Stone of The Heart

The Epilogue: Part II

Seven years later...

She stood at the window of her Midtown flat watching the bustle of the street below. Christmas decorations were beginning to appear, adding even more colour to the city. She had been here nearly two years yet it still did not feel like home. She missed the hues of the sky over the Irish Sea, missed the easy banter of evenings in the pub, missed the time and the place where she knew true happiness.

She tried to shake off these morose thoughts. She wasn't unhappy. She classified herself as content. It had been a wise choice to leave home and come here despite the obstacles. Her thoughts turned to the past as they often did when she was alone. After HE left, life had become nearly intolerable for her in Ireland. Too many memories. Too many questions about her loyalties.

It was an easy decision to head east, to lands in constant upheaval, and put her skills to use for others. The work was both satisfying and lucrative. Tribal conflicts and little wars throughout the world provided a wealth of opportunities for someone with her resume. After all, her ex-boyfriend had prowled this area once upon a time. He did it for the flag; she went there for the cash. There was always the possibility, however remote, that their paths would cross, an added incentive for working in this volatile area. She had not shied away from living in a war zone. After all, she grew up in Belfast during the height of The Troubles. It was a world she knew only too well. She thrived on the danger, always alert for betrayal, capture, death. It was necessary to stay focused, little time for regrets or memories. She used those years as an escape but the past was never far behind. Eventually, the life of a nomad became wearing and home beckoned her to return.

Ireland felt different when she arrived. The Celtic Tiger had risen, the poorest country in Western Europe no longer. A country released from its troubles, intent on forgetting its past. Businesses emerged from the ashes, tax incentives created to lure legitimate international trade. Even the politicians seemed to forget the past 800 years. It was a new world and Fiona struggled to find her place within it.

She was not the only one. The more radical elements of society were determined to continue the struggle despite the population's wish to move beyond The Troubles. Rumour had it that Thomas O'Neil had returned, determined to right the wrongs done to the country and to himself. Fiona had crossed him in the past and believed herself to be a target. She needed to leave, protect her family from any repercussions of her actions.

Fiona had pondered her options for weeks. It was time to reinvent herself once more, time to forget the past and concentrate on her future, time to leave the memories, the memories of him, behind. She had several business associates in the States. Money and guns flowed easily from the U.S. from supporters of the movement who had wanted to free the land of their ancestry from its oppressors. Some of them acted more Irish than the Irish themselves! It would be a seamless transition to continue to work with these contacts. Her reputation was already established. She was a known entity on both sides of the Atlantic, only her country of residence would change, not her career. In fact, her prospects for advancement likely increased as she distanced herself from her ties to the Provos and all the complications that went along with membership in that organisation.

But moving to the U.S. was not without its own set of difficulties. After 9/11 there was more scrutiny, fewer options for covert entry. If she intended to make the place home, she needed assistance. She needed Armand.

The name alone made her shudder. Another man in her life that had met her under false pretences. Another man that held secrets. Another man that had used her. She seemed to have a knack for falling for the wrong men. Still, when she needed that type of help he was the one to call. So she swallowed her distaste and reached out to him. Armand was always a phone call away, always willing to offer her a 'favour'. Unfortunately, his help was never free.

The cost was dear, not that she was surprised. She acted as a lookout on a kidnapping in exchange for her new life. The victim might not have been an angel, but he had never harmed her in any way, yet she had contributed to his untimely demise. More blood on her hands. But Armand had been true to his word: a clean Irish passport, a U.S. resident visa, and cash- the start of a new life. She took what was offered, vowing to never seek his help again. The cost to her soul was much too onerous.

New York was everything that she had hoped. It was easy to be invisible in a city of eight million; easy to ply her trade on a grander scale with access to the latest toys. She was a shrewd businesswoman, a savvy negotiator, and thoroughly ruthless adversary if crossed.

Fiona, while plying an illegal trade, was highly ethical when it came to delivering goods on time and as promised. She could procure nearly every type of armament desired, negotiating a fair price for each transaction. Her word could be trusted and the identities and purchases of her customers were treated confidentially. In no time at all, she became a rising star on the black market.

There were those who thought her gender was a liability in such a male dominated business. The daring few who challenge her found themselves at her mercy. The woman was certainly not faint of heart and could mete out revenge unsparingly, revelling in the discomfort of her enemies. As stories of unpleasant encounters circulated, Fiona garnered a grudging respect from her competitors and was soon accepted as one of their own.

It was a gamble, emigrating here, beginning anew, but it had paid off. A quick glance at the clock put an abrupt halt to her reverie. It was time to focus on the present. Geoffrey would be picking her up in less than an hour and she was behind schedule! Fiona was not one of those women who kept a date waiting. Her years as an operative had indoctrinated her into believing that being on time meant being ready ten minutes early.

As she focused on her hair and makeup, she reflected upon the man who would soon arrive. Geoffrey Thomas, an investment banker working on Wall Street. Six feet, dark hair, athletically built. Houses in Greenwich and Aspen. A fabulous loft in SoHo. He was attentive, he was attractive, he was rich, he was everything a woman could hope for... or at least that's what she kept telling herself.

