and secluded to bail out and get McBride the care he urgently required.
She had spotted the Red Bull; the publican was a sympathizer and desperate woman that she was, she had decided to take a chance on him being willing to give aid.
Bringing the car to a stop, the petite paramilitary quickly reached down to check her lover's pulse and was relieved to feel a faint but steady beat... Leaving the vehicle, she had ran across the road and around to the side to hammer on the door which led into the owner's private quarters.
Rory Sheenan looked with horror at the bloodstain young woman staring back at him over the barrel of a gun.
"I need yar help." Fiona grabbed his arm in a surprising strong grip, giving him no choice but to follow her out into the street and over to a bullet ridden vehicle partially hidden by several large refuse bins.
"Ya have ta help me." The republican guerrilla flung open the door to reveal the blood soaked body of a man lying across the front seats.
"Saints preserve us!" He recoiled at the sight, but then steadied himself as the auburn haired woman dug her weapon into his side.
"We have to move him now... Help me an' I'll make it worth yar while."
Muttering only half remembered prayers while he reached into the vehicle and gingerly pulled her man's body from the car, she said, "Take him inside. I'll move the car." Fiona's voice was dull now.
She'd been convinced that Michael was going to die; no one lost that much blood and survived.
"Leave it, Miss Glenanne," Sheenan spoke kindly.
She could tell that once he'd had a chance to catch his breath, he'd recognized her and had been all too eager to play the good Samaritan. "Me boy will get rid of it. Let's get yer man inside."
The petite redhead stood with her gun drawn, ready to kill anyone brave enough to interfere while her new friend dragged McBride out of the car and then carried him in his arms into the back of the pub and up to the living quarters on the second floor.
She had stood by anxiously as Sheenan and his wife Mary had stripped away Michael's top layer of clothes and she had got her first look at the true extent of his wounds. The tiny pellets from two shotgun cartridges had shredded his sweater and peppered the right hand side of his face and torso.
Each swipe of the cloth Mary was using to clean away the blood only brought more of the thick red liquid bubbling to the surface and trailing down his exposed skin.
"Jesus, I've not seen blood like this since the fight las' Christmas when old man Christy got that bottle ta the throat... this man needs a priest, not a doctor."
"Hush, Mary, ya daft cow. Can ya not see -" Sheenan left his wife's side and rushed over to where Fiona stood too overwhelmed with shock at that moment to move.
"Pay her no mind, Ms. Glenanne… Say, why dontcha use me phone there, down tha corridor an' get ya man a doctor... I'm sure ya know just who to call."
With a numbness born out of grief sweeping over her, she had allowed the older heavier built man to guide her down to where a phone had sat on a tall dark wooden stand.
It hadn't been until she had begun to explain to Sean what had happened and she had witnessed McBride's body begin to thrash on the bed that she had begun to break. She had killed her boyfriend she had been certain of that. It was why she didn't let anyone get close.
It had been all her fault… she had taken her lover into a situation he wasn't equipped for. McBride was a car thief, not a soldier… or at least that was what she had thought at the time...
()()()()()()()()
Miami 2009
"Okay, darlin', time ta wake up... Wake up, ya wee bitch." Somebody had hold of her arms and was shaking her hard enough that she felt a wrench in her neck.
As soon as her eyes snapped open, she realized several things at once: her hands were bound behind her back, her mouth was covered by duct tape and they had placed an old sack over her head to block her vision. But even without the ability to see outside, Fiona could feel the car she was traveling slow and heard the sound of a chain link gate being shut behind them... And then came the voice of the man she should have killed years ago.
"Alright, walk the perimeter. Keep your radios on channel one..."
The door opened but before the bound Irishwoman could get her bearings, she was being dragged backwards out of the SUV. "Hello sweetheart. This way, come along now..."
With the man who had organized the death of her lover and her brother so close, Fiona erupted with violence. She was no longer the twenty-four-year-old young woman who thought she was watching the new man in her life breathe his last. She was older, wiser and a lot tougher than back then.