They had met at a bar. She had just concluded a very lucrative deal with some Russians and was in a celebratory mood when he approached. They struck up a conversation, her temporary good humour easing the wall she usually put around herself. She made it a point to guard her heart carefully. It had been battered enough, the scar that HE left behind never quite healing. But she thought the fella would prove a nice distraction for a night.

What she expected to be a one-night stand had become a relationship of sorts. He was sweet- and persistent. A bit clueless, perhaps. He believed her tale about being in the import-export business, which was vaguely true. Luckily, he was so invested in his own career that he did not delve too deeply into hers.

Fiona had a bit of devilish delight in dating this somewhat stodgy banker, imagining the reaction of his Wall Street cohorts regarding her pedigree. She was fairly certain that dating an international arms dealer with an active Interpol file would not be regarded as an asset in climbing the corporate ladder. They were certainly ill suited to one another but she had worse relationships. In another time, another place she had been an IRA guerrilla and had dated an American spy! There HE was again. It had been seven years yet he was never far from her thoughts. Damn him!

Fiona poured herself a glass of wine pushing away thoughts of the bastard who abandoned her years before, absconding with her heart in the process. At the beginning she was hopeful, she thought he might try to contact her once the situation became less volatile, but no call ever came. The uncertainty of his affections gnawed at her even after all these years. Was any of it real or had she been played for a fool? Fiona longed for answers, longed for truth. Of course, there was no guarantee that he was still alive. She might be pining for a ghost, pining for a love that never was, pining for a love that could never be. She caught her reflection in the mirror. The woman who stared back was older and wiser, intent on living in the present. Determined to banish the American spy from her thoughts, she set about selecting her wardrobe for the evening beginning with lingerie. A sly smile crossed her lips.

An incessant ringing interrupted her lascivious thoughts. She dove for the mobile, her heart racing as she realised the source of the sound. It was not her current U.S. cell phone but the other. It was the one that tied her to her roots, to her past. It rarely beckoned her and when it did, the news was rarely wanted. She held it to her ear, tense and silent, waiting for the caller to speak, fearing the worst.

The sound that accosted her ears was nothing she expected. The voice unfamiliar. A lilt or a poetic strain of Irish completely absent. The voice spoke rapidly, an edge of panic to it, the language at first unfamiliar as Fiona tried to make sense of the call. Her first thought was that it was simply a wrong number, a chance dialling disturbing her solitude. She was just about to hang up when a pair of words rang out, clear and understandable. Michael Westen. The caller knew his name. A name, a man, that was never far from her thoughts.

Fiona refocused, intent on gleaning the message offered. It was Spanish, the dialect a bit unfamiliar. She spoke slowly and calmly, hoping her tone would be soothing, putting the caller more at ease. "Hable mas despacio, por favor?"

The woman realised that she had Fiona's attention now and that she was not a fluent Spanish speaker. She repeated her tale hurriedly in a mixture of her own language and broken English, hoping the woman at the other end of the line would understand the urgency of the message.

The Irish woman listened carefully, translating when necessary, asking pertinent questions when warranted. The caller, Maria, was a maid in some rough motel in Miami, The Ocean Mist. There was a man there, dumped by some nefarious characters several days before. He was bruised and bloodied, falling in and out of consciousness, alone, with no one to render aid. She feared for his life as he neither ate nor had medical assistance. She feared she would enter the room one day and he would be dead, afraid the police would accuse her of some wrong doing but similarly afraid of reporting his plight to officials.

She had garnered enough courage to search the man's wallet looking for his identity, as well as a way to contact his loved ones. She found his emergency contact, an international number, and called straight away before her courage failed her. Maria hesitated momentarily, "Estas Fiona Glenanne?"

"I am." Her voice was barely a whisper as she answered.

"Su nombre es Michael Westen." Fiona could barely breathe as the name from her past was resurrected. "Puedes venir, Senora?" The question hung in the air. Thought swirled in the operative's head, jumbled and tainted by emotion. Maria was anxious to end the call. She had alerted his contact; her soul could rest easy now that she had told someone. Her job was done. It was up to this woman, whoever she was, to help Senor Westen. She blurted out the address and ended the call.

Fiona clung to the mobile for several seconds before realising the woman had hung up. She was left alone with the information... and the memories. Michael in Miami, obviously in bad shape, and alone. Well, he likely earned the beating, she thought. Whatever. It was not her problem. He had released her from any obligation the moment he drugged her and abandoned her in the middle of the night all those years ago. She was determined not to waste any more time thinking about Michael Westen and his unfortunate situation.

A quick glance at the clock reminded her of Geoffrey's impending arrival. She quickly dressed. Cream wool trousers, a cowl necked cashmere sweater, a pair of Christian Louboutin heels. With no time to spare, the doorbell rang. Her current paramour had arrived. Michael Westen had no place in her current life. He lost that right years ago.