Fiona redoubled her struggles and was rewarded by O'Neill's grunt of pain when one of her platform heels ran down his shin.
"Stop your nonsense... This way, sweetheart…" They almost fell through the entrance to what she guessed, from the feeling of a bare concrete floor under her feet, was an outbuilding or a shed.
"There we go, darlin'. I have a nice little seat for ya while we have a chat. How's that?" He was on her again in a second, pushing her down onto a chair and then in one swift move, he pulled off the head bag and ripped away the duct tape covering her mouth.
"Fiona Glenanne... God, I've waited a long time for this moment."
He devoured her with his eyes as Thomas O'Neill was clearly enjoying his victory… it made her skin crawl… How had she ever let than hooligan into her life? "So have I... In my version, I was stabbing you in the throat with an ice pick. Is that how you saw it?"
"I can't say I did, no." He took a step back, laughing in the face of her impotent rage. "Not like that... But don't worry," and his tone changed from laughing to threatening in the blink of an eye as he glared back at her. "You'll get to spend plenty of time with some sharp metal instruments."
"You're putting me on the auction block..." and despite her intentions otherwise, the thought of it filled her with dread and sent chills down her spine. "You're not man enough to do it yourself."
"If this was just about you and me." He loomed over her, his hate now matching her own. "I'd be holding a bloody hammer and you would be choking on a mouthful of teeth... Those little teeth there."
She couldn't help but flinch when he poked a finger inches from her face, as the memories came flooding back of how O'Neill had lost his own teeth to the skilled application of a brick to the face.
"The thing is, it's bigger than us. Ya see, when I set foot on Irish soil again, it's gonna be a whole new world for me. Because there are some very powerful men who are going ta give me anything I want in exchange fer you. Ya see…? Even a seat at the table."
"There's no place in Ireland fer a bastid like you," she shot back, wishing all the more that she'd had the presence of mind to bring her weapon that day long ago and put one between O'Neill's eyes.
"There's always room fer another patriot."
"You're no patriot. You're a MONSTER! Who wraps himself in a cause to justify murdering children! Everyone in yar own country wants ya DEAD!"
She wanted him dead too… For everything he had planned to do and everything he'd done that had gotten Michael killed, she wanted to kill the man before her. She might have had a part in it, but Tommy Boy had been the one leading the attack against her former boyfriend.
"YOU'RE WRONG!" He followed up his words with a vicious punch which connected sharply with her already aching jaw, snapping her head to the side.
But in her present state she welcomed the pain; it helped focus her rage and urged her to fight on.
O'Neil was already unstable… if she could push him over the edge, he would begin to make mistakes and that would be her opening to attack.
Gathering up a mouthful of blood and saliva, she spat it out on to the floor, sending him a look full of loathing and disgust. "Ya hit like a girl."
Watching through narrowed eyes, the petite redhead couldn't stop the slow smile which pulled at her cut and bloody lip from the Irish hooligan's parting blow as the coward walked away from her.
"I win," she mouthed the words.
With the terrorist retreating to the far end of the storage shed and busy talking into his phone, Fiona took the time to fully consider her surroundings.
The shed was full of implements which if she were left alone she could use to free herself and take down at least a few of the bastards. There were even a couple of drills laying in plain sight which she would love to get the chance to try out on O'Neill's thick skull. The trouble with that being the way her captor kept glancing her direction, there was not a chance he was going to leave her unguarded for a moment.
She was his way back into the good graces of the men who were ruling Northern Ireland. She and McBride had caused a lot of mayhem during their time together back in the late nineties and now Michael was about to be outed as an American spy and those powerful men would want to make her pay for helping such a man to hide in their midst...
Fiona blinked as an uncomfortable thought hit her...
It had to have been that weasel Tom Strickler who'd set this up! Her Interpol file was easily accessible to anyone in the know. It would have been a piece of cake for that slimy snake to discover how best to make sure that once she left for Ireland, she could never come back.
The enraged Irishwoman reeled at the knowledge, nearly falling off the chair as she realized how the sneaky son of a bitch had manipulated the whole thing. She pulled at the ties holding her wrists together. Oh she was gonna make that bastid pay fer this...
"It might not be as bad as it looks."
The voice of Mary Sheenan took Fiona by surprise. Her head was still spinning from O'Neill's parting shot along with all the other blows to the head she'd taken recently. "Look, see, I was wrong now… the blood loss is slowing ya can see... Come an' take a look."
The truth was staring her in the face: Michael had to be alive. Somehow, he must have survived because Tom Strickler was first and foremost a businessman. Training a covert operative takes years and costs a lot of money, supposedly all for the taxpayers who paid the bills. In reality, it was worth a lot on the open market. The self-styled agent to the spies wanted her out of the way, but he was still counting on making Michael his asset.
She knew now more than ever she needed to stay awake and alert. Because if Michael was alive, he would be coming after her.
A sudden wave of dizziness caught her by surprise and though she knew it had to be a hallucination, Fiona felt the gentle touch of the bar owner's wife's hand on her arm straightening her up, guiding her into the bedroom where Michael laid, pale as the white linen sheet covering his lower limbs.
Mrs. Sheenan had pulled away a bloody piece of gauze, away from the side of her lover's face to reveal several pock like holes in which the blood had already been clotting over.
"Look. See? Tis mostly the shot which caused the damage."
The bound and groggy former paramilitary shook her head in an effort to clear the fog weaving through her mind, merging her memories, confusing her and muddling past and present. Michael had been shot in the back from close range, she had seen him fall… But unlike after the ambush back in Belfast, there had been no blood.
In her mind's eye, Fiona could see her younger self, studying McBride's profile as she had realized the truth of the older woman's words.
Michael had been shot through a car windscreen and then a door by a man wielding a sawn off shotgun. If he had been standing out in the open and closer to his attacker, her boyfriend would have definitely have ended up cut in half. But he had had the good sense to duck down. Only bad luck had left him unconscious and bloody.
"He's cold…" She had sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed and rubbed his one of his hands between her own. Now the adrenaline which had been flooding her body had receded, the redhead had been left feeling numb.
"It'll be the shock… We should raise his legs up." No longer in the grip of panic, she had been able to think more clearly and a lifetime of experience in battlefield medicine had come back to her.
As they had covered him over with blankets and put a couple of pillows under his legs, the kindly older woman had added. "It'll be a devil of a job getting all them little pellets out, but I'm sure the doctor yar brother has sent fer will have him back on his feet in no time."
"Sean will know what to do."
"Sean…" Fiona choked on her brother's name, her eyes filling with moisture as the past memories receded in the presence of her grief. There might not have been any blood on Michael's body, but there had been plenty splattered over her brother's shirt front and the wall behind him.
Unable to wipe away the tears forming in her eyes, the auburn haired woman sniffed and then stiffened as the sound of a chain link gate being torn off its hinges was followed by the staccato chatter of gunfire and a large explosion.
"O'Neill, get out here!"
"Michael…" She breathed his name and even managed a smile as O'Neill took off running, barking out orders to his men as he went… Now you'll get yours, you bastard...
()()()()()()()
"... I've decided to take the listing off the market. I don't think it is time for me to leave yet."
Madeline Westen's softly spoken voice broke through all the fatigue and drug induced oblivion, drawing the injured auburn haired woman unwillingly back towards consciousness.
"I don't think it is time for me to leave yet..." The words resonated within Fiona's soul, stirring her from the comforting darkness enveloping her. She wasn't ready to leave either, regardless of how much she had tried to convince herself leaving was the right thing to do.
"If that's what you think is best for you, mom…." She barely caught Michael's answer as she began to sink back into a comfortable semi-conscious stupor...