She answered the door; a passionate kiss greeted her date taking him by surprise. A kiss that was really meant for another, her emotions raw and brought to the surface. Geoffrey was a bit taken aback by her greeting wondering if perhaps she preferred to skip dinner entirely. But Fiona was anxious to leave her flat preventing her from acting on the information she had just received. And soon they were on their way- an expensive bistro in the city, a six-month wait for reservations unless one had the right connections, which they both did. Although her connections would give the man a fright if the truth were told.

Fiona was especially animated over dinner, drinking more wine than usual. Geoffrey noted her demeanour attributing it to her deepening feelings toward him. There was always a part of her that he couldn't quite reach, a part that she held back from him. Tonight, she was different. He relaxed feeling his conquest was complete and poured them both another glass, eager to celebrate what appeared to be a new phase of their relationship. He had closed the deal, or so he thought.

She watched as her current lover topped her glass, his expression somewhat smug. A noise from the left side of the room caught her attention, a slight squabble regarding the wait staff. Geoffrey remained oblivious of the subtle altercation. She doubted that he had checked all the possible exit points or surveyed the well-dressed diners about them to determine who was carrying a weapon. There were three exits and at least that many were armed. He seemed more intent on his foie gras than his surroundings. Though she supposed the life of a Wall Street banker had more predictability than the career she had chosen. She rarely let her guard down. She never knew when she might be compromised, when a simple outing might become a shootout. How would he react if he knew that his partner was always one step away from an armed assault? She did not think he would take it well.

He was droning on about his best 'shot', garnering her attention once more. However, upon listening to his story, he was expounding his virtues on the golf course as if his prowess playing a silly game was really an accomplishment. Of course, a golf club could make a fine weapon causing a great deal of blunt force trauma if wielded correctly. She doubted that the man had ever considered the tool's multiple uses. He was a bit of a twit really.

Fiona's mind wandered, recalling the man apparently near death in Miami. His skills with a sniper rifle were nearly as good as her own. And he had other talents. The thought made her smile. Their effortless synchronicity in the field spilled over to the bedroom. Geoffrey believed the smile was for him and soon moved the conversation to his recent conquests on the squash court. God, he was boring, she thought. It was hard to believe that she was actually shagging the man! Michael Westen, bastard that he was, had surely spoiled her. He could shoot; he knew how many exits were in a building, he knew how to make her laugh.

Suddenly, Fiona knew what she had to do. She sat back in her chair, a serious look upon her face. "Something's come up. I'll be leavin' town for a wee bit."

Geoffrey's tone changed, "Is it serious?"

"Tis." She offered no further details and quickly stood up, concern spread across her date's face. He looked ready to join her but she soon added, "No need. I'll be headed out alone. And when I come back, I won't be seein' ya again." His face fell, completely perplexed on how things that were going so well had gone unexpectedly terribly awry.

She saw that he was about to seek answers, plead his case for continuing their relationship, and she was in no mood for further drama now that her mind was made. "I'm sure ya wouldn't want to make a scene, here of all places." He looked around. It was a veritable Who's-Who of New York society. Her expression turned malicious, her eyes hardened. "Believe me. I know how to make a scene." She said the words low and menacingly. He had never seen this part of her and it made him extremely uncomfortable. He paled slightly and she smiled at he squirmed. Fiona felt empowered, returning to herself, dropping this facade of civility. She strode out of the restaurant, Geoffrey's mouth gaping in confusion.

There was a slight twinge of regret in the taxi ride home. He was rich, he was handsome, and she had just thrown it all away. But the thought of Michael consumed her. She knew where he was after all these years. She could finally confront him; finally end this hold he had on her. She needed to look into his eyes, see if there was any warmth there, and see if any of it had been real. She hoped it might release her from his spell so that she could move on, escape from their past together.

Maybe he was dying, maybe it was a ruse. She would be prepared for either eventuality. In fact, it was not beyond the realm of possibilities that she might kill him herself. He sounded to be in a weakened state. Perhaps a pillow pressed upon him, cutting off his oxygen supply as her face loomed above him. That scenario had a little more flair than a simple head shot. She could decide on the spot, assessing the situation once she arrived. Thoughts of sweet revenge eased her mind and boosted her confidence regarding this decision.

Of course, there was always the chance that a spark remained. She would see it in his eyes, feel it in her heart, regardless of his initial reaction to her re-emergence in his life. She had learned to cut through his defences, see inside his soul, despite the lies. Maybe here, on his turf, things could be different.

She rummaged through her handbag. Once the cell was firmly in her hand, she made the call quickly, before indecision returned. "I need to book a flight. One passenger. Miami. Open return. The soonest flight available." It was time for answers; time to see if the man's heart was truly made of stone. Soon he would know that Fiona Glenanne had returned and that she was ready to play!

-An Deireadh -

A/N: Thank you all for your continued support throughout this journey. My hope was to gather all the breadcrumbs of information sprinkled throughout the series about Michael and Fiona's relationship and create a trail that led to that reunion in Miami, wanting to make sense of their past, wanting to understand how Fiona could not abide another perceived abandonment.

You all know the rest of the story: how it ultimately ends in a small cottage somewhere in the world, together, with Charlie, creating a new Westen family. It appears that they both finally "got good at this." With thanks...