She was so tired... The needle Sam had stuck her with before Michael had carried her back to the Charger had obviously contained some of the good stuff.
The former republican guerrilla remembered the sights and sounds of being in the middle of a war zone. Of being used as a human shield by an evil coward as bullets zipped by her head and into the ground by her feet, driving her captor backwards along a narrow pier.
Then the exhilaration of breaking free, using her thick skull to break tha bastid O'Neill's nose, the crunch of cartilage being squashed had been like music to her ears just before the cold of the water shocked her body and stole the air from her lungs and then, as she had sunk beneath the murky surface, the explosion of pain as a bullet ripped into her arm burned away what was left of her consciousness.
The next time she woke Michael was there, looming over her as she coughed up what had felt like gallons of sea water and the look of concern on his face as he had tenderly held her close chased away the last of the demons from her past.
Mostly Fiona remembered how safe and wanted she had felt as he had cradled her in his arms on the way back to the Charger, while in the background she had heard Sam Axe's softly spoken advice to be careful and not to bang her arm while maneuvering her onto the back seat of the black muscle car. She promised herself once she felt better she would make the older man squirm for revealing how much he cared.
"Michael, get over here."
Hearing her brother's voice sounding so strong brought a warmth to hers heart. The Irishwoman had been scarce able to believe her older sibling had managed to survive the attack on the safe house.
"Sean refused to go to the hospital. He was more worried about you than himself... Sam had to operate on him on the floor of that house… it was awful." It had been Madeline who had informed her in a whisper what happened to him as the older woman had aided her into a clean set of clothes.
"So it's Westen now, is it?"
"It has been for awhile. I owe you an explanation, erm..."
Although it seemed like a dense fog was still enveloping her brain, nonetheless the petite redhead could just imagine the expression on the burned spy's face as he dissembled.
"Back in Ireland there were a lot of questions about if you were one of us. I always thought you were... Now I know I was right."
"Thank you, Sean."
It was almost worth the pain of getting shot to hear the two men talk, rather than either yell or bitch at each other, which had been all they had managed to do before O'Neill had attacked. Safe in the knowledge all was well, she had begun to drift back off to sleep, but had to fight the urge at her brother's next words.
"The trouble is, O'Neill outted you as an American. You can never go back and, er, neither can she."
"Should I be looking out for anyone?"
She could never go back? She was in permanent exile now? The news tore at her heart…
"No, I should be able to keep them at bay."
"I'll owe you for that."
"The hell ya will. That squares us… I er heard what you did to Strickler. If ya need any help running-"
"Strickler's body was found next to a certain type of bomb. Our friend O'Neill will be charged with his murder and with the twelve bombings in Europe."
"It's better than he deserves, but it'll do."
Strickler was dead? The news that her boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend? The man she loved… had put her first filled her with joy, completely chasing away the sorrow that had engulfed her moments before.
It had been a long time since he had done that. The last time felt like it had been a world way. The wounded woman swallowed thickly and grimaced at the dryness of her throat... Belfast, after she had discovered his great betrayal.
"Michael..." The weakness in her voice surprised her.
"Yes, Fi?" He was at her side in an instant.
"Hey…" Swallowing thickly, she tried to smile but it was too difficult. Focusing on his face was almost too much of an effort.
"Hi."
"I wanted to, um, I wanted to -" She desperately wanted to let him know her true feelings but couldn't get the words out. the petite redhead told herself it was the result of her injury, but deep down she knew it had more to do with her stubborn pride and a lingering fear.
"Don't… it's okay, we're no good at this," he answered softly.
It was true… They really weren't any good at all the regular relationship stuff other people seemed to find so easy...
She wanted to say more, but was soon was fast asleep basking in the knowledge that Tom Strickler was dead and Thomas O'Neill wasn't going to be a problem for a very long time. Which meant that at least for the next few days, she and Michael were going to have some time to work on their dysfunctional relationship.
All things considered, nearly drowning with a bullet hole in her arm was a small price to pay…
TBC